throw some D's on that blog.

5 Things I've learned.

2011-06-30T13:59:00.001-07:00

I'm stealing this from a University of Texas publication. It was inspiring.

Robert King, Ph.D. — Professor Emeritus, Department of Linguistics —46 years at UT

1. Students remember you, not what you taught them. Life always comes down to people.
2. Don’t do today what you can put off until tomorrow. Obvious.
3. Never, ever, whenever, talk more than 35 minutes. Lecture in class, lecture anywhere: 35 minutes max. People, especially students, tune out after that. People would rather hear themselves talk and ask questions, than hear some old phearte rattling on for an hour plus.
4. Quit relying on those goddamned “devices!” Start reading books again, at least one or two a month. If all you do is log on and read blogs, then you are doo doo.
5. You want a friend? You want a “mate?” You want a wife, a lover? Get a dog. Much better in the long run. I recommend a wirehaired fox terrier, but any dog will do.

link here: http://www.insideourcampus.com/2011/03/5-things-ive-learned/

Tender Mercies.

2011-06-23T13:45:00.000-07:00

I entered the Texas Monthly blogging contest, where the Alamo Drafthouse and TM magazine put on a rolling roadshow of Texan movies...I wanted it so bad. I didn't get it. So here is my failed entry.

There are some films that hit you in your gut. There are some that hit you in your heart. And, there’s the occasional one that comes out of nowhere to hit you right smack in the nose, making you fall to the floor weeping like a two-year-old child. Tender Mercies did such a thing to me. I was blissfully unaware of the cathartic emotional breakdown I would go through in the 100 minutes of watching the 1983 Texan drama starring Robert Duvall and Tess Harper. It had popped up on my “suggested movies” list on Netflix, and being the good Texan and classic country music fan that I am, I willingly obliged.

Now, as a 26-year-old, I realize I haven’t had time yet for any real heartbreak and troubled past and drinking problems. But that’s how I realized what an honest and unflinching and true performance Robert Duvall gave--because I felt like a middle-aged, recovering alcoholic country singer after watching him as the faded Mac Sledge.

This film couldn’t have been shot on a sound stage in Los Angeles or a generic small town with good tax incentives in New Mexico. No sir, this kind of tangible magic could only happen in Waxahachie, Texas. The little town you glance over on your way to Dallas or Fort Worth, it’s a testament to big blue skies and waves of dead grass shimmering in the summer heat.

What I’m most drawn to watching Tender Mercies again is the sound--or lack of it. The scuff of a boot scraping mud against a door frame, the wind ruffling Sonny’s hair, Duvall’s sun-weathered hands delicately stroking the strings of his guitar--each sound is so pure and piercing that it further contributes to the movie’s stark, simplistic feel.

Not one note is overdone or false or pretentious. The acting, the weathered Mariposa Motel, the Slater Mill Boys band...it takes me back to a place I hope still exists. And Wilford Brimley. MY GOD Wilford Brimley. Is there a better character actor out there? (My apologies to Karl Malden.)

Though I wasn’t alive when Tender Mercies came out, I hope to sit on the steps of the Waxahachie courthouse this June and feel its emotional honesty in my gut, my heart, and my nose once more.

I just hope I can keep the crying to a minimum.

I wrote a poem in five minutes

2011-06-15T14:22:00.001-07:00

I am in a writing workshop right now that I'm really enjoying. Writing workshops always make me think of the Todd Soldonz film Storytelling. Which is a really effed up film that I adore! There is something so cute and community college-y about sitting in a circle with a bunch of middle-aged women discussing Sandra Cisneros short stories. I love it! I was supposed to write a poem "inspired" by Jimmy Santiago Baca's poem "I Am Offering This Poem." I forgot to do it and wrote this frantically at my desk ten minutes before the meeting.

So here you go.

I have nothing else to give you,
But a tiny one-bedroom house
With a shaded yard
Where your dog can run free and we can sip coffee in the mornings.
The front porch gets the best light,
But the back is quieter.

I can cook you meals.
Nothing that would be featured in Saveur or Food + Wine,
But I’ll buy the best ingredients
I’ll splurge on organic vegetables for you
And I’ll plan the menu for each night while I work during the day.

We can play hooky once a month
And go to the movies on a Tuesday afternoon
And sit in the dark with the retirees and unemployed,
And talk about our future with buttery popcorn and stale boxes of candy.

I will write bad poems about you,
That I will only share after a couple glasses of wine
And even though you might cringe at its earnestness,
You will think of it later and blush.

It’s all I have to give
And I hope it’s enough
But if not
I’ll find more.

Tennessee Me.

2011-06-03T12:31:00.001-07:00

I just wanted to be Miss Cheerwine.

2011-05-31T12:40:00.000-07:00

Backstory: There was a contest on Facebook to find the next "Miss Cheerwine." Cheerwine is a super Southern bottled beverage favored by NASCAR drivers and Carolina frat boys. So--me in a nutshell. I had to write an essay and submit some semi-sexy pictures. I wrote my essay in about thirty minutes, as it'd been sitting inside me for ten years or so. Done. Easy peasy. I had this shit down. Then I tried to submit it. Oops. Error. Pictures too sexy? No. No, it wasn't that. I was too fucking OLD. I was 26. The cut-off age was 25. I desperately tried to change my DOB. Nope, Facebook was too smart for that. Okay...panic set in. I had written a Paris Review-worthy Cheerwine essay and it deserved to be read. So...nothing to do now but lie. Make a fake Facebook page. (This was all done at my work, by the way. No shame here.) So I made the fake Facebook, where I lied about my age, and also about my current city, as you also had to live in the Carolinas or Tennessee to qualify. The whole thing was just becoming a giant failure of my life but I had to complete this sad task. Needless to say, I did not win Miss Cheerwine. But I now have this essay to remind me of what could have been...

I’m a Southern girl through and through. Born and raised in Austin, TX, I’ve always been amazed by the beauty and history of our southeastern states. From the sandy shores of North Carolina to the plains of West Texas, our history runs true and deep.

Cheerwine represents the South at its finest. A locally owned product with a history that goes almost as far back as North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains, the bubbly beverage is the only kind in our country still produced by the same family.

To call it a crowd-pleaser is an understatement. The love of Cheerwine borders on fanaticism. This is a brand that benefited from crowd-sourcing and user-generated content and word-of-mouth before all those silly Internet buzzwords even existed. Cheerwine is successful after 90 years because of one simple reason: it’s delicious. And it invokes memories of long, hot, Southern summers: lazy afternoons in hammocks, front porch talks with your neighbors, pickup trucks and swimming holes.

I see myself as the ideal Miss Cheerwine. My experience in public relations, event planning, and customer-facing jobs are ideal for the role. A brand ambassador is essential in knowing what makes their brand unique, and communicating their love for the product and its history to the world. I would be honored to represent Cheerwine and its effervescent brand this summer. I see 2011 as the year Cheerwine becames not just the soft drink of the Carolinas, but the cherry-flavored beverage of our great country.

Friday Poetry

2011-05-27T11:36:00.000-07:00

New thing I just decided two minutes ago. I'm going to post a couple poems I like each Friday. They can be super shitty/corny (by me), or they can actually be good (by someone else). My coworker is real sweet and sends me lots of fun little poems and stories every week. So today I have a poem by Sherman Alexie. After having worked in the airline industry for a couple years, I can definitely relate:

Sherman Alexie (born 1966)

"On Airplanes"

I am always amused.
By those couples—

Lovers and spouses—
Who perform and ask

Others to perform
Musical chairs

Wherever they, by
Random seat selection,

Are separated
From each other.

“Can you switch
Seats with me?”

A woman asked me.
“So I can sit

With my husband?”
She wanted me,

A big man, who
Always books early,

And will gratefully
Pay extra for the exit row,

To trade my aisle seat
For her middle seat.

By asking me to change
My location for hers,

The woman is actually
Saying to me:

“Dear stranger, dear
Sir, my comfort is

More important than yours.
Dear solitary traveler,

My love and fear—
As contained

Within my marriage—
Are larger than yours.”

O, the insult!
O, the condescension!

And this is not
An isolated incident.

I’ve been asked
To trade seats

Twenty or thirty times
Over the years.

How dare you!
How dare you

Ask me to change
My life for you!

How imperial!
How colonial!

But, ah, here is
The strange truth:

Whenever I’m asked
To trade seats

For somebody else’s love,
I do, I always do. (149-151)

from War Dances. New York: Grove, 2009. Copyright 2009 by Sherman Alexie.

And, being that I'm in an unusual, romantical mood (for reasons I'm not ready to go into) I will also post this:

Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)

The Shirt

The shirt touches his neck
and smooths over his back.
It slides down his sides.
It even goes down below his belt—
down into his pants.
Lucky shirt. [1978]

Pavement on a rainy Thursday.

2011-05-12T07:14:00.000-07:00

Do you think Stephen Malkmus is embarrassed by this video? It's absolutely precious how unself-conscious he is in this: waggling his eyebrows, striking some pin-up poses on a rock, wearing some baggy K-mart sweater, practically making love to the camera. I miss the early to mid 90s. People are too worried today about being ironic and jaded and cool to just let their hair down and kiss a rock.

Summer Lovin'

2011-05-09T13:05:00.001-07:00

Summer Lovin' by Lindsey Reynolds featuring a floppy straw hat

Retro dress
425 GBP - suzannah.com

Platform stiletto heels
4.99 GBP - dressrail.com

Kara by Kara Ross clutch
$1,190 - boutique1.com

Juicy couture bracelet
$148 - nordstrom.com

By Sou Brette white ring
81 GBP - kabiri.co.uk

Metal earring
$12 - topshop.com

Cacharel round sunglass
$525 - openingceremony.us

TopShop floppy straw hat
$65 - topshop.com

Beautiful old Southern photos

2011-05-06T14:04:00.001-07:00

Felt like sharing some beautiful old Southern women photos, courtesy of my favorite magazine Garden & Gun. Happy Mother's Day!

This makes me wanna dance!

2011-05-05T08:14:00.000-07:00

I have one dream in life...and that is to be in a MGM musical sequence, a la Busby Berkeley. Just five minutes in a gold swimsuit wearing a feather headdress...that's all I ask. (I realize this is an Italian TV special spoofing American English, but it's one of the best songs I've ever heard.)

The most beautiful movie trailer.

2011-05-05T07:37:00.001-07:00

Dear Mr. Malick, I would like to be friends. I think we could have some good chats drinking iced tea and sitting on the front porch, watching the fireflies come out at night.

I'm moving

2011-04-21T14:29:00.000-07:00

My NYC friend sent me this oh-so-enticing Craigslist ad today. So intriguing I had to save it. Yes, men like this really do exist. And they're probably making more money than I could ever dream of.

$1100 Looking for more wolves to join the wolfpack (East Village)

Trying to avoid the whole "having a roommate who sucks" situation so we're looking for a couple solid dudes that get along with us BEFORE moving in with random guys that put on a “bro” front but next thing you know they creep out all the friends you bring over or they look at you cock-eyed when you make a Hangover reference in the title of your Craigslist post…

A bit about us: Three straight males a year into our careers in market research and finance for three major companies. We have big commitments to our jobs but we still like to have a good time and experience NYC like it was meant to be experienced. Two of us have been friends for some time and the other joined our pack through this craigslist search. Genuinely we want to befriend our new roommates and share the benefits of prospective pools of hot chick friends, knowledge of hidden bars/restaurants in the city, and overall just having a fun place to live.

So if you’re interested in meeting us, send us an email and we’ll meet up. If all goes well, we can find a good 3-4 bedroom apartment in Manhattan (we’re thinking east side, anywhere Murray Hill and south) and live it up.

We are looking for a May 1, May 15 or June 1 move in.

IN EMAIL:

- Tell us about yourself, we don’t give a shit about your life story, just give us the basics.
- How old are you? If you’re too self conscious to tell us then you’re too old.
- Do you have a steady job? Can you make rent? We’re looking at places between $1000-1400/month
- Do you know what an Xbox is? We casually dabble in some competitive FIFA while drinking
- Do you have a girlfriend? Is she going to be at our place day in and day out? If so, can she cook?
- Can you deal with sarcastic and borderline inappropriate humor?
- Can you attempt to clean up after yourself?
- Do you have a sick ass Flatscreen TV and/or leather couch? Your chances are a lot better if you do…

Cheers…

Don't look at the camera.

2011-04-19T12:14:00.001-07:00

Who knew I'd be digging a music video with John Stamos?

Is it summer yet?

2011-04-19T11:08:00.001-07:00

Is it summer yet? by Lindsey Reynolds featuring canvas oxfords

This week, I'm going on a TeeTee spree.

2011-04-17T18:59:00.000-07:00

RENO 911!

TeeTee's Spree

www.comedycentral.com

Lt. Jim Dangle's Sex Tape

Terry Time

Thomas Lennon and Ben Garant Review RENO 911! Porn Parody

The Year of Fat Experiment

2011-04-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

If I was brave and gutsy and crazy, I would do a year where I let myself get really, really fat. Just give up altogether. Maybe still wear makeup and try to look nice, but just be straight-up chubby. Although if I was fat, would I even bother to look nice? Or would it be a slow, unstoppable descent into sweatpants and greasy ponytails? What a fascinating documentary that would be. Watching a formerly vain girl's transformation into chubby hell. I guess I could get to about 200 pretty easy. That's fat enough. And to document how my friends and family would treat me differently. Would I tell them it was an experiment? Or would that ruin it? Would I just wait to see who would say something first? Of course it'd be my mom: "Honey...I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm worried about your weight. You've always had such a pretty face and I don't want you to hide it. Plus, your health!!!"

I think it'd be a pretty interesting take on how society treats attractive and unattractive women. (At least that's what my artist's statement would say at MOMA.) From job interviews to going out to bars to online dating...the possibilities for awful, awkward encounters are endless! Maybe I'm the only one who would want to watch this. But I think I have some friends out there who struggle with their weight and emotional eating that would take a schadenfreude delight in watching someone say "fuck it!" and eat a pint of B&J's Chubby Monkey every night. Maybe I can get an artist's grant for this. Of course, all the money would be used for lap band surgery and hypnosis after the year to slim up. And Adderall. And other legalized speed that would curb my appetite. Diet and exercise? Nope, never heard of 'em.

I wanna recreate this.

2011-04-10T21:30:00.000-07:00

Nostalgia will get you nowhere.

2011-04-10T21:20:00.000-07:00

If I could relive one day
It'd be the perfect spring day
Summer hot but breezy.
Slightly hungover and operating on very little sleep
and that false adrenaline high where you crash at six o'clock that night.
But for now--
it is noon and we are young and irresponsible and carefree and pleasure-seeking
and the sun burns our faces as we lie in the grass of a city park
and stare at families.
I'm wearing last night's party clothes with uncombed hair and unbrushed teeth
and I've never felt prettier.
I flourish around you.
We walk to get snacks and end up with Belgian fruit beer and a soft French cheese
and it's decadent and lovely and heady and rich.
We're only 22 and the world is our oyster and it's fucking fantastic
and we haven't even kissed yet.

Can we all please stop having foodgasms?

2011-04-09T13:33:00.000-07:00

I used to write restaurant reviews for the Daily Texan newspaper and it. Was. Awesome. I didn't get too high-falutin' or big for my britches. I just went to decent restaurants and tried to get a story out of it. Best job ever. But lately...I'm just really annoyed by the whole restaurant/food truck/pop-up shop/soup on a bike thing. Why has the food scene become so trendy-licious? It's local this and sustainable that and Basque fusion bullshit. If I have to read about someone going "nom nom" or having a one-night stand with their Chicken-n-Waffles or combining Korean and Mexican to make French crepes or how there's this amazing food truck but you have to get the secret password from Twitter to find it and then guess what's on their daily menu and if you guess wrong you're not getting jack-shit and OMG have you tried sow's ear???? It's like the best thing I've ever put in my mouth!!! I eat weird parts of pig because I want to appear cultivated and European!!! High-end BBQ! Reverse late-night happy hour brunch explosion!!! Salmon foam and artichoke-pumpkin seed mousse! Fusion!!!

Okay I'm done. Review below:

"Come for the mezzes, stay for the belly dancers"

Don’t be fooled by the somewhat seedy appearance of Ararat Restaurant. Located on 111 East North Loop, the restaurant sits on a strip surrounded by such hipster havens as Monkeywrench Books and Room Service, a vintage furniture store.

The interior is welcoming and warm, if a bit threadbare. Walls are covered with Turkish tapestries and one can sit at a regular wooden table or a low round table with cushioned stools if you’re feeling more adventurous (and flexible). Ararat is a popular place to bring large groups of people, and something I would definitely recommend, as my party of two felt very lonely at our small table. Belly dancers make their appearance on weekends, but come prepared with $1’s so you can tip. The music was enjoyable, but way too loud. It made conversation with the waiter and my dining companion difficult, if not impossible at times.

The outside garden was festive and fun at night. The ground glittered with glass rocks and there were Christmas lights strung about. One large party was seated at a low table in the back patio, which can accommodate up to 25 people. It was definitely the best seat in the house.

The family style option is the way to go, especially if you have a party of four or more. Though pricey, it allows you to get a nice sampling of all the restaurant has to offer. At $25 per person, it includes mezzes (appetizers), entrée, pita bread, dessert, coffee, corking fee, tax, and gratuity. I regretted not bringing another two people and a bottle of wine, because Ararat is also BYOB. The family style prices ranged from $15 to $30, and our waiter encouraged us to go for the $25 meal in order to get the grilled beef and chicken.

Our first mezzes included hummus, baba ghanouj, tabouli, maust museer, dolmeh, patlican, and warm pita bread for scooping. The hummus, a beautiful mustard color blend of garbanzo beans, garlic, spices, and tahini was delicious. So was the baba ghanouj, an exotically spiced blended eggplant dip. The dolmeh, grape leaves stuffed with rice and nuts, were way too small. They should skip the patlican (fried eggplant with yogurt cucumber sauce) and supersize the dolmeh. The tabouli suffered from too much parsley.

Unfortunately, after the mezzes, my companion and I were comfortably full. But the fun had just begun. Brightly colored Fiesta bowls filled with grilled lamb, beef, chicken, shawerma stew, chole, Persian rice, bulghar wheat, and maust museer soon arrived. The mansaf (roasted lamb with rosemary and garlic) was our favorite dish of the night. The lamb was tender and the garbanzo bean carrot sauce absolutely divine. The other grilled meats were uniquely spiced, but we were too full to appreciate them. The stew and grilled vegetables paled in comparison.

The dessert was the smallest dish of the night, which was just as well considering the mountain of meat we had indulged in. It consisted of a tiny square of baklava surrounded by three puff pastries and drizzled with Turkish coffee chocolate sauce. But the iced Turkish coffee was the winner as our perfect complement to our hedonistic meal. My dining companion and I waddled out into the night with mounds of leftovers and stuffed smiles of contentment.

(More reviews found at www.lindseykate.yelp.com)

I think Sofia Coppola and I could be friends except she kind of intimidates me.

2011-02-21T11:08:00.000-08:00

I was really excited to see her latest film, Somewhere, and it did not disappoint. Very pretty, very quiet, introspective, good soundtrack, nice colors, abrupt ending. I approve. And Stephen Dorff...who knew? He was great. And Elle Fanning. Not annoying like her big sister, Dakota. You would think a film about a shallow movie star set in hipster haven Chateau Marmont would annoy me, but Sofia Coppola is so cool she transcends hipster. That is very hard to do. I love movies about pretty people being sad in Los Angeles.

Middle School poetry

2011-02-17T14:18:00.001-08:00

I started cleaning out my school papers and old journals in the attic today. I found a book of really bad poetry I wrote in middle school. Obviously, I had some serious Sylvia Plath issues going on. I idolized her. I also wanted to be a beatnik in the West Village in the 1950s and wear only black and smoke skinny cigarettes. I guess it's not too late to make these dreams come true, except I really don't like New York. Sorry, youth. Dreams crushed.

"Teen Idol"
Leaning against some plank on the wall
Stiletto boots making my feet throb
Hands folded together on my stomach
Not knowing what to do with themselves
I am so uncomfortable.
Out of the blue
Our eyes meet
Forever it seems
For so long
I grow awkward
Wanting desperately to smile
Eyes aching to turn away but cannot
You always break it first
Moving on to play other girls in the crowd

"Waxing Winsome"
My fascination with fire
Playing with the soft wax
Until my fingers burn
Molding it onto my fingers
Pressing the soft warmth to my lips
Pretending it to be someone else
Shredding it to crumbs
When it is not.

"Self-righteous"
Consume me
I smell like tendrils of a wild bruised blossom
The sisterly song plays
One I am not a part of
Forlornly on the outside edge
Arrogantly proclaiming
I do not care.
The black void of nothingness
And empty emotions
And spineless awakening

"Film Idols"
Everywhere I turn
Black and white beautiful faces
Staring back at me
Only a thin pane of glass
covered with dust
separates us
I want to break the glass
with my clenched fist
Breaking the barrier of time and reality
So what if it cuts my hands
and makes it bleed bright
Red drops of blood
streaked across white tile

"Soapbox"
He's such a poser
she says
Aren't we all
I want to say
All of us sitting around
Pretending to be like
the one next to us
until we forget
who we were in the beginning

"Cliche's reflection"
Underfed
and overstated
Overrated
Tiny trite lines bubble forth
A frothy brown foam
from the mouth
of the one who has spoken
They do not notice
continue to jabber
senselessly
Until it runs down their shirt
and puddles around their shoes
until they choke and heave up
their own self

Red Ladycoat

2011-02-16T13:37:00.000-08:00

She’s a lady/ Whoa, whoa, whoa/ She’s a lady. And you too will be a lady in our new, just-in-time-for-fall coat. You can’t help but stand up a little straighter and put on your pumps when wearing our cherry red, knee-length autumn coat. Made of an elegant blend of cashmere and cotton, it will keep you warm while looking smart. Speaking of smart, have you seen our new houndstooth scarves on page 26? We don’t like to toot our own horn, but it’s a lethal combination just waiting to happen. If you can handle the compliments and kudos that are sure to fly your way, then we suggest you try it. Who knows, Tom Jones might even make an appearance.

Tony's Southern Comfort: a place for fatties

2011-02-14T13:00:00.000-08:00

I really miss this restaurant. It was in a dirty, dingy part of East Austin that served up the best fried chicken'n'waffles in town. Plus they had their pies displayed up front. I judge most of my restaurants by the standard of: do they display their desserts on card tables in the center of the room? Tony's did. Anyway. I reviewed it in The Daily Texan. But apparently my review didn't draw enough fatties because it closed that same year. Sob.

Blink and you’ll miss it. Tony’s Southern Comfort Restaurant, located at 1201 East 6th Street, is a tiny joint with big, big chicken. If you want hearty comfort food, you’ve come to the right place.

Start your meal with the chicken “drumets”--a good-sized basket of fried chicken wings complete with spicy dipping sauce ($5.49). You’ll need it to prepare your stomach for the overload of fried meat headed your way. Tony’s boasts the infamous “chicken and waffles” dish ($7.59) and if you’re not careful, it can do you in. The golden chicken breast is hand fried and the perfect salty counterpart to the moist, chewy Belgian waffle it rested on. Be forewarned, it is not a dish for the weak of stomach.

If you’d like a little more variety, the “comfort entrees” come with two vegetables of the day and your choice of yeast rolls or jalapeno cornbread. Do not underestimate the sides, as they are just as flavorful as the main course. The mustard and turnip greens, a true Southern dish, are cooked in bacon with just the right amount of bitterness. Be sure to add some Louisiana Supreme hot sauce to them as well. Black-eyed peas, normally thought of as “New Years’ Day only” dish, are also excellent. My favorite had to be the decadent mac’n’cheese—truly a dish in which you can taste the home cookin’.

Fried pork chops tenderloin ($8.79) is also a dish unique to the South. Don’t knock it till you try it. You can get the pork chops not fried, but why would you want to do anything as silly as that? If you’re not a chicken fan, this is the way to go.
However, you can’t go wrong with anything involving the words “fried” and “chicken.” The fried chicken breast was an inch thick of perfectly tender white meat covered in crunchy batter. It was without a doubt the best fried chicken I have ever had, and I’ve had a lot of fried chicken in my time. It’s hand-breaded and deep-fried, which are two of my favorite adjectives involving poultry.

It sounds impossible, but at least try to save room for dessert. The banana cream pie, a steal at $1.59, has a creamy yellow filling topped with real whipped cream. The Nilla wafer crust is, of course, homemade. However, it might make deep breathing difficult by the end.

If you're in need of comforting--or just the best fried chicken ever—head on over to the east side of Austin. Be prepared for serious eating; skipping breakfast and wearing elastic waist pants are both highly recommended. Before you leave, be sure to admire all of Tony’s pies on the table in the front. You probably won't get to them all, but that's what next Sunday is for.

Fake Radio Spot for Dentist

2011-02-12T14:42:00.000-08:00

I found this on my old computer and I still kinda sorta like it!

Dentist radio spot
:60

AUDIOFX: fun, happy, circus-y music plays.

Announcer voice: Do you like candy?

AV: How about big chunks of dark, bittersweet chocolate?

AV: Or milk chocolate squares with just a hint of mint?

AV: What about ooey gooey caramel cubes that stick to your teeth?

AV: Sour jujubes that turn sweet?

AV: Long ropes of sticky black licorice?

AV: Sugary jelly beans of every color?

AUDIOFX: music abruptly stops.

AV (now with voice comically deepened): What about going to the dentist? Do you like that? …Didn’t think so.

AUDIOFX: fun music plays again.

AV: Well, Dr. Jane Putnam likes candy. But she also likes strong, healthy teeth. And with over twenty years of experience, she’s gotten pretty good at balancing the two. So if you like candy, but you’d also like to keep your teeth, give us a call. We’re located in the heart of downtown Charlotte on Sterling Drive, so feel free to drop on by. And know that with Dr. Putnam Family Dentistry, you can have your cake and eat it, too.

A short film: Brunch

2011-02-09T13:09:00.000-08:00

I have all these screenplays rolling around in my head and laptop, but I just can't seem to sit down and finally finish them. Instead, little scenes flit through my head at night and keep me up. I can't tell you the number of times I've had AMAZING ideas float by as I'm drifting to sleep.

"I'm gonna get up and write that down," I tell myself sleepily. "Oh, no, errrrmmmm, too tired. But it's so amazing, I'm SURE I'll remember it in the morning."

Of course I never do. Which is why I'm starting with a short film. It's called "Brunch" and it's about two girls going out to...well, brunch.

“Brunch”

The scene:

Two twenty-something girls over-trendily dressed, in line at a coffee shop with requisite Mac laptops. Both order ridiculous coffee drinks:

Coffee guy decked out in cardigan and non-prescription glasses: Hey.

Susie: Hi. Um, where is your soy milk from?

Guy sighs. It’s from a locally owned farm five minutes outside of Austin. It’s harvested using only solar panels and workers from a halfway house in a cooperative program designed to create productive members of society while also teaching them sustainable farming methods and where to buy TOMS shoes.

Susie: Ok great. Can I get a salted caramel soy latte no whip?

Liz: Yeah, and I’ll just have the Oaxacan blend with rice milk and low-glucose plant extract, thanks.

Girls go sit down at table in corner, pull out laptops, iPhones, text and type for two minutes without a word until Guy brings coffee over.

Susie: OMG I’m so stoked about brunch today!

Liz: For realz. I’m starved. It’s like, can I go nom nom yet?

Susie: No…we’ve got an hour. New hours: four to six now.
Liz: God, I’m so glad they pushed brunch hours back. It’s like, what kind of person gets up before 2 on a Sunday??

Susie: I know, totes! Like, if you’re at all cool you’re out partying all night and a decent hangover should take several hours to recover. Two to vomit. And two to watch a Real Housewives marathon.

Liz: And two to pick out a “I’m hungover but still cute in my jeggings look!”

Both laugh.

Susie: Omg. Zach was out with Ariel last night.

Liz: OMG. WTF. IRL?

Susie: Oh, god no. That would be so effed. But they were tweeting each other all night.

Liz: So tacky! Did they check each other in on FB?

Susie: Totes did. And he made her the mayor of Common Grounds, which used to be OUR fair trade free wifi coffee shop.

Liz: Eff him, Susie. You can do so much better. Like he does not deserve you. Like you are better than him.

Susie: I know. You’re so right. Girl power. Like I just wanna go home, put on my Victoria’s Secret sweat pants, and watch Oxygen and eat Weight Watchers three point desserts.

Liz: But Suze, we’ve got brunch!! Look, we’ll totes get a mimose. Or a bellini and and a Bene.

Susie: Bene?

Liz: Hello, Eggs Benedict? Grab your tote and let’s get the eff out of here.

Susie gets busy on her iPhone when she hears a ping.
Liz: Did he DM you?

Susie: No. He commented on my status update on FB.

Liz: Who friended who?

Susie: he did, but I followed his tumblr and reblogged his cat photo.

Liz: what’s your Netflix compatibility?

Susie: only 65% but we share a love of local indie rom coms starring Michael Cera.

Liz: Did he like your Vimeo profile pic?

Susie: He hasn’t seen that one but it’s the same as my OKCupid and he totes thinks I look like Kate Bosworth in it.

Liz: What’s his graphic tee shirt selection like?

Susie: He’s got some vintage Yacht Rock bands and a fair amount of camp counselor, plus some decently obscure East Coast public access children’s TV shows thrown in.

Liz: Loves.

Susie: I know, right? And did I tell you he bought one of my hand-sewn birdhouses on Etsy?

Liz: The one out of buttons or shells?

Susie: Neither. The one out of dead baby birth certificates and wine corks.

Liz: Oh god, that one was so expensive!

Susie: I know, right. It has to mean he likes me. He said he’s gonna use it for his wallpaper in his Pilates room.

Liz: Suze, you guys are like soul mates. You HAVE to at least sext with him.

Susie: I know, I know.

Girls get up, grab purses, and leave coffee shop.

NO FATTIES OR UGLIES!

2011-02-08T20:43:00.000-08:00

I just found the most amazing job listing website ever. I'm not going to share it because it's more fun to copy and paste the job descriptions myself. Basically it's assistant/bitch jobs for Really Important People and Businesses and Agencies in LA. Let's have a look at this one...

Top five talent agency seeks assistant to busy MP Lit Agent. Daily responsibilities include Zappos.com transactions (buying, exchanging or tracking open orders), Barney's New York returns, purchasing vintage motorcycle helmets and looking for estate sales with French art books.

See, your BFA in Art History will come in handy as you scour dead people's garage sales for your boss's latest hobby!

And how bout this one...oh wait. Crap. I think this site might be a joke.

....

DAMMIT.

Why you can easily spend all day on Craigslist

2011-01-07T14:16:00.001-08:00

I have to share this winner. What a delightful dreamboat. I'm emailing him immediately.

POSSIBLE FREE RENT! FEMALES ONLY!!! (map)

O.k. so here is the deal. I have moved into an apartment with a good friend of mine. We live in a bacholor type invironment. I have the only room. My friend has the living room but all of the house is shared aside from when he is asleep. I/we are looking for a good woman companion to share good times with. We know how to have a good time yet be responsible when it comes down to it. I am not looking for a slave,only a woman to be a woman and to do the things a woman would do. If you'd like I can send a pic of myself after your reply but please,send 1 of yourself first. My picture of myself will not be disapointing ;-) This situation will only work if you have a very open mind and we have good understanding before you were to move in. What I would suggest is to come hang out for a night and see if everybody is compatable with each other so that we will all know that this will work out for everybodies best interest. If you have any questions please do not hesitate to email,text or call. You can reach me at 571-505-6508. I look forward to hearing from you. And if this doesn't sound like you,then best of luck looking for whatever exactly it is that you're looking for.

I wish I was a blind disabled paralyzed Pacific Islander veteran.

2010-12-30T11:30:00.001-08:00

Because then I would have a job! While unemployed, I've really started to look forward to greeting the postal worker lady every day. She's tooling around in her little white van wearing industrial-strength gray shorts and bringing Milkbone treats to the vicious neighborhood dogs. She seems pretty happy. She's in a great neighborhood with shady trees, she can spy on old people, and every once in awhile she gets some exercise when there's a big package to be delivered.

Then I thought about a park ranger. You wear a dorky hat, walk around pointing out poison ivy, watch for forest fires, and do little pen and ink drawings in your notebook of native wildlife.

Or maybe the librarian in a rundown, inner-city library where no one even comes to check out books, just the occasional homeless person who reads the newspaper and uses the public bathroom. Sometimes both at once.

All these government jobs appeal to me because you basically can't get fired. They just shuffle you around or promote you to someplace far away. But it's breaking into the bureaucratic and labyrinthian government workforce that's difficult. You've basically got to be a veteran with a disability to even be looked at. I'm not making light of these people's situations, but I've filled out so many job applications that all end with the same questions: sex and nationality. As I sadly check "Caucasian" and "female," I kiss another fire-watching, thumb-twiddling, phone-it-in job goodbye...

Damn you, Kanye, I'm impressed!

2010-12-10T08:06:00.000-08:00

I've always refused to like Kanye. He's such an arrogant blowhard that I find it hard to look past the stunna shades and see inside his bloated, egotistical soul. But then I saw his performance on SNL this year and had to admit he is doing stuff no one else out there comes close to. Take this performance on SNL. I usually fast forward through SNL's musical artists. They're cheesy, on a dinky stage, with three back-up dancers squeezed in. But this...hot dog! It's like Kubrick meets Swan Lake meets American Apparel ad meets Eddie Murphy's 1983 "Delirious" stand-up special.

Wow. Mad props, Kanye. Not that you need 'em.

Is being annoyed by your family a sign of growing up?

2010-11-28T09:31:00.000-08:00

If so, I don't wanna grow up. I wanna be a Toys R Us kid forever, just like that damn jingle. I've had some unfortunate "growing up" moments this holiday season, and it's not even Christmas yet. Well, is it growing up, or do I just need to start taking Xanax like the rest of America? I guess we don't know that yet. Anyway, for my whole life, I guess you could call me a "momma's girl," the "baby of the family," you know...a real wimp when it comes to family stuff. I'm the dork who would rather sit at home on Saturday night and watch old TCM Robert Mitchum marathons with their parents rather than go out to a hipster dance party in East Austin.

But lately...something's changed. No, it's not that I'd rather be out partying hard and chugging Lone Stars. I wish that was the case, but I haven't gotten out of my sweatpants in several days. Rather, I'm just annoyed by my family. It doesn't help that my parents are both retired, my brother is home from Alaska for a month, and I just moved back home from Paris with absolutely no idea about my future. So imagine a smallish house filled with four more or less grown-ups wandering around getting up in each other's business day after day. I mean, it's a recipe for disaster. Why has there not been a horror movie made starring Ryan Reynolds about boomerang children killing their parents?

It's not that I'm bored, exactly. I'm very easy to entertain, as long as I can do whatever I want. This means stalking more successful friends on Facebook, knitting ugly scarves for cheap Christmas gifts, scratching my pug's belly, slowly walking around the neighborhood and telling myself it's cardio, re-watching the entire season of Mad Men...look, I just summed up a week of my life. But I have the parents that don't understand privacy. It's considered rude and weird to go in your room and close the door. Also, my parents like to keep up some sort of semblance of a working life, so they get up early and put on real clothes and do little "projects" all day. No sitting down and watching TV until after dinner. I guess it's these strict, arbitrary rules that make them feel like they have a real life, instead of being retired. But it's an unspoken rule that we boomerang children must comply. So even though I would rather stay up all night and sleep until noon and eat Reese's Peanut Butter Puffs for dinner...it's not really "allowed." And I'm already on thin ice with the parents for quitting my (their) supposed dream job, so I play the retirement game with them--minus the decent pension plan and health care.

But what I'm trying to say is that I had a not very enjoyable Thanksgiving, which makes me sad. Parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles...everyone was quizzing me on my future and generally annoying the shit out of me. I had expected warm and fuzzies and instead felt cold and prickly. Does this mean I am finally growing up or that I am just a post-adolescent asshole? I'm guessing both.

On the other hand, I may not be the only one suffering from family overload. Thanksgiving evening, my fifty-year-old aunt snuck out of the living room where we were all gathered, then sheepishly sent a mass TEXT to everyone saying her thanks and goodbyes...

Grey Gardens on Robin Hood Trail Part II

2010-11-23T15:06:00.000-08:00

I find the office, wait in line for thirty minutes, and pick up her cable starter kit. Everything is going a little too well for me. I call her with my good news, and she asks me to come straight to her house to get some coupons. I readily agree, and find her house is only seven or less minutes from my apartment. The neighborhood is beautiful, old, wealthy West Austin. Gotta love the white folks and their oil money. Her house is small but adorable. It’s yellow and white trim 1920s style. Vines have completely enclosed the fireplace outside and even poof out at the top—it’s like chimney smoke, but green and vine-y.

She opens the door before I can even knock and shrieks, “Don’t trip!”
I look down, expecting to see a rotting stair or something equally dangerous, but there is only a rug. Perhaps it is a rather slippery rug. She ushers me in and starts talking a mile a minute. I’m too overwhelmed to really listen. The first thing I notice is…roses. Pink, fake roses are everywhere. In bouquets, bundles, on furniture, and loosely strewn on the floor. There’s a ten-foot long garland of red roses in the living room, and wreaths to match. Still left over from Christmas, perhaps?

Robin is wearing a white T-shirt and red sweatpants hoisted up below her bosom. She’s also got some snazzy baby blue clogs on. Her face is caked and cracked with makeup. Hot pink lipstick and purple eyeliner….gotta love it on a sixty-year-old.

The house, from what I can make out under the boxes and boxes of crap, is gorgeous. Wooden floors, an ornate white fireplace, small tidy kitchen. Perfect for a young couple or a personal assistant who happens to be in a rich old lady’s will. Robin and I actually have very similar taste…if I were fifty years older, schizophrenic, and suffering from “Daddy’s Girl Syndrome.” There’s a tea set on the floor, and baubles and trinkets in random corners. Gorgeous costume jewelry hangs tantalizingly on doorknobs. Her bed is huge and all white. I make the mistake of setting the cable box on the bed.

“No!” she shrieks. “Don’t do that, ever.”

Okay, so apparently the bed is off limits. Hmm that sounds dirty but it’s not supposed to be. I clumsily try to set up the cable, but I’ve never done it before. Don’t most people (especially rich ones) have some fat guy with a plumber’s crack come over to set these things up? I guess this is what personal assistants are for: doing bitch work. I’m sure everyone else in the world knew this but me.

She gets tired of watching me tangle up the wires and snaps, “Actually, I used to work in the film industry, so I’m good at things like this. Let me finish.”

I gladly hand it over. Then Josh pulls up. Josh is another unsuspecting victim like myself. He, too, was just hired today. We look at each other and I know the fear I see in his eyes is mirrored in mine. He had arrived with two hundred dollars worth of cyclamens and shrubs. It’s landscaping time here at the crazy house. Josh starts to carry out the cyclamens and I hear Robin moan.

“No! No! All wrong! Those are FUSCHIA!”

She runs inside the house and returns with two pink sweaters still inside their packaging.
“See, Josh? This one is SALMON, and this one is BUBBLEGUM. These are colors Home Depot promised me they had. And you brought me FUSCHIA, which IS BLUE-PINK. You’re gonna have to take those back…NOW.”

But first, Josh had to help her decide where to put her shrubs. She declared she wanted her yard like a poodle: poofy, symmetrical, and perfectly manicured. Never mind that it takes years for shrubs to grow enough to trim them into a nice round shape.

Then Robin decides it’s time I returned some clothes for her. We set off on a mission to find the receipt. Oh god, the receipts. She has three binders alphabetized and crammed with every single receipt imaginable. The only upside to this craziness? I got to look at all the weird shit she buys. How about twenty string bikinis at Wal-Mart? Or the 10,000 bill for a plastic surgeon? We open the trunk of her brand new Jaguar and I almost gag. It’s crammed with crap. I can’t even describe all the shit she has, it’s just crap. I’m pretty sure there was some food disintegrating in there, too.

Let’s not even begin about how we got the garage open. She was convinced she had left the garage opener in her Jaguar and we were gonna have to break a window to get in. Luckily, I had the sense to try some keys before we resorted to that desperate measure. She calls a gas station on Windsor and tells them I’m coming, and to fill up my tank with twenty dollars. This part I like.

Then she calls Bed, Bath, and Beyond and tells them to hold six pairs of moss green velvet curtains for her. I am to pick those up along with returning the Ann Taylor pants. Still haven’t found the receipt for those. There’s around fifty receipts in the “A” section. I set off for the Arboretum, already hating this drive up Mopac. I have a feeling I’ll be doing this a lot. The incident at Ann Taylor was awful, but luckily the girl there was a sweetheart. She helped me find the receipt and had to get bitched out on the phone by Robin, but I finally returned the damn pants.

Picked up the curtains and headed back to crazyland. Not without a screaming phone call of course.
“LINDSEY! MY CABLE ISN’T WORKING!”

Well, of course not. I didn’t finish hooking it up.

“AND IT’S THE WRONG BOX! OH, GOD, THIS HAS BEEN SUCH A WACKY DAY AND I JUST NEED TO GO SWIMMING AND THAT’S WHY I HIRED PEOPLE, SO THAT I WOULDN’T HAVE TO DEAL WITH THIS SHIT! MY DAY IS WASTED, AND NOTHING GOT DONE AND I’VE BEEN CALLING THE TIME WARNER PEOPLE AND NO ONE WILL PICK UP AND IT’S THE WRONG BOX AND I DON’T HAVE MY PREMIUM CHANNELS!”

“Let me get home, and I’ll look at it.”

I was not going back to that fucking office again. No sirreebob. I arrive back and Robin meets me…..considerably disheveled. Her right leg is completely bare. Bare as in she pulled up the leg of her sweat pants to her crotch. Yowza! On in the inner thigh is a nasty bruise smeared with something…shiny. She’s got a cable guy on the speakerphone and I feel so so sorry for this man. But more sorry for myself.

She is screaming at the man, calling him an asshole, and demanding to speak to a supervisor. The guy finally hangs up on her. I feverishly try to fix the fucking cable but it’s hard to concentrate when a schizo is shrieking at you with her entire leg exposed. She goes to sit on the toilet and resumes her slathering of….aha! Aloe vera! That explains the fifteen or so cut up plants I’ve seen all over the house. She is really into the natural cures I see.

“I’ve had this bruise for six weeks and I SWEAR, I’ve just been NURSING it like a wound my GOD it just won’t HEAL!”

God finally comes to my rescue and makes the cable work. I’m ready to run sobbing out the front door, but not before she writes me a check. Which she does. Forty dollars for four hours. Not too shabby. No taxes taken out at the crazy house! Then she asks for my school schedule, and when can I come tomorrow?

She says, “I don’t want to lose you, so what time is best?”

Oh, God. Am I really going to come back? Yes, yes I am. I swallow my fear long enough to squeak, “Is one okay?”

“One is good…one to four? Okay, thank you, Lindsey. I promise you I’m not always like this. I don’t like to scream, but it’s just been such an awful, wacky day.”

Lady, you have no idea. “I’ll see you at one, Robin. Bye…….”

Oh, god! God, why?? Here’s the deal: I’m giving it a week. We’ll see how well crazy lady mixes with school. I’m never gonna go out of my way to see her. Fifteen hours tops. I have a feeling she goes through young, helpless UT girls like there’s no tomorrow. How many have stayed? For how long? How I’d love to talk to one of her former slaves. I hope Josh stays. I can do it as long as there’s another sane person involved. And Sergio. She hired Sergio too, another UT student to do her landscaping.

Sadly, this is the end of my story. I worked for her maybe a month before she accused me of stealing her crutches. I finally left a note on her front door telling her I had moved. She still called me a couple times after. Ah, hooray for crazy jobs!

Crazy Job Blast from the Past

2010-11-23T15:00:00.000-08:00

I think I have a problem with accepting jobs I know will be crazy/weird/awful/scary/funny ten years from now to talk about...while going through some old stories I had written, I found this little gem. During college I worked as a personal assistant for a manic-depressive middle-aged woman named Robin. Actually, I don't know if she was mentally ill. For all I know she could have just been wealthy, coddled, old, and single for too long. Either way...she was insane. Please enjoy below.

"Grey Gardens on Robin Hood Trail"

I am mentally drained, but I feel I should write down every detail of my day before I forget it all. It was, without a doubt, the most bizarre day of my life. Yes, I’ve had a boring life…but that should not downplay the significance of today. Brandon (my ex-boyfriend) gave me his password for a site called “hire a longhorn” job bank. It’s basically a posting of full and part-time jobs for students. I was drawn to one ad that said this:

Personal Helper / Handyperson
Single woman needs help around the house. The house is located near the Hula Hut, just off of Enfield. Help is needed with odd jobs in one or all of these areas: packing boxes, light housekeeping, running errands around town, pick up and delivery of items, and yardwork. You decide how much work you can take on. Qualifications:
Must have own reliable transportation, be reliable, mature, responsible, self-sufficient, and resourceful. Be willing to take on any task and work independently with minimal supervision.

I liked it because a.) It was off Enfield and close to me. And b.) it paid ten dollars an hour. C.) I could make my own hours.

What could go wrong? A lot, apparently…I called Robin at 11:30am Saturday morning. I thought perhaps I’d go in for an interview sometime this week and would need to make an elegant resume on Microsoft Word. Robin….the name sounds like someone small, chipper, with a sing-song voice. A perky little personality with a lot pizzazz. The Robin I spoke to was more….Whatever Happened to Baby Jane with a dash of Mommie Dearest. Robin answers my call using speakerphone. I will later learn it is the only way she talks on the phone—loud, shrill, and frightening.

She says, “Do you have a car?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is there gas in it? Or do you need to fill up?”
“Umm…there’s some gas in it.”
“Not that this means anything, but the football field at UT is named after my uncle. He gave a lot of money to this school. And my Daddy was on the Education Council.”
“Wow, that’s…really neat.”
“Okay, great. I just need to you to go to the Time Warner offices and pick up my converter box. Call me when you’re done with that. Okay? Thanks, dahlin’.”
So—I guess I’m hired? For the time being, at least. I Google directions to the office and set out. Full of trepidation, I think of every worst-case scenario that could possibly apply under these specific circumstances. The most mild involves me losing a lot of time and a lot of money. I mean, gas IS getting higher every day. It ain’t cheap to run errands all over town. But we'll see....

The Hipsters of Belleville

2010-11-08T03:19:00.000-08:00

So...where the hipsters at? I mean, really. I’m in Paris, the chic capital of the world. Where are my walking American Apparel ad ladies and flannel-wearing men? Where is the Greenpoint and Silver Lake of Paris? It’s harder to find than you would think. Or maybe I’m just not cool enough. My theory is that hipsters in Paris are much more discreet and underground. They’re not as concerned as Americans to be “seen” around the town. They cozy up at each other’s tiny-ass apartments, or huddle in dark cafes talking philosophy and smoking Lucky Strikes. But I think I might have found one of their neighborhoods last night: Belleville.

I got another random reach out from a girl who found me on an ex-pat website. Again, I would probably never go out of my way to meet people online back home, but here, I will never turn down an invitation! Unless it’s clubbing on the Champs-Elysees. (I am still amazed at how much that particular activity sucks.) She invited me to Aux Folies, a neighborhood dive bar whose terrace is apparently always packed—-even when it’s below 40 degrees. It definitely had a “le cool” vibe and wine was pretty cheap and the people were beautiful and the service shitty. Sign me up! My new friend was very pretty, very skinny, and somehow managed to sit outside in a jean jacket and leather pants and look effortlessly chic, while I tubbied it up in a sweater, hoodie, long coat, wool scarf, and hat. Honestly, that might be the biggest reason I hate cold weather. I just can’t be as cute as I am in, say, LA weather. I’m a cotton dress kind of girl. I feel best in a simple dress, tights, and boots. Taking your winter coat off and on, lugging it around to clubs, finding places to put all your shit, losing your gloves on the metro…it’s annoying. All those damn accessories that take up so much room and cover up your cute outfit. Most of the time I think, shit, I might as well just wear pajamas underneath this crap because I’ll never get warm enough to take it off.

The girl has lived long enough in Paris to know her way around, and has a French boyfriend in a band. All signs point to…cool. We had a good chat discussing our lives and then Annabel and Kacy showed up. At Addison’s recommendation we headed to a café that played classic “American clubby dance” music and boasted 10 Euro double mojitos. I made the mistake of ordering something called a “Poire Miel” for half the price…which of course turned out to be a thimble of some kind of aperitif. Delicious but gone in five seconds. Not to worry, because then a DJ (who looked like every chubby hipster dude from Chicago) bought us all shots. And then Addison bought us tequila shots. And then some nasty-ass French dude Kacy was flirting with bought us tequila shots. And then we began dancing. And then poor Kacy and Annabel got incredibly drunk and we all got separated. And then Addison recommended we head up to Montmartre to meet some friends. And I might have agreed without saying goodbye. God, I’m a terrible friend.

So, both of us very tipsy, we headed to Pigalle and went to some girl’s apartment and drank lukewarm 1664s with some French kids. They were actually very nice but it was 2am and I was drunk and feeling not-so-charming. Then Addison sat on a girl (who was apparently sleeping under a huge blanket on the couch and therefore invisible) and the girl got pissed and we had to take a cab back to her place. Two other people from the “house party” joined us and we sat in her tiny-ass living room and listened to music. I think at some point I fell asleep sitting up. Then Addison was kind enough to let me crawl into her bed and I passed out with my coat on top of me. Luckily (unluckily?) the boyfriend was out of town, so no ménage a toi.

It’s a strange feeling to wake up in a strange bed in a foreign city and be incredibly hungover. My first worry: where the fuck are my priceless vintage glasses? I have to pee. This is kind of awkward, I think there’s a girl I just met sleeping next to me. Is it rude to sneak out? Is that like a platonic one night stand? I want to be home right now in my pajamas. It was around 10am, but luckily my moving around woke Addison up. I got us some water, shoved my bra in my purse (a Lindsey classic from the old days) and wished her a good day. Then I got to experience the glory of the walk of shame in Paris! Guess what! It’s so much worse than just driving home hungover in Texas! It probably took me an hour to get home, and I thought about barfing on this kid on the bus who wouldn’t shut up. I couldn’t imagine living with a family like most of my au pair friends do. I mean…walking in at 11am on Saturday, smelling like booze and cigarettes and makeup smeared? “Hiya kids! Nanny partied a little too hard last night!”

The autumn two-week holidays for kids begins this week. And, to further continue the theory that I picked the shittiest, middle-classiest family in Paris, mine are staying at home. Yes, most of my friends are either going with their families to French islands, their country homes in Brittany, or grandparent’s homes in the south of France. And if they’re not joining them, they at least get the whole house to themselves for a week. I would be more than happy with that. But nope. Mine’s staying here. I don’t know if my family is just incredibly boring or just not that wealthy. Either way, they suck.

But, it could be worse. I could have to take care of the kids. But I told them six weeks ago (as soon as my mom booked her plane ticket), so they made plans for the dad to take off work and stay at home with them. God, how miserable he will be by the end. Sounds like a shitty vacay to me! So yeah, my mom is coming on Monday! Hopefully. You know, assuming the strikes and petrol shortage don’t ruin everything. I really can’t believe I’m going to see my mommy in Paris. I feel like I’ve been living this weird, surreal, kind of fake life in Paris. Like time has stopped back home and I’m just in this bizarre European world waiting to go back home. I’m really curious to see what my mom thinks about my French family, my attic prison, getting around the city, the people, the food…we’ll have a lot of fun.

And then Colin in three weeks. Crazy. I really can’t imagine him here. I wish I had an amazing itinerary planned, but honestly, I just don’t do that much here. I don’t have enough disposable income to have a favorite restaurant, café, bar, museum, neighborhood yet. Every day I play “poor confused tourist.”

Okay it’s raining and horribly cold outside. It’s time to watch a 1980s John Ritter film and eat stale, expired bread with jam…yup, this is my life.

Kevin Costner is vanilla hot

2010-11-08T03:13:00.000-08:00

So joining the American Library in Paris was the best investment I’ve made so far. It cost a refundable 60 Euro fee and a four-month membership for 47 Euros. A lot for a poor nanny, but can you put a price on virtually unlimited old-fashioned entertainment and free Wi-Fi? If I could walk to the place I would be in pure heaven. Unfortunately, it’s on the opposite side of Paris, right next to the Eiffel Tower. But it’s well worth the 45 minute trip to walk in and find an oasis of quiet. I love libraries. They’re as comforting to me as a cup of hot chamomile tea. Maybe it’s because I spent most of my days after school playing in my mom’s library waiting for her to finish work and drive us home.

I’m convinced that’s why I flourished in my English classes throughout school: writing, vocabulary, spelling, random knowledge, knowing how to make a toy out of a pig’s bladder (thank you Laura Ingalls Wilder) all came out of those afternoons. I would park my bottom in the little school chairs in a quiet corner and read whatever book tickled my fancy. I’m pretty sure I worked my way through most of the alphabet before I began middle school. How different would I be if I had watched Nickelodeon or played some inane Mario Brothers video game? Being a shy bookworm is probably the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m no good at sports and ballet was much too strict, so thank god I had the smarts to fall back on. Sure, I do regret missing some spectacular vista views on family road trips. My mom would be prodding me in the backseat, saying “Lindsey, there’s the Grand Canyon. There’s the mountains of Colorado. We’re crossing the state line into West Virginia…” and I’d just be completely zoned out reading the Chronicles of Narnia. But who else can claim to have read the entire series of Anne of Green Gables in a Chevy Astro van in two weeks?

So, yeah. I love the library. I need to volunteer there, just to get me out of the house on rainy days and feel like I’m contributing to society in some way. Plus nothing would make me happier than to make some old, cultured ex-pat friends. I mean, a dinner party with fifty-year-old professors on a Friday night sounds like sheer bliss right now. My party girl au pair friends have discovered the “Sixth Street” (sorry, Austin reference) of Paris…it’s Bastille. A bunch of narrow alleys jam-packed with Australian bars, latino clubs, Guidos, tourists, and the ever-present mojito special. What’s up with Parisians loving mojitos? I think they’re great poolside on a sunny day, but on a freezing winter night? Yech, give me a vin chaud any day.

I’m starting to get the reputation of the “party pooper.” Didn’t take long. Factor in frigid temperatures, no money, expensive drinks, lecherous guys, metro closing times, and a long-ass walk home…and you’ve got Lindsey pooping out every time. Riding the night bus home with a bunch of sketchy Arab dudes at 3am does not a glamorous night make. Somehow, Kacy and Annabel are able to score free drinks, dance at clubs, stay out until 6am, and get rides home with strange men…all without getting raped! More power to them. Although the last time I left Kacy at a club she somehow lost her scarf, jacket, and shoes…so there is a price to pay.

So the library. It’s great. Their DVD selection is pretty shitty, but I’ve lowered my standards and will watch pretty much anything except the full season of 24 or Grey’s Anatomy. I just finished watching Mr. Brooks (starring Kevin Costner) and it was surprisingly not bad. The violence was too much, but I was very much intrigued by Kev’s character, and it was set in Portland, Oregon. Kevin Costner…man. He is dreamy. He’s the kind of attractiveness that is so bland and clean that you kind of forget about him, but then he puts on tortoiseshell glasses and a cozy cashmere sweater and I just want to walk with him in the park with our Golden Retriever dog named Lucy and then return home to our 1850s farmhouse in upstate New York. Yup, that’s my sexual fantasy these days. Getting domestic in the country, cooking apple pies, and knitting hats out of alpaca yarn.

My wet dream of a movie

2010-11-05T10:18:00.000-07:00

Why did guys in the 50s and early 60s look so good? Because they were so fresh-faced and clean cut, looking like they just stepped out of a Ivory soap commercial all scrubbed and dry and shiny bright. Starched white shirts, skinny black ties, high-waisted pressed pants, black shoes shined to a gleam, sharply cut crew cuts, tailored blazers…can you tell I’m drooling by now? Enter the film The Right Stuff. First off, it’s written by Tom Wolfe, whom I love. (Any man who dresses up in his own, timeless white suit every day is a winner in my book.) It stars the bleached-clean Ed Harris, the devilish smile of Dennis Quaid, nerdishly sexy Jeff Goldblum, and my soulmate: Sam Shepherd. Oh yeah, I had the realization I should probably marry Sam Shepherd. First off, he’s a lockdown in the looks department. Piercing blue eyes, tanned chiseled face, his sun-scorched leather bomber jacket, the fact that he’s also an amazing writer in real life, and he played Dolly Parton’s husband in Steel Magnolias…what more does a girl need?? He’s impeccable.

So The Right Stuff follows the story of the original astronauts and the beginning of NASA and the space race. It’s basically one big cheesecake photo of men shirtless, goofing off, and wearing shiny space suits. I actually really hate space travel, mainly for the fact that I think it’s the biggest waste of government money. All those billions of dollars poured into research, and what have we done with it? How has it benefited anyone’s life day to day? There are mentally ill homeless veterans on the streets and people dying because they don’t have adequate health care, but hey! John Glenn went into space! But I am shallow and lusting after the men, not the space angle, in this film.

It makes me really sad that those days are over. Now men dress like slobs in cut-off shorts, or they go the other revolting direction and become metrosexual Guidos with too much hair gel and sequined dress shirts. I just want Gregory Peck in his horn-rimmed glasses giving an impassioned speech in a Southern courthouse. Is that too much to ask??

I miss

2010-11-01T12:21:00.000-07:00

That horribly cold Saturday in Canton
The drive there
The disgusting bathroom graffiti in a small-town gas station
The solitude and grace of the numerous antique stalls
How I felt truly comfortable and not cutesy act-y when stopping to admire costume jewelry and Mamie dolls and framed family portraits of strangers
I knew you'd understand, talk me out of impulse extravagances, but give me time to linger
We walked in squares until we got lost
Hot chocolate
Concerns about a friend--advice--duly ignored
It was so bitterly cold
And then--
A discovery of true junk stalls
The stuff dreams are made of
No more glass cases or Art Deco period pieces
Just good, salt-of-the-earth people with garage sale prices
I flirted with the old man to get you a better price on a chrome dinette set
(How many men in the world appreciate a chrome dinette set with mustard yellow upholstery?)
And Jetsons-style glassware
And wooden silverware
It was one of those Vegas-style hot streaks where everything I picked up was amazing and cheap and looked exactly like him and for that reason it was the most beautiful knife and fork I'd ever seen
I had an intoxicating glimpse of domestic life that for once didn't sicken cynical me
The loading of our prizes in your father's suburban
The joy
The adrenaline rush of the shopper's high
The reward of hot fried corn nuggets in a cozy small-town burger joint complete with local FFA kids' pictures on the wall
(Emory Wilson: black AOB steer named grand champion of the 2010 Palo Pinto County Livestock Association’s Junior Livestock Show)
A quiet drive back
Perfectly content
Perhaps wine and a movie that night
Perfect
It was perfect

And

And

And now it's gone.

A Boring and Shitty Review of Pause Cafe

2010-10-19T05:22:00.001-07:00

I wanted to like this place. It looked hip, modern yet romantic, full of cool Parisians and some random New Yorkers. The menu was reasonable, the décor cozy (reminded me of the store Anthropologie), and the waiters young and attractive. Buuutttt…is it fair to complain about horrible customer service in Paris? I’ve had great service here as well (granted, from an Italian establishment) but this place was just a little too cool for school. The food had the potential to be great but failed on many accounts.

We both ordered soup of the day (5 Euros) but it arrived lukewarm. Our red wine (half carafe for 12) was extremely cold. And our dessert (ordered an apple crumble but got cherry for some reason) was scalding hot. And we were pretty much ignored. My Montreal friend spoke excellent French so I don’t think anything got lost in translation.

Granted, the place was slammed on a Saturday night around 9, and there were only three waiters working the place. But, with all the wonderful places in Paris, I don’t think I’ll be back.

Getting Ladylike

2010-10-19T04:46:00.000-07:00

My review of a cafe Leora and I cozied up at the other night...

Okay I’ve officially entered “hibernation mode” in Paris. I know it’s only October but for a Texan, this feels like the icy depths of hell and I want to bury under the covers and not come up until April. Seeing as how that’s not an option, I decided I can at least have a happy medium by holing up in cozy cafes for hours with good friends and hot drinks. Enter L’Oisive Café. A delicious combination of tea house and knitting store, this place screams “I am girlie and I like tea caddies and kittens and reading fashion magazines and knitting hats for my dad.”

I knew places like this existed in Portland, Oregon, but I didn’t expect them in Paris. I’m not sure the whole “hipster knitting” has caught on here. Nevertheless, it is alive and well near the Place d’Italie metro. This area was filled with cute shops and restaurants, but the tea shop is my favorite. Not only do they serve a fixed menu brunch on weekends, but they appeared to have a daily special: 5.50 for a tiny coffee, your choice of cookie/pain d’epice/citrus cake, some fruit, and a teeny bowl of spiced ice cream—make that 7.50 for a pot of tea.

And the tea options are overwhelming. In fact I was so overwhelmed I got the coffee. Lame, I know. But I know I’ll be back. Seeing as how the place is quite small, I would show up early, as it appeared to be packed all the time, and god knows I wasn’t going to sit outside.

Bring your best girlfriend or mum when it’s absolutely nasty outside. My only complaint: no comfy, squashy armchairs to lounge in and knit….

Where the eff is Dita Von Teese?

2010-10-19T04:40:00.000-07:00

Back in August, I was informed by a Dita Von Teese newsletter that she was opening a private bar in Paris—sponsored by Cointreau—in Montmartre. Well, that sounded just absolutely fabulous and glamorous as I sat sweating away in my parent’s house in Austin, TX. But, like most things in this city, it’s one of those things that sounds amazing and then you get there and you’re alone and uncomfortable and everyone is cooler than you and speaking a language you just can’t grasp.

However, I had RSVP’d, received a special bracelet in the mail, and it was opening night—where drinks and food were free. So I forced myself to make the trek to Montmartre at night (a fifty minute journey, minimum.) Of course the place was “hidden” off the Lamarck Caulaincourt metro, and I could have easily gotten lost. But the Parisian gods worked with me, and I eventually found a red carpet surrounded by burly bodyguards and elegant PR girls huddled around the list.

I shuffled up, feeling about twenty pounds too fat and extremely under-dressed. (And I rarely EVER feel under-dressed in the States. In fact, I’m known as the “Dress Up” girl. I’m not tooting my horn, I’m just saying that it kills me that I am kind of schlumpy here, thanks to a small wardrobe/budget/transportation options.)
But, the girls did let me in and I walked up a cobblestone street to a three story house filled with violet light and beautiful people. And I do mean beautiful. There were girls wearing mink coats and black velvet pumps and exquisitive vintage beaded dresses. I was wearing a black dress and boots and feeling green with envy. But how the fuck do you ride the metro and walk around Montmartre in heels?

I helped myself to champagne and foie gras hor’doeuvres and found a chair in the corner. And people watched. For a long time. In the states, I’ve gone to events by myself and had a pretty decent time. Especially when there was free booze. I would eventually strike up a conversation with someone, meet some nice people, and drive myself home whenever. But this…this was different. Intimidating. Even if I had felt comfortable talking to one of the glamorous girls, I COULDN’T. It was so awfully frustrating. Who wants to speak to an under-dressed American who knows fifty words of French? And trust me, no one tried to talk to me—expect for a nice Irish man and his Filipino wife. They had flown in from Ireland just for the night.

Unfortunately, there was no sighting of Dita, but when I climbed the precarious tiny steps to the top floor, I spotted C-Lister Mischa Barton chillaxing and taking awkward pictures. That excitement lasted about five minutes. The servers were all dressed as flappers, and one of them made the mistake of setting a tray of cheese and quiche cubes next to me…I think that about sums up my night. I cut myself after three drinks (didn’t want to end up in a cop car again) and headed back home.
It’s funny, you can tell someone: “Oh yeah, I went to the private bar Dita Von Teese opened in Montmartre and saw Mischa Barton” and it probably sounds really fucking cool and glamorous…but it was actually one of my loneliest nights in Paris. (Cue Emo tear.)

Please don’t visit me.

2010-10-19T04:38:00.000-07:00

I feel like such a bitch for complaining…but I had a friend from college visit me this week and it was the most physically and mentally exhausting 3.5 days in Paris so far. In my defense, I feel if it’s not your best friend, mother, or boyfriend, you can’t really hang out non-stop with someone and share a stupidly small attic room without wanting to kill them. The guilty party was an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in two years and hadn’t really talked to until right before Barcelona. So it was awkward. And I got grumpy. And annoyed. Until a point where I went into “quiet, brooding, homicidal tendencies” mode. When someone looks around in disgust at your life, proclaims “If my parents saw me living like this, they would pull me out and take me home” it’s more than a little offensive. First off, my “friend,” you have a free place to stay in an incredibly expensive city. Secondly, I’m spending every second of my free time taking you to crowded, obnoxious tourist shit that I’ve already seen a bazillion times and costs me money I don’t have. Then I’m having to rush home and take care of two bratty kids (while you relax and take a nap upstairs), and then immediately go out with you in the evening, all the while trying to plan outings and make sure you have a good time.

Plus, she is the type of person who walks up to people and demands loudly, “Hi! Do you speak English?” or exclaims in the metro, “OMG! I smell pee! I think it’s that homeless guy” and points at the dude or has to buy three huge Eiffel Tower statues that you then carry in your backpack all day or asks you every five minutes “How long is this gonna take? Have I seen everything? Can you take my picture five times with two different cameras?” GOD I know I’m a monstrous bitch. I don’t deserve to have friends.

So I basically felt like an au pair nonstop this week with not a single moment to myself. Let’s also add in the fact that my French dad had eye surgery this week and was HOME ALL WEEK. That meant I couldn’t even wake up in the morning, go down in my pajamas, play on Internet, and call boyfriend and family. It was absolute torture. I’ve grown so accustomed to complete independence and alone time, plus having the mornings to myself, that it was very difficult. The plus side to all this complaining? I’ll appreciate the upcoming week (all alone, no dad cramping my style) soooo much more. Plus, it’s hard enough taking care of kids, but having a dad in the kitchen eavesdropping on my shitty au pair-ness was excruciating. Most of the time I’m 60% mentally there with the kids, usually zoning out while they watch BBC cartoons or try to kill each other with pillow fights. But with him right there, I actually had to pretend to like the kids and take care of them! Hard!

There’s been strikes all week and I was stricken with fear my friend’s train to Switzerland would get canceled. One more day with her and I might have checked myself into a hostel to get away. But she did indeed finally leave (not without asking me to escort her to train station and wait up until the second she left) and I celebrated by meeting up with Leora at absolutely cozy, charming tea shop near Place d’Italie. It was very much a girlie kind of hangout, as they also sold yarn and had little cakes and cookies. It reminded me of a tea/yarn shop Andrea and I visited a long time ago in Portland, Oregon.

I miss Andrea. She’s my best friend of 18 years and it’s hard to believe only a few months ago we actually lived in the same town, on the same street. Like much of that former life, I took it all for granted. We’d wake up at 6:15 on cold, winter mornings to force ourselves to walk a mile or two, then head back to her place for coffee and delicious Hazelnut creamer full of corn syrup and hydrogenated oils and talk about our shitty jobs.

I was so unhappy in Dallas. I felt like I was suffocating. I felt like I was losing my identity in my job. I felt like I could never decompress and just breathe and not check my email on a Friday night. And I was only 25. Was it really as bad as I thought it was? Or should I just have gotten on anti-anxiety medicine and dealt with it? Looking back it, my life there doesn’t seem so bad. But I remember calling my mom on my lunch breaks and sobbing about how much I hated it there. I wish I had done this au pair job first thing out of college. Not to harp on about it, but there are days where I really felt I am regressing. I went from being financially independent, own apartment, own car, successful job, single lady…to living in a shitty attic, getting paid shit, starting all over living in a difficult city where I barely understand the language and every minor errand can turn into a bureaucratic nightmare. To sum it all up in one word: humbling.

Yeah, I can sit at home and feel sorry for myself (which I definitely do), or I can learn from this experience. First and foremost, there is no perfect job or city or significant other. I have a tendency to run away from my problems, especially when things get too hard or demanding. But I can’t spend my whole life changing cities and jobs. I often wonder if I spend a lot of my energy fighting my true self. Am I secretly a homebody, a creature of habit who wants to settle down in a rambling old country home with a vegetable garden and be domestic with a husband and two pugs and just a couple close friends and family near me? Or do I secretly crave a “glamorous” job writing for a sitcom in LA, hobnobbing with “important” people and being fiercely independent—but I deny myself this existence because I don’t have the ego to withstand the rejection and soulless existence that it requires? Is there a happy medium? Maybe songwriting in Nashville? Or am I just a spoiled brat who wants to have their cake and eat it, too?

Why can’t I just be happy to know I have these options? I could be a Chinese indentured servant having my father make all my decisions for me. Why can’t I just relax in Paris these next two months, knowing it won’t last forever, know that by Christmas I’ll be back home with my family and then moving in with a guy who’s crazy about me and knows all the bad stuff about me and still likes me? Two factors would really help me in Paris: good weather and more money. When it’s fucking cold and blustery outside and I have to walk twenty minutes to the metro and it’s dark by 7pm and I am burning through my precious savings and can’t even have coffee and dessert with my friends without feeling guilty…that’s when I hate Paris.

Muchath grathiath, Barthelona

2010-10-19T04:35:00.000-07:00

Barcelona…perhaps the most unique, bizarre, earthy, wild city I’ve been to so far. Such a contrast to Paris, and only a 1.5 hour flight away…Paris is old and austere and romantic and aloof. Barcelona was hot, dirty, sexy…more Old World. More Third World. The architecture was like a fairy tale on acid. It’s funny, you worry you’re becoming jaded when traveling but then you go somewhere with hardly any preconceived notions or mental images and get pleasantly surprised. I’m actually glad I did no research on the city. Because when we walked out of the metro and I saw the Sagrada Familia…I actually felt a little dumbstruck. That occurs less and less the older you get. It was like the first time I saw the Epcot Center at DisneyWorld in second grade. My friends Erin and Rachel thought it was hideous, but I loved the way the church looked so bizarre and unsettling—rather like it was melting in the hot sun and demons were trying to escape. Take that, Notre Dame!

From there we walked to Parc Guell which was also a treat. I could have spent all the day there squelching my sandals in the mud and taking pictures, but the girls didn’t last long. It’s funny, I spend so much time by myself now, absolutely on my schedule doing whatever I want whenever I want for however long I want…sometimes it’s tough to hang out with other people and give in to their suggestions. Two and a half full days with them and I was ready for some alone time. It was really nice to hang out with some fellow Texans though. Sadly, we didn’t find any amazing tapas bar…more like medicocre. And some decent but not extraordinary paella. Twice we went to a supermarket and bought Rochefort cheese and dried ham and 0.80 Euro wine in a box (which was awesome) for our dinner.

Besides walk a shit-ton and look at churches and panoramic views and take a million pictures, we didn’t get into too much trouble in Barcelona—a first for me. We went out to some bars, drank awesome Estrella beer, had some marvelous olives, 3.50 mojitos, met dudes from the British Army, walked along the beach and looked at old boobies. The weirdest part was probably walking back to our hotel around 4pm and seeing a deranged man approaching us. There was something…weird about his crotch. After we passed the girls and I exchanged looks of horror. Apparently he was exposing himself, but it looked really weird because he was holding it straight up. Needless to say I didn’t really give it a good look, but it was still mentally scarring. Less than two months in Europe and I’ve already experienced two weird public penis situations. Please god, don’t let there be a third.

Rachel (one of the girls from Houston) is coming to stay with me on Wednesday. I’m worried I won’t be able to show her that good a time. I can’t afford to really go out, and I’m not at that point where I know where to go and when. I suck at being a Parisian. Hopefully my au pair friends will rally and we can show her a decent time. And I wouldn’t mind her hanging out with me and the kids…maybe they would behave with a stranger around.

Oh, and apparently if you google “Paris au pair help” you might find my blog…again, I forgot that anyone in the world actually reads this. It’s kind of disconcerting. I’m so whiny and moody and pity party that I fear I don’t give off the best impression. But, I randomly got an email from another au pair in Paris that reads my blog! What a pleasant surprise. We’re meeting for coffee tomorrow. Thanks, Internet, for finding me friends!

Fear in my eyes

2010-10-08T05:31:00.000-07:00

So I went for my first official “posing nude for an artist and getting paid for it” gig. And…I kind of failed at it. Which shocks me. I thought the hardest part would just be getting naked. But no. There’s more. First off, I forgot where Hashpa lived and spent ten minutes ringing every door of the apartment, next door nervously asking “J’ai trouve Hashpa?” only to hear “Quoi? Non!” Oops. Wrong building. I finally find the right one where Hashpa and his feral cat are waiting.

We greet one another, he hangs up my coat, we sit down in his studio and awkwardly chat for a long time. This time I really can’t understand him and it’s frustrating. I really just want to say, “Okay, buddy, time is money. Can I take off my clothes and get this over with?”

He finally pulls out a brown, battered blanket that has seen better days, lays it on the floor, and walks away—-presumably to give me privacy while I get naked. I quickly take off my clothes, sit down, and strike an artistic, noble pose. Legs propped up, arms crossed, looking pensively into the distance. But alas, it is not to be.

Hashpa walks in and shakes his head, “Non, no! Allange! Allange!” he gestures that I lay down.

Mmmm. Laying down. Head on dirty carpet. Feel defenseless. No like. But I do it. I awkwardly move my body around while he gesticulates where to put an arm and leg. Finally, he begins to sketch, and I try to relax, even though I’m on my stomach with my legs spread a little too wide for comfort. This is probably more than even my gynecologist has seen.

And let us not forget the feral cat has now begun attacking me. It’s highly disconcerting to have a cat scratching and biting you when you are completely nude. I began to freak out thinking about, well, what if the cat, like, scratches me down there and I get a terrible infection and I have no health insurance and oh sweet jesus I’m gonna get a staph infection in my….

“Un autre chose!” declares Habash.

Oh, I get to pick a pose. Let’s do the fetal position.

“Pas mal,” he grunts.

We go on like this for awhile, I choosing a pose, Habash critiques and rearranges, and I think everything is hunky dory. Until…he stops.

“Non, non. Ees no good. You are very sensual, nice body nice hair nice eyes nice face…but ees no good! You have fear in your eyes. No good.” He gazes with frustration at his sketches. I think they look quite lovely and would love to frame one for the memories—fearful eyes and all.

“You are young, ees first time, we try again. You bring ami with you?” he asks hopefully.

There’s a thought. Would posing nude with a friend of mine be more or less comfortable? Depends on the friend I guess. When’s the last time I was naked with a girlfriend? Fifth grade? Hashpa would probably make us embrace each other and I just don’t know if I have anyone who’d be down with that. I tell him I will ask my friends and see what they say. He seemed very pleased.

He offered me some wine, I drank a couple glasses naked, and then got dressed. He paid me twenty Euros for my time and I went to walk the streets buzzed once again.
I felt kind of sad, actually. I failed as a nude model. Of course there is fear in my eyes, I can’t exactly be smiling with joy when I lay on a dirty blanket in some Parisian studio with a cat dangerously close to my nether regions. I thought I could just naked and phone this shit in. Why does Habash have to be a real artist? Why can’t I just fake it in Paris? Don’t they know that’s what America was built on? Pretending you got it when you don’t? Merde.

Getting in touch with my USA-ness

2010-10-08T05:27:00.000-07:00

The further away from home you are, the more you crave it. It’s a stupid fact of life I can’t avoid. When I’m in Texas, surrounded by Republican hicks and big loud trucks and outlet malls and fast food obesity and suffocating summer heat waves, I get so sick of it. But the goddamn second I leave it becomes this charming place that I wax poetic about almost daily. And of course I miss my mom and dad and Gram and P-paw and Pooky the pug and the freedom to get in a car and go to a Super Wal-Mart at midnight and buy really cheap crap just because I can.

It’s funny, you might think if you’re a socially liberal, culturally minded, and so-called “foodie” that you would thrive in Europe. Not so. To be honest, I’m not sure what kind of ex-pats do thrive here. I think it’s either a.) really naïve young girls that are so happy to be independent for their first time in their life, thus throwing themselves into the nightlife, drinking heavily, and eagerly flirting with any young Euro guys whose accents they find adorable. Or b.) it’s people that forsake their American identity, refuse to speak in English, and are probably pretentious assholes. Haven’t really met any of those yet. So no, France has not taken me in its socialist arms and cradled me and made me see the light. It’s actually made me realize that I’m an American, for better or for worse. Yeah, my country has problems. Lots of ‘em. I don’t even have health care coverage right now. But that’s where I was born, that’s where my life is, and I don’t want to leave it for very long.

It’s actually very comforting to realize this. Everyone goes through that trite period of college where you think, “Man, fuck this country! I wanna go to Spain and work 30 hours a week cause they work to live, man, not live to work like these Puritanical killjoys in America.”

And there’s truth in that. But honestly, you’re not going to truly fit in and enjoy that lifestyle (or even attain it) unless, well, you’re French. Or Spanish. You can’t just breeze on into Paris in your twenties, land a great job, fit right in, make tons of friends, and start a family. It’s not that open of a society or culture. And I don’t want to. It’s not me. Is it premature for me to make these blanket statements when I’ve been here less than two months? Of course it is. But I like to think I can make pretty good first judgments.

It’s funny what I crave here. When I ride the metro or walk around the cobblestone, rain-drenched streets of Paris, I listen to Tammy Wynette, Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, even…gasp…Katy Perry. It’s just so damn comforting. And movies. I just watched “My Own Private Idaho.” It doesn’t get any more American than a gay hustler road movie set in the Pacific Northwest. I have no desire to listen to Serge Gainsbourg or watch a Truffaut film. Hell, if you plopped a Big Mac combo meal in my lap right now I’d be ecstatic.

Now, I know I’ll be complaining about America as soon as I get back, but right now, it feels so good to romanticize about my country across the pond. I’ll be so ready to return.

I Quit (kinda)

2010-10-08T05:20:00.000-07:00

I’m a quitter. I have trouble staying with one city, one job, one boyfriend, one apartment. I think the only thing I’m faithful to right now is my hairstyle. But I think (hope?) I’m finally changing. Well, as soon as I quit the job and city I’m currently doing.

This past Wednesday was the rare occasion I had dinner with not just the kids, but the entire family. We’re sitting at the crowded IKEA wooden table, eating our fromage blanc for dessert, and I tell them I’d like to go over some “vacation dates”—i.e., tell them when friends/boyfriend coming to visit and therefore I WILL NOT WORK. We discuss my friend Rachel, my mom, and Colin coming. They made a big deal about my “boyfriend” coming. And then the subject of Christmas come up. At one point my parents considered flying here for Christmas. But, the more I thought about it, it seemed silly and much more expensive for them to come here. Multiple plane tickets, a hotel, cold and rainy Paris instead of mild Austin…hmmm, I quickly changed my mind about the whole thing. I mean, sure, if we were really loaded and could get a suite at the Ritz I’d be down. But that wasn’t happening. Plus, I wanted to go home. Get my hair cut, get more winter coats.

So my family asked if I was still bringing my parents over for Christmas.
“Actually,” I ventured, “I think I’d like to fly home for Christmas.”

They seemed mildly shocked. Apparently the other au pairs never had visitors, let alone went home once. Weird. Sorry, I’m a Texan who gets homesick!

They ask how long I’ll be gone. A week? And then they drop the bomb…

“So, are you buying a one-way ticket home?”

I laugh nervously. They don’t. We stare at each other.

The mom leans in: “If you are considering going home after Christmas, I need to know RIGHT NOW.”

Oh shit oh shit oh shit. I think this is called getting backed into a corner.

“Well,” I begin cautiously. “I have to admit, it’s crossed my mind. I am homesick and I miss my boyfriend and uh…you know.”

The mom gets upset. Understandably. “If you are breaking the contract, I am going to be very, very angry. But I need to know so we can prepare. It isn’t fair for the children! But that’s life…”

We’ve all stopped eating dinner and everyone is looking at me. Gulp. Well, let’s just bite the bullet: “Okay, I think I will be going home after Christmas.”

And then I blacked out from stress and confrontation. The family quickly left the table and I took my sweet time cleaning up the kitchen. I come out and the mom is putting the kids to the bed, the dad sits awkwardly on the couch.

“So! Are you and your boyfriend getting engaged then?” he asks.

Hmmm. This might make my reasons for leaving easier. You know, rather than your-kids-suck-and-I'm-not-into-Paris-that-much. “Yeah, you know, we’ve talked about it.”

He nods. ”Ah, young love…”
I laugh awkwardly. Wow, I’m pretty much lying to my family and telling them I’m engaged to be engaged. Let’s go with this angle. Much easier to swallow than I think your kids are shit and I hate taking care of them and quite frankly I feel my IQ rapidly denigrating just being around them.

“You know, I’m really sorry to do this, but I felt it wasn’t fair to the family or me if I’m unhappy,” I timidly say.

“Yes, well, I suppose we will have enough time to find someone else,” he says.

We stare into space and then I stand up abruptly: “Okay! I’m gonna head upstairs. See you tomorrow…”

And we haven’t talked about it since. I was nervous they would start treating me like shit since I’m no longer a permanent fixture, but we’ve just gone into the “friendly-nothing-is-wrong!” zone. We kind of left it that I would take care of the kids full-time the first week of Christmas vacation, which means I will be flying home Christmas Day.

As I headed upstairs, I did feel a big weight lift off my shoulders. Honestly, I think I knew going into this I wouldn’t last. Yes, the homesick might pass after several months. But taking care of kids as my job? I KNEW I wouldn’t be good at it. I’m not quite sure what made me do it. I guess I thought it wouldn’t be so hard, that it would occupy so little of my time that it wouldn’t affect me. But I suck at it. And doing a job you dislike every day gets to you after awhile. I try to like the kids. Sometimes. But…I just don’t. They don’t make it easy. Do you know how frustrating it is to ask a little kid every day brightly, “Hey! How was your day?” and for them to shrug, mumble some smartass response, and walk away? It’s like, why fucking bother? What happened to kids being generally happy bundles of joy? Are these kids just future Existentialists in the making? Hey punk, you’re nine years old, it’s MY TURN to be depressed, not yours. Save it for junior high.

I called Colin the next day—2am his time. I told him what had happened. It has big implications for us. We had discussed me moving in with him before I came, and it was also a possibility when my term was up in July. But now it was up…a lot sooner. But we both feel really good about it. I think we’re both nervous, as neither of us has done anything like this. We’ve avoided serious commitment for a long time. But…it’s taking a leap, and what’s the worst that could happen?

It’s funny, we’ve never dated in the same city, and now I’m moving in with him in three months. Right after New Year’s. To Chicago, a city I’m not in love with, but after Paris, I think it will seem so much easier to handle. And friendly. (You know there isn’t a French word for friendly? Because that concept of being generally nice to strangers doesn’t exist.) Yes, Chicago in January will be awful. But at least I’ll have someone to keep me warm at night. It’s funny, the thought of being domestic with someone finally sounds really appealing. I fought it for a long time, but I hope I’ve matured enough to a do a good job of it.

As far as taking all my shit to his apartment in Chicago, deciding whether to bring my car, if I want to “decorate” his place or wait until we get a new place…I guess I’ll save all that logistical crap for December! Knowing I’m only here until Christmas makes me much more relaxed. There is an immediate end, and now I can enjoy my time much more. Maybe it’ll even light a fire under me to get motivated and see as much of Paris as I can.

Must run now. I have a 1pm appointment with Hashpa today. Hope I’m actually posing today (read: getting paid.) I will mostly likely have a funny story about getting naked later.

Nudity and an old Czechoslovakian artist named Hashpa

2010-10-08T05:10:00.000-07:00

I can’t believe I just did what I just did. What I did was look up “creative gigs” on Craigslist. My au pair job pays me 375 Euros a month. That is diddly squat. I can barely feed myself on that, let alone enjoy the city. I need extra income, something that is easy with flexible hours and I don’t have to speak a lot of French. So it’s prostituting myself or…nude modeling! Ideally, I wanted to be in a highly regarded art school, posing demurely in an academic setting while gay guys in Tom Ford eyewear idly drew me in pen and ink. And make 20 Euros an hour. Safe, neutral, non-sexy setting. But that wasn’t on Craigslist. It was mostly fetish photography, but one stood out as a semi-legitimate ad. I emailed it to myself and reread it for several days, pondering if I should answer it. The ad read:

Painter and photographer seeks female models for personal work and live nude drawing classes. Studio is located in the Marais, near Place des Vosges. Please call Hashpa at 01.40.27.00.95 (sorry, no email).
Compensation is 20-40 euros/hour.

My biggest worry was that I couldn’t email. I would have to call a number. And speak…in French? More like Franglais? Fuck it, I thought after looking at the ad for four days. What do I have to lose? Dignity? Already lost that the first time I tried to order three McDonald’s Happy Meals with the kids. So I call and (thank heavens) reach an answering machine. I say my first line in French: “J’appelle l’annonce dans le craiglist. Um, Sorry, I don’t speak very good French, I am calling about ad in Craigslist. Please call me back at….(oh crap, lost number, search desperately)…this number! Bye!”

I receive a call a couple hours later.

“Hello? This is Hashpa. You call about Craigslist, yes?”

“Yes. Um. Oui.”

He then babbles on in French and I think I hear the word “massage” and get really freaked out thinking it’s some sex shop. I don’t wanna be an imported Thai prostitute like those sad strip mall massage parlors in Houston. But I realize it’s the word “message.” Okay, we’re cool again.

He continues to speak quickly in French though I tell him I really have no idea what he is saying. We finally agree on a time to meet. Tomorrow, at noon, in his studio near Place des Vosges. I hang up and think…shit. If this is legit, I’m gonna have to get nekkid tomorrow. In front of some old dude. In some old dank old studio. This is kind of crazy.

Friday morning arrives and I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty nervous. But not nervous enough to shower or shave my legs. I mean, I’m not REALLY gonna have to get naked, right? Maybe I can just take off my sweater and he can see I’m not a leper and then, you know, I’ll deal with the naked stuff later when he’s teaching the class. I almost feel it’d be easier to be naked in front of a bunch of students rather than one old lecherous man. Of course I assume he’s lecherous. What kind of an old artist who paints nude women isn’t a womanizer?

I take the metro to Bastille and find the place quite easily. It’s a dark, rotted old building that could quite easily be set in a Dickens novel 100 years ago and you wouldn’t know the difference. I climb the stairs with trepidation and see a door open, leading into a messy room filled with jars, brushes, stacks of books, and paintings everywhere. This must be the place.

Hashpa greets me cheerfully enough. “Ah! Yes! You are afraid of cat?” he gestures to a feral beast circling my legs.

“Um, nope. J’aime les chattes.”
Not true, I hate cats, but they are low on my list of worries today.

He is old, in his early sixties I would guess, with a white beard and a tall, solid figure. He bears a passing resemblance to Hemingway. Great, so I’ll just think of him as the kindly Papa and it’ll make this whole thing much easier. I’ll pretend we’re the Lost Generation and Gertrude Stein is making me tea in the next room.
Hashba gazes me at me intently, “Ah, tu es très jolie. Yes. Come. We talk.”

He grabs a bottle of wine and two glasses and leads me into his studio. Giant windows form one wall and the other three are covered with oil paintings—some good, some bad, some nude, some abstract. It’s the cliché of every European artist’s studio I’ve ever seen. I relax a wee bit, knowing at least he is a real artist and not some creeper with a web cam. I doubt this guy even has email. We sit in two tiny rickety chairs and face each other. He pours the wine, we toast.

“So, um, how many models are you looking for? And what days of the week and for how long? Oh, and how many students do you have?” I babble nervously.

He holds up his hand. “Stop, stop, Non! You. Speak. Slowly. I speak slowly. Then we can understand,yes?”

“Okay. Got it.”

“Okay. We meet. We talk. I have to look at you.”

“Um, you mean, like I have to take my clothes off? Like right now?”

“Oui, oui, c’est normale! It’s the body, I must see if I can paint you.”

Fuck, if I want this gig, I totally have to take my clothes off, don’t I?
“Je suis timide?” I venture cautiously. “Et, je suis Americaine!” (Obviously, just saying I’m American he will realize I am not comfortable with all things sexual and have lots of hang-ups with nudity.

“Bah!” he dismisses with his hand. “I know beaucoup d’Americans and they are crazy. You been with man before, yes? Or are you virgin?”

“Um, yeah, I’ve had a boyfriend, sure.”

“Just one?”

“No…”

He smiles and begins counting on his fingers, “Une, deux, trios, quatre…”

“Okay, sure. You can stop there.”

“Okay, so you can undress, it’s not the first time.”

Shit shit shit, let’s just get this over with. I slowly unwind my scarf and carefully place it on the chair next to me. One article of clothing down, six more to go…there goes the sweater. The tank top. My black leggings. I’m sitting in my underwear now. Phew. I look at him, “This is enough, right?”

“Non! C’est normale, I need to see everything.”

Okay, I’ve done topless beaches. Kind of. For like two seconds in the water once in Miami. It’s just nudity. He’s an artist. Sees it all the time. I take my bra off. Ta da! Pretty much naked now!

“C’est bien, c’est bien. You are…Renoir! Yes, I show you.” He pulls out a book from his stack and thumbs through it, finally stopping at a page of Renoir’s nudes. He shows me. I have to admit, I bear a passing resemblance to some of the women.

“Eh…Klimt? Tu sais?” He hands me another book. This one is mostly female nudes, pen and ink. I recognize some of them. I’m cool with it until I notice most of them are, uh, touching themselves. Spread eagle. I find a nice, tasteful, sitting down with all hands in appropriate places and point: “I like THIS ONE the best.”

“Ah, c’est bien. Eh…” he rifles through the book and stops at one. “This is self-portrait.”

Oh, very nice. Oh, it appears Klimt and his wife/girlfriend are both naked and he is holding…himself. Ah, yes. Rather a large one at that. Thought it was his hand at first.

“Well, that is interesting…”
Hasbah has one more to show me. It’s another drawing of a nude, the girl looks quite young. “This…sister!” he announces.

“Oh, he drew his sister nude? Ah, well…must have been awkward, don’t you think?”
“Yes, and then they had the sex!”

“Oh, he had sex with his sister? Hmmm, yeah, I’m not really sure I agree with that—incest, you know, not my cup of tea.”

He nods happily. We put the books away and he gestures at my underwear: “All of it.”
Uhhh. This means I have to sit bare-assed on a cold chair. But I’ve come this far…fuck it! I yank them off, place them on the rest of my clothes and realize…well, I’m naked. This is probably the weirdest moment of my life so far, but I’m doing it.
We continue chatting in broken English/French and for a couple minutes I almost forget I’m naked. Hey, this is relaxing! Just hanging out, being nude, talking about art. He does a pretty good job of maintaining eye contact, I have to say. To make me feel better he shows me naked pictures of his wife. She is Asian, sitting in a pool, and looks about twenty. Huh.

He asks about a boyfriend and I tell him about Colin in Chicago. Of this he strongly disapproves.

“How old is boy?”
“He’s 31.”

“Ah! 31. He needs the sex every day. Every day.”

“Well, yeah, but he can’t so, you know, we just have to wait until we see each other again…”

“No! Man cannot wait. Not healthy. Is healthy to have sex every day. You, you may wait. But he needs it.”

“Well, we don’t have a choice---“

“How long you in France for?”

I say six months, which isn’t quite true, but close enough.

“Too long! Monogamy…ce n’est pas normale. I…four girlfriends. Five wives. People in America…how you say, Mormon? They have polygamy—lots of wives! It’s good, no?”
“Uh, sure, but it’s not really fair to the wife…”

“Bah!” he waves his hand. “No. Not fair. But that’s life. You in France now, you young, must experience…the French!”

On this we must agree to disagree.

But back to the reason I’m there, still sitting nude, sipping on my wine. He tells me his wife also makes art, especially using photographs. “If you are comfortable, she take your photograph. We see. I only use old Russian cameras. No automatic. But model must choose own pose.”

Hmmm…photography. A bit more permanent and realistic than a blurry Impressionist nude painting of me. But--we’ll see. I’ve always wanted nude photographs of me, provided they’re tastefully done and make me look phenomenal. I try to pin down a time for me to come every week. He tells me he won’t need me for his weekly classes, as he wants to “keep me for himself.” (All the better to rape me!, I think.) Which I guess is flattering except for the fact that I would like to work as much as possible because in the end…muse or not, I need beaucoup d’argent. But artists don’t like to talk about money, do they?

He asks for me to come on Sunday, but I’m not sure what my day will hold (supposed to be having brunch with Mike, going to an exhibition of Karl Lagerfeld photographs, open house at American Library…) so I say next time. He says he will call me. I eagerly put my clothes back on, fight off his feral cat, we shake hands, and I let myself out. I’m walking in the busy streets of Le Marais, slightly buzzed on wine, laughing to myself. Well, I finally conquered one of my biggest fears and fantasies. And I don’t mean sexual fantasy, but rather doing something I’d always wondered about but never actually done. Posing nude for an artist. It took a lot of guts and a lot of awkwardness…but I did it. My first Parisian success?

Rainy days and Sundays always get me down

2010-09-30T12:56:00.000-07:00

I could really go for some Carpenters right about now. It’s dark, cold, rainy—a lethal combination that ensures I will never go out again! So I was supposed to have brunch and see a Karl Lagerfeld photography exhibit with Mike Fink, a Romanian/Parisian I met at my very first meetup today. However, I had my reservations as I’m not at all interested in the guy (duh) but I wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking. We had had dinner before (was supposed to be coffee but turned into dinner…) and he was very courteous, helping me put my coat on and such. But my feminine instinct told me the dude was probably interested. I’m starting to think I should slap a stupid “in a relationship” option on my Facebook profile just to get it over with.

It’s tough, you’re so desperate to make friends here that you accept any invitation you receive. I want to make friends, not date people. But is it possible to go out one-on-one with a guy here? I guess not, unless it’s just coffee and during the day. ANNOYING. It seems like all my friends will most likely be very young au pairs. But I digress. So when Mike called me Saturday night to confirm, I casually mentioned I had a girlfriend I hadn’t seen in awhile (little white lie, as I had just seen Kacy hours ago) and would like to bring her along to brunch. I felt this sent an effective message that I just wanted to be friends.

He got all blustery and told me to forget about our brunch, we could do it another time. Huh. But THEN (this is the clincher) told me this was “strike one.” Ahem. I really felt like telling him off at this point but I just politely ignored it. And he then proceeded to tell me a sexist joke about a cowboy and his strikes. Alrighty. Not even worth keeping as a friend at this point. Which is a shame because I really would have liked a native Parisian friend who would have helped me get my iPhone unlocked.

Men are so typical. They get so sensitive and touchy when a woman isn’t interested. You’re immediately not worth their time and they want nothing to do with you. I started overanalyzing the situation and thinking of the guy as a major creep: what kind of local loser goes to ex-pat meetups if only to pray on lonely Americans who jump at the chance for any kind of social invitation? In the States I more than likely would not have chatted as long, let alone agree to a coffee/dinner date. Sigh. Can I just wear a button that says “Not interested. Just here to make friends.”
I guess this is a stupid thing to complain about. I should be flattered, right? But I’m still just effing annoyed. It’s the sense of entitlement men get when they ask a girl out. You’re not the first guy, and you’re definitely not the last. Ugh. Annoyed. I thought about writing a very blunt email telling him exactly what I thought, but I figured that was too “forward American” behavior and I should probably just ignore his calls from now on. How do you say “passive aggressive” en Francais?

My first and last Parisian nightclub

2010-09-30T01:21:00.000-07:00

I met this girl named Alexia at the Jardin du Luxembourg because she wanted to practice her English. We had an awkward conversation and I left thinking I didn’t much care for her and she probably felt the same way. But now she invites me to clubs, her birthday party, and other nightlife events. Maybe she wants the novelty of an American friend, even though we have nothing in common? I finally relented to one of her requests to go to a private club called Les Bonheurs des Dames near the Champs Elysees on Thursday night. She warned me the dress code would be very demanding but the drinks free. Hmmm I do like free things.

But I didn’t pack extravagant clothes for my stay here. No heels, no silky frocks. I knew I would end up wearing hoodies and flats every day. So when I told her I would just a dress and boots, her reply tickled me:

"yes the dress code is VERY VERY FANCY everything is based on what you are wearing to get in so you need to wear a dress and a black jacket, jewelries, make up, and the highest hill yo have but no boots, boots are fashion, but not fancy, and take a brand bag if you have if not a small one,
see you tomorrow!! "

Designer bag? Fancy not fashion? Why did I have a feeling tonight would not work out? Luckily Kacy was up for the challenge, and we met up early as Alexia was running late. Not knowing where to go, we ended up following a fleet of ridiculously gorgeous teenager models, who of course all ended up going to the same place as we. Thus, the line was ridiculous, it started to rain, and we just weren’t feeling it. Plus I had to pee as usual. We ducked into a sexily chic restaurant next door called Boudoir and had our requisite cheap cups of espresso. (I swear to god, I think every night out will involve me and Kacy being cheapasses, drinking coffee, and all dressed up with nowhere to go.)

Thinking we had struck out for the night (and totally pissed I was wearing heeled boots, a minidress, and shitloads of eye makeup for no reason) we were pleasantly surprised by a glamorous, skeletal older woman approaching us. Speaking in a posh English accent, she demanded to know who we were and what our story was: “DAHLING! YOU’RE EXQUISITE! YOU MUST GO TO AU BONHEUR!”

I informed her of the long wait. Our chances didn’t look good.

“Dahling, just tell Mathieu at the door you know Vicki! Then give him a big kiss! He’ll let you in. Then come back later and join us at Eno’s.”

We decided this isn’t a bad idea. We air kiss Vicki goodbye and head back to club, meeting Alexia on the way. They are turning everyone away at this point, and though Kacy attempts to wheedle her way in with Mathieu, our attempts are in vain. Mathieu isn’t having it, unless Vicki personally calls him.

I’m at the “Fuck it I’m going home” stage so we slowly walk back until Kacy does a 180 and runs back into Boudoir to tell Vicki Cotton what happened. Vicki is indignant, but insists we stay at the restaurant until she's done with dinner, and then follow her to the club. Not knowing how long their extravagant dinner will last, we reluctantly sit at a table next door, order the cheapest drink there is (a verre du vin rouge) and munch on a bowl of pretzel sticks. Alexia and Kacy aren’t getting along, for various cultural and girl reasons. An hour later, we follow Vicki to the club. She flirts with the bouncer, gets us in past the red carpet, and we walk downstairs…to a basically empty club. It’s only midnight, after all. People don’t start here until 1am. We are treated to a glass of excellent champagne and watch the middle-aged DJ with wild Andy Warhol hair begin his stuff. He isn’t bad, and the room slowly fills with people. It’s a definite higher ratio of attractive people than I’ve seen in most places. Apparently a Belgian soap opera star was there, along with an Italian singer. There were girls dressed in Britney Spears schoolgirl outfits who had no job other than to sullenly bump their hips and look around the room. The requisite Guidos were the only ones buying drinks, and it was only bottle service at that.

The most entertaining aspect was Vicki herself. Balanced precariously on stiletto booties, she threw herself into a Ecstasy-filled rhythmic dry-hump sort of dancing that led her from the middle of the dance floor to the top of the couches to the DJ’s speakers. It was a sight to behold. I tried to avoid eye contact as I did not want to be dragged into the elastic-limbed dance. Maybe after a couple more glasses of champagne, which I definitely could not afford, and which no one was going to buy for us.

An hour passed, my feet began hurting, and the metro had stopped running. At the end of the day, all nightclubs are the same, full of wealthy creepy dudes and beautiful, naïve young women. It was time to go. Luckily, Alexia knew the Nocturne (night buses) very well and put me on the right one. Crowded and full of angry-looking ethnic men, I was just happy to have a seat and be on the road home. It took about forty minutes, dropped me a mile from my house, and then the skies opened up. Yes, I walked home in the chilling rain, feet throbbing, and cursing the day I was born. Well, more the day I decided to come to Paris. As horrid as those nights are, it’s almost worth it for the ecstasy I feel when finally getting home. My shitty hovel has never looked so cozy, and my cup of tea has never tasted so good.

I crawled into bed around 3am and promised myself never to go to a nightclub again.

A Field Trip to the French Countryside

2010-09-27T02:48:00.000-07:00

I thought I was a field trip kind of person...but I'm actually the worst because I hate running on other people's schedules, not being able to pee when I want to, and standing around listening to stuff when I'd rather wander off by myself and take pictures of rotting logs. BUT when I saw the flyer at my French language school for a day trip to Giverny, Normandy, and some serious chateau-viewing, I signed up--and convinced my friend Kacy to as well.

We met up at 7am on Saturday morning. That is to say, I was the only one there on time, and everyone else strolled in around 7:45am. I'm learning that time is very flexible for French people--especially when it's an early Saturday morning. It was an odd group, old and young, mostly awkward, about 15 in all. I thought Kacy and I would meet a ton of people, but we ended up becoming buddy buddy with a lovely girl from Nottingham, England named Annabelle. Everyone else was weird in that "smelly freshman in a dorm" kind of way.

We hopped on a huge bus (I secretly love them, as you are high up on the road and can see everything) and traveled about an hour out of Paris. It was really nice to get away from the city, and see it from a different angle. To be honest, it looks kind of industrial and shitty when you drive into it.

Though it was cold and damp, Giverny was a magical place. Monet's gardens were exquisite, and his house gets 5 out of 5 cuteness points. It was a rambling old cottage painted pink with green shutters. Inside, the paint schemes were like one delicious pastel ice cream color after another. His kitchen, decorated with copper pots and blue mosaic tile, was a country girl's dream. The more I live in this big city, the more I long for the countryside. It's just so much more relaxing and tranquil. I hate waking up to the sound of construction, people yelling, motorbikes speeding, sirens going off. I have such cliche dreams about having a country cottage with a husband and a couple of pugs. No more big cities after this.

After that we went to a tiny town in Normandy, which was the picturesque small French village. We bought some amazing French Neufchâtel cheese from an old lady in the market. It's similar to Camembert, but more earthy. It's usually made in the shape of hearts. I also bought a la chouquette (a delicate fluff ball of pastry) and decided I would rather stay in the village than go back to Paris. There is something so appealing to me about having one patisserie, one boulangerie, and one farmer's market. You get to know everyone by name, and you never have to walk far. My ideal!

Back in the bus to a ruined old castle that to be honest was not that interesting. Oh, I should also mention the entire tour was conducted in French. Guess how much I got out of it? Maybe twenty words. The woman would babble in French, and I would turn to Kacy and say, "So, this castle is really old, it used to have three stories, and there were flowers somewhere."

Kind of annoying to pay money for a tour and not get anything out of it, but I should have known, as it IS a French language school. We all sat down in an underground portion of the castle and lunched on baguettes, super stinky Camembert, hard-boiled eggs, and cider. The best part was the apple tart and hot coffee they served afterward.

The next chateau was more impressive as it was still standing and filled with relics. The Normandy fashion back in the day was really unusual. Large capes, super tall bonnets, and huge jewelry. My favorite part were the ancient "toys" for children back then. One consisted of a wooden runner you stuck the kid in and forced them to run up and down a span of three feet for hours. Ah, the good ole days! I truly believe children should be "seen and not heard." When are we gonna go back to the pioneer days of child-rearing when kids actually worked?

We picked some apples from the tree, bid adieu to the countryside, and I promptly fell asleep on the bus. Again, I love having a busy day and then getting home in time for dinner, hot tea, and reading. Much more preferable than going out in the evening.

Sri Lankans, cocaine, and the party that never existed.

2010-09-21T03:46:00.000-07:00

I had to get up early on Saturday. Really ass-crack of dawn early. Like 5:30am. It involved walking a mile to the metro in the dark, ride it all the way to Champs-Elysees, and wait in line for FOUR HOURS to see the Palais de l'Élysée, the Presidential Palace of France. It's open one day a year to the public for French Heritage Weekend. Fine, I can force myself to do this. It's the "White House" of Paris, right? Maybe Carla Bruni will be serving coffee.

So I know I shouldn't go out Friday night. I don't even want to. I look gross, I'm wearing a baggy sweater and my requisite black leggings and glasses. But another au pair I hadn't yet met in real life invited me to meet up for a drink with her German couchsurfers and French boyfriend. Fine. I'll drag myself out, have one glass of wine, and head home, feeling sufficiently exhausted. I invite Kacy as well. But as I'm on my way to the place, the girl texts me saying they've moved on. I am immediately annoyed. This isn't America, where I can turn my car around, plug a new address in my GPS, and carry on. I was already at the correct metro, and I'm still new enough that I can't just go somewhere else without special, OCD instructions. Especially at night.

Once I meet Kacy we say "fuck it" and head to Oberkampf, hearing it's a good area for nightlife. Perhaps it is, but as we walked around, we didn't see much. Then again, most people don't party until after midnight and it was....10pm. I'm a grandma! We are about to give up but stop in at some brasserie for a cheap cafe. (Yes, it's all I can afford.) We are about to leave when a Sri Lankan comes up and tells me I look like Lily Allen. Okay, great. He offers to buy us a drink. Mmmm, not sure. Then he casually works in that he is a DJ heading to a private party. Would we like to join? Here is where my bad judgment comes in. I admit, I hate going out. But once I'm out and about and it's late and I'm there...I'm game for anything. I'd rather go out and have a shitty time and have a funny story later than nothing at all. So we agree.

We have a couple glasses of wine at the bar and talk to his weird, small friends. Then we head to Grands Boulevards metro stop. When we get out, it's hopping. But...(as we all knew was coming) we don't head for the party first. Oh no, we must first make a "stop" at a "friend's house." This involves stealthily creeping into a semi-decent apartment, but my instinct is already saying...bad idea. Bad. You should probably run home now. We walk into a shitty apartment full of creepy Sri Lankans giving us the evil eye. They then proceed to snort a lot of coke. We are offered some, but politely decline. I'm feeling weird and say, "Okay, let's go to that party now!!!"

So the guy walks out with us, but then says..."Let's stop at this pub to meet some other friends." It's a crowded Irish pub with a long line and more like a shitty bar on Sixth Street than anything else. We cut in line and go into a dance floor filled with sweaty study-abroad kids and a stereo blasting Top 40 hits from 2003. Oh, god. My worst nightmare. I sip at the glass of wine the guy bought me and think, game over. I find the restroom in the basement, take care of business, and then begin trying to convince Kacy to leave. That's one annoying thing about going out with someone. You can't just LEAVE when you want to. You have to beg, cajole, and demand to leave. She is having drinks bought for her (albeit by a creepy guy) so I have to physically pull her. No goodbyes, let's just walk quickly to the metro. I'm over it. I was over it an hour ago.

The guy follows us, but I ignore his pleas to stay. Once we get to the metro Kacy has no idea how to get home and calls her French boyfriend Michael for directions. His English is very poor so this doesn't work so well, especially in a crowded station, especially as she is a bit intoxicated. I'm a terrible friend, as I know exactly how to get home, and I just want to go. NOW. Once she seems to comprehend what's happening, I run all the way to my train.

I get home around 2:30 and wake up three hours later feeling, no surprise, like shit. BUT I'm proud of myself for getting up and actually going. It was a five hour trek in all, but I met some nice older ladies and we ended up going out for lunch afterward. I joked that only older women would get up this early on a Saturday just to view a fancy house. I love old lady friends! I need more--preferably a group of Jewish women from Brooklyn that like to tour museums and then sit around and complain about Paris. That would be my ideal.

Children are gross.

2010-09-21T03:42:00.000-07:00

This is not breaking news, but rather a thought that goes through my head about 58 times a day. Children are gross. They pick their nose while watching TV, idly eating what they find as though it were a potato chip. Every time a bowel movement is imminent, they announce it loudly to the world, "I have to take a little caca!"

They leave the door open during this intimate act. Sometimes they even sing during it. They don't flush.

If they eat something they don't like, they say, "I'm just going to make a little vomit," and on the plate a half-masticated piece of cucumber goes.

If these children were my own flesh and blood, surely I would still be disgusted, right? I mean, just because they're short and wear cute little jumpers and say nonsensical comments about puppy dogs flying doesn't mean they aren't as disgusting as Hobo Jim shitting himself in some street alley.

The End.

A shitty poem I wrote because I was bored on the metro.

2010-09-21T03:31:00.001-07:00

Always bring a book or an iPod. You never know when your train will break down, the huddled masses of unwashed bodies will press against you, and you fear this is your last memory before the terrorist's bomb goes off!

Ahem.

Narrow, chipped, cobblestone streets
Cigarette smoke wafts through the air
Intermingled with fruit stands and dog excrement in the streets
Men stare openly
Women glance in a bored, offhand way
The metro is suffocatingly sweaty and international
Raised voices provide a cacophony of different languages
All harshly alien to your own ears
Window displays filled with tempting pastries
Glittering with hardened sugar shells like jewels
You dare not buy one
Only for special occasions, you sternly tell yourself
Every day you walk past some monument or statue or building of (probably) utmost historical significance and you don't even realize it
How funny to be in arguably the most romantic city in the world completely alone
Indifferent on your best days, miserable on your worst.

Let's play "Spot the American!" game

2010-09-21T03:22:00.000-07:00

When I first arrived in Paris, (feels like six months ago, was only three weeks) my first instinct was to talk to every American I saw. On the metro, in line at the Monoprix, walking down the Rue de Rivoli. Unless you're all gawking at the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, spotting an American isn't all that common. Especially where I am: the southeastern suburbs of Paris--Saint Mande.

This is why I like to play the game "Spot the American." I always lose. There can be some fatass with white Reeboks, cargo shorts, pink polo, and I think for sure I have him pegged...and then he opens his mouth and lets forth a spew of gutteral, angry French. Merde, indeed. So it's not about who's wearing Harvard sweatshirts or skinny black pants--it's their expression. You can see the most elegant slim brunette dressed to kill standing on the Champs-Elysees...but if she's smiling, expresses interest in her surroundings, and makes eye contact without a shudder of disgust...she's probably from Ohio.

So back to my urge to speak to Americans. You're so lonely, so miserable, so alienated that even some bumfuck from Tulsa (no offense, Tulsa, heart you!) looks absolutely charmante. But, you learn to fight the urge. Unless they're super attractive and it's a long metro ride with no one else onboard and you actually washed your hair that day. Because, God FORBID you open your mouth in front of other French people, betray your hideous American-ness, and lose face altogether.

French children are racist.

2010-09-16T08:10:00.000-07:00

It's true. I experience it every day. Not on the the receiving end, but as an innocent bystander when we walk to the park or the ludothèque (a weird playhouse for urban children filled with games, dirty costumes, children, and other depressed au pairs.) Need proof? Here are my favorite examples:

Two Jewish men walked past us. "Look! They're Jewish! They're wearing little hats on their heads," M1 (Monster #1) yelled. Yes, thank you, now the whole neighborhood is aware as well.

M2: "See those people?" Points out two black women walking past us on our way home from school. "They're not French because they're black."

We're watching a British show featuring wild animals. Footage of a man wrestling an alligator is shown. The man is black. Little girl points at TV and says, "See, he's African. That's what they do. Wrestle gators."

A group of people with Down's Syndrome walked past us: "See them? They're sick in the head," M1 pointed out helpfully. (Okay, this isn't racist, but obviously the children are not being taught tolerance and discretion. These comments are all made very loudly and within full earshot of the Jewish/black/mentally disabled people.)

Obviously, I'm just as bad, because I'm now going to make blanket statements insulting all French children as a result of my interaction with two slightly horrid ones on an everyday basis.

I thought taking care of kids was hard sober....

2010-09-15T09:02:00.000-07:00

And then I tried it hungover. Like, the hungover where you can't walk, you can't brush your teeth, and your eyes are so swollen you look like a battered Chinese housewife. (Was that offensive? It's okay, I'm French now and can say racist things without worrying.)

How did this happen? I partied with an American band in Paris, that's how. A Texan band...even worse. My friend, the synthesizer and tambourine girl, was nice enough to meet up with me at the venue beforehand, a teeny tiny place called Espace B in the 19th arr. It was a bit of a dodgy area, and took three metro lines to get to. That is two transfers too many for lazy American me. We started off drinking whiskey, and then switched to pastis: a pretty-sounding anise-flavored liquor mixed with water and ice and magically turned white. They're mostly drunk in the South of France as an aperitif.

Then, the band ate dinner while I drank their bottle of wine. First mistake. (But how cool is it that you can eat dinner, drink wine, and then see a band all in a building the size of a one-bedroom American apartment?) The show was great, intimately sweaty and filled with front-row study abroad students screaming, "BROOOKLYYYNNNN!" Felt like I was back at SXSW all over again.

After the show my friend kept bringing me drinks, and with much variety. Always a mistake. From beer to wine to more pastis...I lost count. I seem to recall smoking cigarettes with some Turkish girls (who were really shitty come to think of it) and then I woke up in a cab. No idea how I got there, but the price was rather large. 30-something Euros. I only had 20. Here's where it gets really sad. I seem to recall trying to run away (I was drunk, didn't get very far) and then the mean cabbie grabbing me. At this point I think I began crying and rested my head on the trunk of the car. Here we remained, locked in a romantic tangle at 4am somewhere near my neighborhood.

We stayed there forever it seemed. I kept thinking, "Okay on the count of three...I'm gonna kick him in the shins really hard with my steel-toe boots and then run like the dickens!" But, sadly, I was so drunk/tired/disoriented I couldn't even lift my head. Then I remember blue lights...like an angel, but the Parisian police angels. They showed up, looked in my wallet, laughed at my silly American tears, and drove me home. Then I woke up the next morning and cursed the day I was ever born.

Getting blackout drunk in a foreign city alone is really stupid. Never again. Firstly, I can't afford it. Secondly, I can't handle my liquor. Thirdly, a wrestling match with an Algerian cabbie does not a fun Paris memory make. And you can bet my Tuesday with the kids was like dying a slow death. I can barely manage their high-pitched squeals when I'm healthily sober...when hungover, I thought about burying them in the sand at the playground and running until I puked out the evil inside me.

There is no moral to this story. On the plus side, M1 told me he hated me yesterday, so we've reached a new milestone! It's like the army...break them down, then build them back up. He's obviously realized I will not put up with his shit, so he can either back down or we will continue to make each other's lives miserable until one admits defeat. (Wanna guess which one? Yeah, it's no secret.)

So apparently I suck at ironing.

2010-09-13T03:11:00.000-07:00

Sunday mornings are best spent in bed with a cup of tea and a stupid chick-lit book. Especially if it’s raining, I can tell myself it’s perfectly acceptable to not leave the house all day, unless I need to buy groceries. The au pair before me left behind “Confessions of a Shopaholic.” I will probably read the whole thing in three hours. If a fun little cotton candy book like this can succeed and become a movie, maybe my not-so-great American novel about being an au pair has a shot of at least being on Midwestern ladies’ book club list, right?

I spent my Saturday with my French mom and Dara, the daughter. She somewhat helpfully get a cell phone and plan here (still absolutely confused on how the pay-as-you-go plan works) and am slightly devastated at what a step back I’m taking with modern conveniences in my life. Perhaps it’s silly, but not having Wi-Fi access in my room or the ability to get it when I need it is quite awful. Unless I’m home during the day in the family’s apartment, I am disconnected and it sucks. I have no way of looking up fun stuff to do or talking to friends on Facebook or getting directions. I know it sounds like first-world problems, and I hope I will get over it soon and move on with my life. It’s just hard to have all those things and then give them up in a strange and foreign city.

And while I do like the parents of my charges better than the kids themselves, lately things have been a bit strained. For example, yesterday FM (French Mom) asked me if I had trouble with the iron.

“No,” I said. “It worked great!”

“Oh, mmmm. Well, then, we need to discuss the ironing. Lucius looked at the kids’ clothing and wondered, ‘Is this how they iron in Texas?!’ “

Mmmmm, indeed. It is part of my duties to iron the kid’s clothing once a week. Apparently I did a shiteous job, probably because I was talking to my mom at the same time. So, what I did wrong was not iron T-SHIRTS. T-shirts, for God’s sake. Oh, and apparently I need to fold the kids’ clothes like fucking sweaters at Gap. All so within two hours of wearing them they can rub Milka chocolate bars into them.

And later, when I casually mentioned I was going to a party that night and was looking forward to it, she says, “Oh, Lucius and I were going to the cinema.”
First of all, they said I would be rarely working Saturday nights. And, they went out last Saturday night. And, you would think they would give me a couple days advance warning so I wouldn’t make plans. Nice. But I didn’t back down, I just apologized. But, I did offer to babysit Sunday night, which is pretty shitty come to think of it, because that’s supposed to be my one guaranteed day off. So, we’ll see how often they pull this “we never go out but we’re going out the next six Saturdays in a row” crap. Maybe they’re trying to take advantage of me being a friendless loser while I’m still new here, before I’m so busy they can’t get ahold of me. I think that’s what the other au pairs did. While in reality, I’ll lie and say I’m going out, and then read Hillary Clinton’s memoirs in bed. (That’s the only English book I could find in their house. That, and a book of Irish jokes.)

So last night I met up with Mike from Ohio and Vadim from Ukraine. We got a glass of wine at a bar near the Ledru Rollin metro stop before going to the housewarming party. I wouldn’t go so far as to call Mike an asshole, but he’s one of those bros that thinks they are too cool for school and takes himself way too seriously. My theory is because he’s short and not that interesting, so he has to make up for it by being an aloof dick. He did seem very interested when I told him about the young Romanian girls I met at my French school.

I was hoping the guy having the housewarming party would be cool, as he is within walking distance of me and therefore convenient to have as a friend. Instead, he was a nice enough greasy Frenchman with bad teeth. But he did have lots of snacks lying about, which I appreciated. And, in a “the world is so small” kind of way, he actually knew the girl who was my family’s previous au pair. Weird. He constantly would do the “hook em” sign at me when we made eye contact, which is one American custom I really would not mind living without.

I met a very nice girl who was half French and half Australian (she was able to simultaneously possess both accents at once), and a young German girl whom I talked to for hours and didn’t understand half of what she said. She didn’t know any French, which made me feel better since she grew up literally next door and didn’t learn it. Most people there all knew each other from an improve class they take in Paris. When I think about it, that’s really something I should research. It’d let me get out my little acting bug which is still buried deep inside me, and meet a bunch of gregarious English-speaking narcissists. I met a guy from Chicago was very into Second City and invited me to see their teacher’s show on Wednesday. Of course, just talking about Chicago made me miss Colin.

After a couple glasses of wine and eating an embarrassing amount of cookies, I quietly excused myself to go home around 1am. I really do not enjoy the walk back home late at night from the Metro. It’s very dark, very quiet, and one or two guys will insistently exclaim, “BONSOIR!” to you as you walk. I am never so happy as to when I punch in the code, slam the front door, and run up six flights of stairs to my hovel.

"A Moveable Feast"

2010-09-13T03:10:00.000-07:00

Reading Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast” makes me feel better about staying home all day and writing. It’s not lazy. I’m a working author. I haven’t had a moment of quiet at home, on my computer, with no distractions in a week. So tomorrow I’d like nothing better than to sleep in, make a big cup of instant coffee (yup, that’s all I get) and not do shit. Right now I always feel pressure to go out, see stuff, take pictures, EXPERIENCE PARIS!!!! When does that feeling go away? Will it ever feel like home? I doubt it.

So I’m definitely staying in Friday night, because Saturday I am going to a house party. Mike, a short bro I met at petanque, invited a group of us. But I’m mostly going because it is ridiculously close to where I live. My only standard for going out is that it must be close, and cheap. No idea what the crowd will be, but I’m actually looking forward to it. I’m pretty proud of myself for going out there, talking to strangers, answering emails, doing cheesy shit like meetup.com. It’s like the more you do it the easier you gets. And, really, once you’ve met around twenty people, you connect with their friends and then your work is done. Sure, I’d like someone I could really connect to (on a friend level) but I’m happy for now.

Deep in thought at the playground.

2010-09-13T03:08:00.000-07:00

While the weather is nice, we go to the playground a lot. I don’t mind it, it’s time for me to zone out, think about deep, important, grown-up things (like what I’ll make for lunch tomorrow) and not have to talk to the children. Much. Nolan runs off to play soccer with other heathens, while Dara gets in the sand with other little girls. I’m about as irresponsible as you can be. There have been times when I’ve often thought about sneaking out, going pee, getting a snack, while they play? How long would it take them to realize I’m gone?

This is when having an au pair friend would really come in handy. Everyone else but me has a friend there. They gossip, probably talk about how spoiled the children are and how ridiculous the parents are.

Au pairs range from young and slutty, constantly texting on their phones to old, haggard, Eastern European ones (and probably illegal to boot.) And of course you’ve got your North African mix as well. Then there’s the weird American outcast. Me. But I’ve heard that having an American au pair is quite the status symbol. So I am a prize, as valued as a BMW 5-series sedan. Keeping up with the Joneses indeed.
But, I did finally make another au pair friend. Only problem is that she lives in far west Paris—as far away from Saint-Mande as you can get. She’s very young (only 20) and fresh from Utah. Mormon, of course. A bit boy crazy and silly, but I am glad to have met her. We went shopping today, as is typical for a new girlfriend bonding experience, and I spent a bunch of money I don’t have. So, no more shopping. For nine months. It’s funny, you never know what you’ll want or how you’ll dress until you get somewhere. I packed lots of floral little dresses and tight jeans and I don’t want to wear any of them. It’s no fun walking a mile, sweating or freezing, standing in a crowded, sweaty metro, and sitting on the floor with kids. So basically I will be wearing black leggings, long T-shirts, and baggy sweaters for a year. Harem pants (or MC Hammer pants) as I call them are quite popular here. But, of course, they only look good if you’re ninety pounds or less.

I asked Kacy (new au pair friend) if she wanted to go to a lesbian cabaret tonight. Shake her Mormonism up a little bit. We’re meeting at nine at the Palais Royal stop. Hopefully we won’t get lost. Hopefully it’s free. Hopefully it’s very entertaining and young, beautiful, Swedish women will buy drinks for me all night. But I’ll settle for 2 out of 3. I’m assuming it’ll be more of a KD Lang/Vanessa Redgrave kind of shindig.

I talked to my mom about Nolan’s increasingly bad behavior and she made me feel better. Key quote: “You’re 25, you’ve got lots of options. You don’t have to be doing this. I’m not saying come home, but you don’t owe them anything.” Wow, thanks, Mom. Nothing makes me feel better than when my mom says I can bow out gracefully of something. And, it made me feel okay about staying. Does that make sense? I just needed her permission to know it was okay to struggle, to have doubts, but to keep trying. And, shit, that kid IS awful. Today he threw a toy at me, screamed in my face, told his sister “TA GEULE!” multiple times and told me everything was crap. Charming.

As soon as he turns 18 I’m sending a pile of steaming dog poop to his house. And you don’t have to go far to find dog poop. It’s every two feet in Paris.

Last night I went to a meetup.com one-man show titled “How to Become Parisienne in one hour.” Typical potty/sex humor with lots of American stereotypes. I enjoyed it, would have liked it more if it wasn’t 15 Euros. Met a nice older woman from Barcelona and another Indian guy. They flock to me like ducks to stale bread at a park. At first the three of us were heading to a bar, then the woman had to go. So…awkward one-on-one time with guy who’s name I can’t pronounce. He was very nice and knowledgable about traveling through Paris. Half the time I couldn’t understand him. Points off for telling me I drank my wine too fast and asking if he could take a picture of me. (Yeah, yeah, you’re a professional photographer…I get it.)

I am the worst au pair ever.

2010-09-13T03:06:00.000-07:00

Monday I went to my France-Langue school and took my French placement test. A sobering experience to say the least. I’ve. Forgotten. Everything. I maybe got two things right. So I’ll be in the beginner’s class…which is fine. Maybe everyone will be from the Midwest! And therefore nice. Or it’ll be all the slutty Russian au pairs, which is fun, too. I talked to some cute English girls waiting in line. Hopefully at least one person will be cool in the upcoming classes. Hanging out with another au pair and bitching about our kids would be quite cathartic.
Tomorrow I have lots of errands I need to run, but guess what! The workers are going on strike! For two days! How French of them. So who knows if I’ll be able to go anywhere…and what a bummer, for I was going to another meetup thing on Wednesday night. Invited by Raj, a short Indian engineer I met. Let’s hope he’s not dumb enough to think it’s a date. “Sorry, Raj, not interested. Not matter how desperately lonely I get.”

On another note, when is it okay to physically grab your charges? Today I had to pull Nolan the Terrible away from Dara (all while they were screaming at disgustingly high decibles) and even though I grabbed him really hard, he was still pretty strong to hang on to the stair banister. At what point does it become abuse? Oh, and I might have yelled “SHUT UP!” That’s bad, right? Again, the worst nanny ever. Sometimes I wonder if I secretly want the kids to hate me so they’ll tell their parents to get someone new and fire me. Good plan? Or I can just let Nolan get hit by a car when he runs away from me on his scooter. Any nine-year-old boy that yells, “I NEED TO MAKE A LITTLE CACA!” at me deserves to get hit by a car a little bit.

A day of free museums and petanque.

2010-09-13T03:04:00.000-07:00

The first Sunday of every month in Paris offers free entry to a lot of museums. The Louvre, Musee d’Orsay, Rodin…all of these are gratuit! So what’s the catch? THE LINES. I headed out on a late Sunday morning armed with my SLR Pentax KX camera and walking shoes, ready to see beaucoup de musees! Alas, once I saw the line at the Louvre, I realized every other tourist on Labor Day weekend had the same idea. It was probably a good two hours long. Au revoir to the Louvre.

I walked down the Jardin de Tuileries, getting the white gravel dust all over my sandals, feet, and tights. Lovely. By the end I looked like a common peasant. It brought back a lot of memories; it seems like almost yesterday I was walking down there with three girls from my study abroad class in London. We came to Paris for a whirlwind weekend and walked from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower. Then we bought really cheap, gross rose and lay out on the grass until it got dark. Oh, to have girlfriends again!

I walked until I saw another museum, the Petits Palais. Seeing how it was free, I walked in and was immediately scolded by an old, Asian security guard. Sorry, but yelling at me and pointing does not a translation make. I finally realized I had to check my backpack because I was a potential terrorists carrying biological weapons. I had to do this at every museum actually. The moral? Bring a large purse, no backpack.

The Petit Palais was a bit boring, as I can’t stand old Asian pottery, but there were some lovely French Revolution-era trinkets. Sure, it would be nice if I could read the descriptions, but it’s part of the fun of not speaking the language here!
I did a loop around the Seine, enjoying seeing other tourists buy crap from the guys on the quai. Little Eiffel Towers, shitty watercolor paintings, umbrellas with cherubs, all can be found here.

I stumbled upon the Musee D’Orsay, and though I hadn’t eaten in several hours and was feeling quite crappy, I forced myself to wait in the not-so-hideous line. The museum was, of course, gorgeous. Like an insanely embellished train station covered with gold and dotted with statues. And yet somehow modern. There was some really great Art Nouveau furniture pieces there. Sadly, my weak metabolism only let me stay an hour before I knew I had to go home and eat whatever shitty food I had in my baby fridge. I really need to start cooking here, I’m just lazy. All I have is a hot plate, so that’s basically grilling meat or making spaghetti. Lately I’ve been eating spreadable pate on white bread, followed by a dozen figs and then some plain yogurt. Living it up in Paris, FOR SURE.

Once I’d gotten home and eaten, I headed out yet again to meetup.com event proclaiming “FUN PARIS URBAN ADVENTURES!” How could I not go? For I truly love urban adventures with strangers I’ve just met…

When I got off the Laumiere stop in the 19th arr., it of course took forever to find the canal. And then I couldn’t find the right people. It’s like a blind date with twenty strangers. The courage (or whatever you call it) to finally walk up to them and say, “Um, hi, are you with…uh…meetup.com?” It takes a lot. Or at least it does for me.

But I found them, and it was an interesting mix of Canadians, Americans, British, French, and Israelites. Most seemed older. Without being too judgmental (oh, who am I kidding?) it was not exactly the “cool kids.” But am I complaining? Not at all.
So we played a couple bad games of petanque, which is a classic French game that consists of throwing silver balls at other balls and drinking. Quite pleasant. Seeing that a beer can costs at least five bucks, I sadly realized that I will not be getting drunk for the next nine months, unless I’m at home drinking a bottle of 2 Euro wine—which is probably more fun anyway.

After the games winded down, a group of us sat near the canal and talked. Mike, a guy from Ohio, has been here a year. A bit of an attitude, but he’s short, so that’s a given. Vladimir, a guy from Tel Aviv/San Diego who was quite nice, and Leora, a short, dykey girl from Montreal. We ended up going out to dinner and getting pizza at a place guaranteeing “feu au bois”—wood-fired pizza. It wasn’t that great, but hey! My first meal with friends!

We talked about conversion rates, cell phone plans, where we lived. Of course everyone enjoyed my masturbation story. Then we got on the metro and went our separate ways. I got home at a whopping 10pm! Wow! Late night! And I was in a good mental state of mind before I went to sleep, which is always nice. I like Leora. She’s your typical chill Canadian who is getting her doctorate in neuroscience. We were supposed to get a drink Monday night but she asked for a raincheck since she’s flying to Albania tomorrow. Glamorous.

Lindsey's First Friday Night Out

2010-09-13T03:02:00.000-07:00

I found this website called meet-up.com which encourages large group gatherings of like-minded individuals. Or something like that. As much as I hate cheesy forced shit, I knew the standards had to go. I found one for ex-pats, and they just happened to be having a get-together that night AND it was on my metro line. Okay, no reason for Lazy Lindsey not to drag herself out on a Friday night. Plus, I can’t have the parents thinking I have no life and want to take care of their children 24/7. I headed out around 9pm, and it took me about twenty minutes to get to the Bonne Nouvelle stop on Line 8. But then…I couldn’t find the damn bar. It was called Pranzo. I must have walked twenty minutes up and down the streets and side streets. I almost gave up and went to a McDonald’s to have an espresso and go home.
After having an iPhone with GPS for a year…not being able to instantly access information about where I am and where to go…it was such a slap in the face. I will never, EVER take Wi-Fi or a cell phone for granted again. I SWEAR, INTERNET GODS! Luckily, my instinct finally kicked in when I heard two girls speaking English. I followed them. And…they led me to the place. Which was probably two feet from my Metro stop. Typical me.

Went in, ordered a 1664 (6.50 E, Jesus! Can’t afford to drink here) and went upstairs. Oh, did I forget to mention it was stand-up comedy in English night? Sounds awful, right? But actually…it wasn’t bad. The French comedians were actually funnier than the Americans. They just complained about their girlfriends and made sex jokes in broken English.

Some guy kept making eyes at me during the show and sure enough, he approached me afterwards. Asked if I was with the “meet-up.” We talked for awhile and he asked if I wanted to go for a walk. Uh, no. I suggested we go downstairs and join the group. Even though he is French and has lived all over, he apparently likes going to these ex-pat meetups. Just what Ted Bundy would say, right?! He introduced me to the organizer, Raj, a guy from Atlanta, and a typical overachiever Indian Engineer mover and shaker.

I was hoping to talk to these two girls (one of whom I overheard was from Houston) but never got a chance. As the metro closed at 12:30am, I wasn’t going to hang around too long. The French guy (I forgot his name) walked me to my stop and I gave him my email, as he offered to show me around Paris. Is that a line? Probably. Am I desperate? You betcha. He was pretty generic French-looking, but taller than you would expect. I’ll probably have to tell him pretty soon I’m “currently in my bisexual phase and only interested in ladies but we can still be friends okay?!”
Think that’ll work?

So, after telling me they NEVER go out and I would pretty much always have weekends free…the parents announced they were going out tonight! And I could watch the kids! On Saturday night! Lucky me! Sadly, I don’t really care that much because any chance to get on Wi-Fi and talk to Colin/Andrea/my mom sounds better than going out at night. So I’ll be heading over there around 7. Maybe the kids can watch a movie without killing each other and I can make a phone call. Yes, I can call the US for free on their landline. Pretty nice.

Oh, but I’m forgetting the cherry on top of my sundae night! I was walking home around 12:30am, so happy with myself for going out, talking to people, maybe making friends, and as I rounded the corner…I see a guy in my courtyard. Two feet from the front door. Facing out to the street, pants down around his ankles…and masturbating. MASTURBATING TWO FEET FROM MY FRONT DOOR.

Keep in mind it’s dark, I’m the only person on the street, and what the fuck is happening. Luckily, I kept my cool, didn’t scream (because don’t they get off on that?) and just kept walking. I walked a block and stopped. What to do? Come back in five minutes? An hour? It was late, I was tired, and I just wanted to get in my bed. What are the odds a guy would be masturbating outside my front door? I know it’s Paris, but c’mon! I decided to take my high-heeled boots off, as they made too much noise. Maybe the clickety-clack turned him on even more. I started slowly walking back. I held my boots in my hand, as I planned to hit him in the face if need be. As I crossed my street, I’m pretty sure he walked past me. However, I didn’t quite get a good look at his face the first time, as he was MASTURBATING.

I ran to my front door, hurriedly pushed in the code, and slammed the door behind me. It wasn’t until I started up the stairs that I started shaking and crying. What a horrible way to end an okay night. And my first night out in Paris, no less. All I wanted to do was call Colin and I couldn’t. It sucked. But at least I was home safe.
So now I have to wonder…is this a nightly tradition for him? Or just Fridays, when he knows people are out late? Will it always be my courtyard, or does he like to mix it up?

I’m probably going to tell my French family, not like they can do anything about it, but they might as well know some dude is whacking it off outside their living room window. And, if I see him again, I’m going home. Take that, Paris! I don’t need your public penis wanking.

Okay, now I have to force myself to get dressed, go buy a day planner, and walk by the lake. I wish I could pay someone to be my friend right now.

What have I done so far?

2010-09-13T03:00:00.000-07:00

Going out, exploring, getting lost, riding the metro, buying a loofah…all these things pose certain challenges for me right now. I have to force myself to get dressed, look semi-cute, make sure I have my keys/purse/carte navigo/water bottle/hand sanitizer/camera, and actually leave my chamber de bonne. Once I’m walking, enjoying the fresh air and sunny, 70 degree weather, I begin to relax. I realize the weather right now can’t get any better, and I will really miss this come December. The idea of walking a mile to my metro stop will not sound so appetizing on a frigid winter night. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it!

My first outing was to Le Marais neighborhood. Apparently it’s quite the place of nightlife in Paris (especially the gay scene) but as I was there on a Sunday afternoon…I just walked around the Place des Vosges, an especially scenic square with many little shops and a garden in the middle. I also learned that “Hotel” in a name does not mean it’s an actual hotel. It’s usually just a big important building. I think. So when I walked into Hotel du Sully, it was a grand palatial home of an important French duke. Now…it’s a museum. Like a baby Versailles.

My second outing was this Thursday. First I went to the BNP Paribas bank to get a credit card and account. Thank god an older womean there spoke broken English. And because I’m under 29, the account was free. Thanks socialist French! Always looking out for those post-adolescents. My paycheck every month is 375 Euros. Wow…that’s…nothing! We’ll see how far that goes. As long as I don’t eat, travel, or shop, I’ll be fine. Then I took the Metro to Bastille, thinking it would be a short walk to the Pere Frachaise Cimetiere, the very famous cemetery where everyone who is anyone is buried. Short walk…more like 45 minutes! By the time I got there I didn’t have much time to explore, as I needed to pick up the kids up by 4.

But, I took some great pictures and of course had to make the “pilgrimage” to see Jim Morrison’s grave. A cliché for every American bro. There was a crowd of Anglo-Saxons there, just gazing lovingly at his simple grave covered with fake flowers and cheesy cards. Obviously, I’m not a Doors fan.

Thursday night with the kids, I finally lost my temper with Nolan. He either ignores me when I ask him to do something or screams/whines back. It’s quite charming. So when I asked him to go do his homework before watching TV, he yelled in my face and tried to storm off. I grabbed his arm, led him to his room, and yelled, “You’re going to your room and doing your homework RIGHT NOW. Jesus Christ, stop acting like such a little baby!”

Um…I don’t think I have yelled that loud in years. And, will I get in trouble for saying Jesus Christ? That kid is going to be death of me. Every day is a test with him. Perhaps he is too old for a tu-tu (what kids here call au pairs) but he still acts like a whiney, spoiled, manipulative brat—and that’s how I will treat him! I found out the dad is 51 years old, which in my opinion is just too damn old to have these little kids.

Friday! I found there is an elevated garden in Paris close to me, built upon an old tramway that was rotting away. The High Line in Chelsea (which everyone in New York brags about and Leanne took me to once) is based on it. I can literally walk from my front door to the start of it (or end of it, depending on where you come from.) It’s a great walk, lots of foliage and people about. No cars to worry about, and only a couple bicycles to run you over. In the middle you hit the Jardin de Reuilly which is basically a large lawn for everyone to lay out in their skimpy underwear and have an ice cream. I might have take some stalker pictures. You finally pop out in the middle of the Bastille Metro stop, which I then took back home. (What, you think I’m gonna walk the three miles back home?!) Sadly, all this walking is wearing my American legs out. I need to get strong! It’s pretty pathetic when a couple hours of walking and sight-seeing can tire a 25-year-old out.

I made it home just in time to pick the kids up and go to an always-crowded park near the house. Nolan played football with his friends while Dara played in the playground’s sandpile. I am probably the worst au pair in the world. Dara got her shoes wet while walking there and I just let her go barefoot. Barefoot on a huge metropolitan city street. What, I couldn’t carry her that far?! And, I pretty much lost her in the playground for twenty minutes and wasn’t even worried. I was just wondering if I had time to sneak off to the bathroom. Is this behavior normal?

When moving to a new country, lower your standards immediately.

2010-09-03T01:25:00.000-07:00

It’s funny how your standards lower immediately when you are desperately lonely. At this point I would give anything to hang out with an ignorant hick from bumfuck Oklahoma who believes Obama is a Muslim sent to destroy us all. I’m desperate to get out, see the Seine, the Left Bank, the Louvre, sit in a café and eat six pain au chocolats in one day, but I’m foolishly waiting until I grow the balls to do it alone or meet some other sad sap to do it with me.

And then there’s the children. An hour with them feels like a whole day. It’s absolutely exhausting being around them, like walking on eggshells waiting for the next scream or temper tantrum to occur. I can’t tell if they’re normal children, just testing out the new nanny, or just spoiled brats with parents who had them a bit too late in life.

There’s simply no activity that will satisfy both a nine-year-old athletic boy and girlish five-year-old girl. Unless it’s eating bon bons until they’re sick and watching dubbed Scooby Doo cartoons. I already hate Scooby Doo and Looney Toons.
I think I will eventually grow to like the little girl, only because she likes me and occasionally hugs me and I can show her lip gloss and perfume to amuse her. But the little boy…what a spoiled little shit. Constantly testing me, needing to prove he is independent, running away, ignoring me when I call him, not helping me when we’re running errands and I need his French translation. It infuriates me to know he gets such a power trip that he can speak French, knows where everything is, and that ultimately he will win—if not every battle—the eventual war.

If this all sounds a bit paranoid and overdramatic, I’m sure it is. But I can’t help but take everything personally right now. I waver between mean nanny who doesn’t let them do anything and “fuck it all” nanny who lets them buy six candies and watch TV until their brains rot, as long as I can get on Facebook and retain some sanity. I need adult conversation soon.

But back to the kitchen/washing dishes/crying part. I was immediately thrown into family activity time, eating meals, walking to the store, going to a restaurant. Which of course I couldn’t enjoy because I was jet-lagged and absolutely petrified of the whole situation. How bizarre to be suddenly “adopted” by some strange foreign family in a foreign land and given the job of watching over their most prized possession: two little monsters. The only thing I can compare it to is a mail-order bride.

So by the third day, I wanted out. I was done. I woke up in the mornings in a blind panic, asking myself what the hell was I doing? Spending nine months taking care of kids in a country where I barely spoke the language? And…I don’t even like children?! What sounded like a fun lark in June had now taken on cold reality. I began fantasizing getting a cheap plane ticket, leaving during the day, getting on a train and taking the first flight back to good ol’ USA. Hide with some friends for awhile, eventually tell my parents what I had done and hope they wouldn’t hate me too much. Even discussing it now makes all the more tempting. But…alas. There is is thing called responsibility. Called giving it a go. I figure everything deserves at least a couple months, right? Try to make it until Christmas, okay? Shit, I haven’t seen the damn city yet. At least get my fill of baguettes and cheap-ass delicious wine before throwing in the bag. And I have so many cute outfits I need to take out.

So,one day at a time. And every day I’m here is another day I’ve been in Paris.

How did I get here? (Paris that is)

2010-09-03T01:20:00.000-07:00

When I told everyone I was going to Paris to be an au pair for a French family, after the initial “who what where why how?” questions were out of the way, most people assured me, “It’ll be SUCH a good experience.”

That tends to be the euphemism for most uncomfortable, frighteningly new, awkward situations I get myself into. No matter how much I detest the place or the people, I can tell myself I’m building character and will be strong and independent and ridiculously prepared for anything else that might come my way in the future. At least that’s what I’m telling myself as I wash dishes while crying in some stranger’s kitchen in Paris. Yup, crying sweet, self-pity tears seems to be the trend this summer.

I spent most of my summer traipsing around the country half-heartedly, half living with my parents in Austin, seeing friends on both coasts, and seeing a special someone multiple times in Chicago. (More on that later.) Finally, reality hit in August when I realized I had a visa, two crammed suitcases, and a plane ticket to Paris. And a family I had never met, only talked to less than ten times, waiting for me across the ocean. Days before, I had lost all will to go. The stress and anxiety involved with moving to a different country for practically a year…it wasn’t worth it. There was too much I didn’t know and weird situations I would have to deal with. The simplest things: groceries, asking for directions, riding the bus, getting a cell phone…I knew these would all be goals comparable to climbing a mountain over there.

Unfortunately, there was no escape plan. As much as I would have rather just flown to Tulsa in the end, I got on a plane by myself in DFW and flew 9.5 hours to Charles de Gaulle airport. I sniffled getting on, during, and upon landing. “Fuckfuckfuck,” I kept thinking to myself, “What the fuckityfuck am I DOING?”

My anxiety is never ending, it just rolls over to a new and stupid one. So once I decided I wasn’t going to die in a fiery plane crash in the cold Atlantic at 4am, I had to focus on meeting some weird Irish French blended family and become basically their second mum, their maid, the older sister, the errand-runner.
I heaved my bags onto a rolling cart and walked out the entrance. I vaguely knew what the family looked like from pictures and at once saw a tall, bald man heading toward me. We both smiled awkwardly.

“Hello! I’ll give you a European hello, then,” he proclaimed in a Northern Ireland accent before leaning in for that infamous two cheek kiss. “Come see the children.”
I was led to two timid, angelic-looking, dark-haired children sitting down.
“Give Lindsey a kiss, then!” They begrudgingly obliged.

We walked to the parking garage where I realized getting my suitcases in the tiny Citroen already showed my big stupid American state of mind.

Yes, everything in Europe is tiny. The toilets, the toilet paper, the people, the beds, the food servings. When I first saw my studio apartment on the sixth floor of the building, I was shocked. It was worse than a dorm room, crammed with a microwave, hot plate, a futon sorry excuse for a bed, and not-so-inviting shower smack dab in the room. And yet, the toilet was down the hall. My priorities would be toilet first, but this adventure was not about my priorities. Of course, now that I’m settled in the room feels fine. Granted, I don’t spend too much time in it. When I am in here, I am curled up in bed reading books about understanding the French culture that only seek to confuse and depress me more.

After spending some time studying abroad in London, I stupidly thought this would be no different. A great, beautiful, big city filled with museums and people intrigued by your American-ness and happy to talk to you. Go to pubs, hang out, meet people, ride the tube and buy lots of Cadbury candy. But it’s different here. I’ve never felt more like a retarted, bewildered alien here. Everything is difficult to me. Museums (unlike London) are not free here. And…everything is in French! And…I can barely read French! I know silly food vocabulary words and how to mumble “pardon” if I bump into somebody…but my two years in college are completely useless. As soon as someone talks to me, I freeze. When I realize I badly need to ask, “Where is the toilet?” or “How much is this?” “Or, one strawberry tart and a café, please” I turn into a bumbling fool. It’s all very frustrating. Is every language this intimidating or just France?

Of course Paris has a well-earned reputation for being chic, sophisticated, and somewhat unfriendly to tourists. If I have to feel like a tourist every day for nine months I might as well give up, put on some khaki shorts, dorky tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt with “Class of ‘89” emblazoned on it.

Today I present...

2010-05-11T15:57:00.000-07:00

a beautiful image.

This is how I feel today.

2010-05-05T09:06:00.000-07:00

Happy "Wear Seersucker" Day.

2010-05-01T09:20:00.000-07:00

Happy Kentucky Derby Day! If I was fashionable and cool (or lived in fashionable and cool city) or if I wasn't lazy and had actually made plans, I would like to be wearing this outfit today with Dick Van Dyke by my side and sipping on a mint julep.

Instead, I'll sit on my couch and look at the grey Dallas sky and think about the garage sales I should be cruising.

my role model: Christina Hendricks

2010-04-26T13:22:00.000-07:00

Wow.

Quote of the day

2010-04-21T10:38:00.001-07:00

"The first duty of everybody in life is to realize that you are a piece of shit. You are selfish, you are self centered and that you are willing to sacrifice 20,000 people in a foreign country just so that you can go to a Wings concert. Sacrifice like 100,000 Chinese female babies just so you can rent this fucking camera and do your stupid art project. No problem - you are a piece of shit. Once you realize you are a piece of shit it's not so hard to take because then you do not have this feeling that you're a good person all the time and let me tell you something - feeling like you are a good person all the time is like having a brand new car with no scratches on it. It's a real responsibility which is almost impossible to live up to. Being a piece of shit and then occasionally doing something that is good and true is a much easier place to be and I think that is really important and I always tried to make my kids understand that they are not so terrific and that not being so terrific - that's OK because most people who say they are terrific, Bill Clinton, Cardinal Egan, anybody you want to talk about - they are not so terrific. Martha Stewart - not so terrific either. There is nothing wrong with not being so terrific. It's what the whole ball game is about - not being so terrific and accepting it."

- Kenny Shopsin - owner of Shopsin's Restaurant in Greenwich Village in the documentary, "I Like Killing Flies".

The Man with Two Brains

2010-03-27T20:32:00.000-07:00

This might be one of the funniest and most ridiculous films I have ever seen. Plus, Steve Martin's style in it is simply impeccable. His skinny ties, pastel suits, plaid shirts, and metal aviators make me swoon. If he started playing the banjo I might have hyperventilated. Why we're not married already I'll never know.

My new hero.

2010-03-22T20:24:00.000-07:00

Finally got around to watching Food, Inc. Wow. One of the most disturbing and powerful documentaries I've ever seen. I might have sobbed like a baby. It was really embarrassing. But it actually made me get out of my seat and do research. Like, I WANTED TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. It was insane. I haven't felt this passion since the 2004 election, sadly. And who did this? Joel Salatin. The Virginia farmer who is living the life I want. Not only is he brilliant and witty and strong and passionate...he's a freakin' amazing farmer who lets his pigs play in the mood. Delight in their "pigness." In fact, the passion carried over into the next day. I learned about this farm and other's apprenticeships. And I made a phone call. A PHONE CALL. Do you know how hard it is for me to make a phone call these days? I only email because I'm so afraid of confrontation and looking stupid and asking questions. Especially when I really care about it. But I did. And that's all I'm going to say for now.

Nicolas Cage is (was) a real dreamboat.

2010-02-19T12:21:00.000-08:00

When I was in seventh grade, Nicolas Cage was the ultimate hottie. I watched him in Face/Off and that was it. I was hooked. No pimply, scrawny, junior varsity football player could do it for me after that. I was ruined for the rest of my angst-ridden adolescent years, as who in Georgetown, Texas, could ever live up to...THE CAGE?

Unfortunately, Nic has fallen by the wayside these days. His career continues to embarrass me, and I don't really want to see or pay for any of his films. It's just too sad. The receding hairline, the plugs, the desperation, the young, formerly-a-waitress wife...what happened, Nic?

That being said...I rewatched Valley Girl last night and fell in love all over again. His style, Flock of Seagulls hair, voice, awkwardness...it's all just dead sexy. GAWD.

I kind of want an Amish boyfriend?

2010-01-22T13:22:00.000-08:00

Is that so wrong? I've always had fantasies about forsaking my entire existence, throwing my iPhone into a pond, shaving my head (okay that's a bit much, think I'm allowed to keep my hair) burning all my fancy clothes (bit of a stretch, they mostly come from thrift stores, guess I have one or two nice things) melting down my jewelry to make weapons (okay, now that's just weird. At least keep the antique jewelry or sell it for money and donate to orphans. No need to ruin a piece of the past to make weapons. You're a pacifist, remember?) sowing a field of wheat (don't really know how, but totally doable) and milking cows at 4:30am (in theory, a great idea. I love cows and dairy products. I hate getting up early but perhaps allowances can be made.)

ANYWAYS. I know it's easy to romanticize the Amish or the Mennonites or the Quakers or the Shakers or the Mamas and the Papas. Life isn't that easy or simple. Or is it? Maybe all I really want on a Sunday is to go to a barn raising and make two dozen Shoo Fly pies. Maybe I really don't NEED buttons on my clothing. And who needs cars when you've got a lovely horse and buggy? I'm pretty sure they frown on makeup, but I'll just explain to them that red lipstick is necessary--it's like a marking on a flower to let bees know there's nectar. Okay, that sounds kind of gross. I'm gonna wrap this up and say, if all Amish men look like Viggo Mortensen in Witness, count me in.

Dirty old man pick-up line of the week

2010-01-19T15:28:00.000-08:00

"You're not beautiful, but you look very mischievous. Yes, like Puck in A Midsummer's Night Dream..."

Puck is a man. He's also a douchebag in an old The Real World.

Thanks.

Why is Isabelle Huppert crazy?

2009-12-22T16:43:00.000-08:00

Because she is French and super thin and super chic and can get away with doing anything on film. ANYTHING. I admire that.

You might have relationship problems if...

2009-12-08T18:52:00.000-08:00

Sorry, but I'm riffing on Jeff Foxworthy's award-winning comedy bit, "You might be a redneck if..."
I was watching the movie Nine 1/2 weeks. Yeah, it took me a long to finally get around to it. But, oh boy! It was fantastic! I recently watched The Wrestler, and I cannot believe that is the same person. Mickey Rourke, that is. Seriously, WTF HAPPENED TO HIS FACE?! He was smokin' hot in the 1980s. Poor Mickey and his messed-up face. He's still a badass though.

Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah. I found their relationship in the movie to be ideal. Like, Mickey Rourke's character is my dream man. That's messed up, right?

I'd like to be here right now...

2009-12-02T07:49:00.000-08:00

Faulkner's house, that is.

Sharing a slice of ridiculous

2009-11-24T11:44:00.000-08:00

Working a corporate office job can lead to some really random funny emails...emails that perhaps were never meant to be funny or random. Indulge me while I share one of my favorite lines ever...

"A little background on...[blank]...He has extensive experience in a wide range of categories and is especially strong in foods—beef, potatoes, eggs, bananas, raisins, and, of course, milk."

Tell me that's not amazing.

Beginning my menu for future restaurant: Sides

2009-11-20T19:38:00.000-08:00

Good ole' Sides restaurant. You're patient. You're ready to be born but I keep putting you off. Mainly because I don't have a dream city picked out or $100,000 lying around. But I will. I WILL, NAYSAYERS!

So once Sides is all decorated with his Georgia pine wood floors, crispy linen curtains, sweet tea in Mason jars, Wednesday turkey meatloaf day, herb garden out back, farm eggs, George Jones playin' in the background...what else ya gonna eat?

How about...

French picnic
Baked brie with pistachios and cranberry, served with Melba toast

Just Beet it
Roasted beets with goat cheese and sugared walnuts with baby spinach and Raspberry-Thyme Vinaigrette

Tybee Island's soup
Creamed corn and King Crab chowder served with cheddar biscuits (yes, that kind)

Southern Decadence
Shrimp and grits in a buttery-Gruyere sauce with peppered bacon

"Shrimp on a Stick"
bacon-wrapped shrimp fried up in a corn dog and put on stick

"Mighty Chili Out poppers"
Bite size cheddar cornbread with green chile chili baked inside

Big Daddy's Bourbon-laced Sweet Taters.
Whipped sweet potatoes spiked with bourbon and sprinkled with brown sugar walnuts

Hippie Aunt
Veggie burger on cracked wheat bread and housemade basil mayonaise

Big Daddy's Heart Attack
Kobe beef and foie gras burger with fried egg, Wisconsin cheddar, and spicy mustard

Dessert:
Sweet potato semifreddo with brown sugar butter warm sauce

Housemade Mexican vanilla ice cream with chipotle cranberry sauce

**the receipt always comes with little pralines for everyone at the table

The original hipster movie?

2009-11-05T09:45:00.000-08:00

While watching the 1969 film, John and Mary, I felt like I was in an Urban Outfitters commercial. From Mia Farrow's elvish pixie cut to her stylish babydoll dress to Dustin Hoffman's minimalist apartment to his line of "hey, wanna listen to my records?" to the plaintive soundtrack to their one-night stand, it was like...am I in Williamsburg or what?!

But obviously, this film is way cooler because it's authentically old. I thought it was much better than The Graduate. Directed by Peter Yates (of Breaking Away) it was beautifully done and very much a film of its time. Plus the awkward moments between the couple really made me feel awkward. Gee, I sure wish I lived back then.

Quote of the day by David Byrne

2009-09-15T10:02:00.000-07:00

A "livable city" means vastly different things for many people. In Hong Kong it might mean that your family is in a comfortable apartment while you play in the exciting mercantile world in a glass tower overlooking the harbor. In Dallas livability might mean that you live near an expressway that isn't jammed up, at least not all the time, and your car runs most days. For some it might mean super fast Wi-Fi, the possibility of lucky and lucrative business opportunities and plenty of strip clubs. If that's what rocks your boat then try Houston, though to me that city, oil money made physically manifest, is my worst nightmare.

from http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052970203440104574403293064136098.html

I love you, man.

2009-09-14T13:42:00.000-07:00

This movie was okay. But it could have been awesome. How so? A simple plot twist at the end. As Jason Segel pulls up on his scooter to attend Paul Rudd's wedding, he should have objected. And then he should have looked tenderly at Paul and said, "Seriously. I love you, man." Then they should have embraced and gotten married instead. Forget that Rashida Jones! Now THAT would have been amazing. But the studio and homophobic American masses would have never gone for that. Hence, my continued admiration for Mike White, whose film Chuck and Buck is incredible.

Nevertheless, Jason Segel, I think you're pretty cute and I think we would have a wonderful time walking your puggle and being goofy together. Paul Rudd, your sense of humor gets a little too smug with each passing film. You're not that cute, and you're not that funny. Plus, I met you at SXSW and you were kind of a dick.

I just wanted to enter the Mad Men Casting Call...

2009-08-11T16:01:00.000-07:00

Well, don't wait until the last day to enter an extremely popular contest. This is heartbreaking. The AMC server is down. I took a bazillion photos (vanity project, yes, I know) and now I can't enter. Because the server is down. The server has been down for 10 hours. Will they accept late entries? Will I get to play Joan Holloway's sister? I guess not...here's one I was going to submit.

Sob. Seriously. This might have ruined my whole week.

A Visit to the Oak Lawn Library

2009-08-06T15:36:00.000-07:00

Blog, I'm sorry that I've neglected you. I've moved to a new gay-borhood, and haven't had the means to set up/steal WiFi. Shocking, I know. Nonetheless, felt the need to discuss books I am currently reading:

Towelhead by Alicia Erian
I had no idea what to expect. I saw the film preview and thought, Ummm don't really care. Love Aaron Eckhart, but don't really care. But I started reading it and couldn't put it down. The author did an amazing job capturing the voice of a thirteen-year-old girl--naive but quite intelligent. An uncomfortable coming-of-age novel.

Oh The Glory of it All by Sean Wilsey
I could NOT put this book down. Self-indulgent, highly detailed, full of delicious tidbits about San Francisco society and how effed up wealthy people can be...I loved it! I kind of wish I had been sent to the same "behavioral correcting" school in Italy, too. Not fair.

Watched a montage of Busby Berkeley's dance routines from his 1930s films. Every time I watch this man's work I am blown away. Even by today's standards they are breathtaking, let alone the fact that he did them as film was still a new medium. Talkie films had only come out ten years ago! Buzz is one of my idols. I would kill to be one of the girls he zooms in on, flashing my pearly whites as I come out of the water in a gold lamé bathing suit. Ah, truly the epitome of Hollywood's Golden Age.

Bicycle porn.

2009-06-04T15:37:00.000-07:00

Finally settled down and watched Breaking Away. I thought it was beautifully shot. Loved the music, the seventies clothes and cars and girls and college campus. Women back then just seem more beautiful. Everyone is tan and toned and has fabulous wavy hair and sparkling white teeth.

Again, Dennis Quaid in his prime. That man can rock cut-off denim shorts in a quarry like none another. I take my hat off to you, sir. The bike shots, especially in motion, were fantastic. I love that whirring sound they make. Bonus points for recognizing Jackie Earl Haley as a young, freakishly short young men in the film. I'll always think of him as the creepy child molester in Little Children. He totally should have the Oscar. Love my comeback stories.

interesting fact from imdb.com: The production team decided to call the Bloomington townies "cutters" because they felt the actual local nickname ("stoners" or "stonies") would draw a parallel to drug references for viewers who were not raised in the area.

estate sales and missed connections

2009-05-29T19:35:00.000-07:00

from dallas craigslist, this made me smile:

Estate Sale, Cute Red Head - m4w - 24 (East Dallas)

I've never done the whole missed connection thing on here before, but decided to give it a shot after seeing you yesterday at an estate sale off Richmond. It was in the early morning around 7:45 or 8 and you were the cute head I spotted- you had a really cool '50s look and since you were at an estate sale, I clearly figured you're into nostalgia, which is rare to find in a girl. I talked a little with you when I first saw you, and then I saw you again in the line behind me (I had a book shelf and an old Philco radio)- I wanted to say something more but honestly couldn't think of anything. However I'd love the chance to meet up again, so if you see this, don't hesitate to drop me a line!

Was Dennis Quaid on coke when he made The Big Easy?

2009-05-10T19:02:00.000-07:00

Just wondering. He's just so durn skinny in this movie. But you gets to see his bum! Yes, he looks amazingly muscular...but just a leeeetle strung out. Dennis! Why you gotta be like that? Still, I love when every actor in a movie commits to a local dialect. It's a funny/awkward/strained/valiant effort. So Dennis, I applaud your effort to sound Cajun. It's difficult, but you even came off as sexy doing it. It helped that you had your shirt off a lot.

I don't know about the cult classic part, but I enjoyed the music and Ellen Barkin's horrible, horrible outfits. I guess when your legs are that good, you can really do anything.

"Edieeeeee!"

2009-05-02T20:20:00.000-07:00

I just watched HBO's version of Grey Gardens. For some reason I was upset when I first heard about this, well, not remake. I guess a "behind-the-scenes" version of the cult classic documentary. I hate the term "cult classic." I guess the whole Grey Gardens thing just makes me sad. I mean, it's this tragic, once-glamorous family and house and history that has completely let itself to ruin and humiliation. The documentary is basically an exploitation of their unfulfilled dreams and cat-infested home. Isn't everyone really just laughing at Little Edie as she does her sad song-and-dance routine for David Maysles? The mother wasn't that good a singer either. Even if Edie had gone to New York and auditioned for the Broadway producer, would she have really made it?

I guess we'll never know. And I don't doubt that the Maysles brothers really cared for them. At least, I hope they did. But I just can't help but feel sorry for every subject of a documentary. It always seems like people are laughing at them, not with them.

However, I think Drew Barrymore and Jessica Lange did a pretty good job. Beautiful costumes, of course. Daniel Baldwin, props to you, too. I don't really buy the hunky-dory "I'm sorry, no, I'm sorry!" ending with mother and daughter. And when Edie performs her cabaret routine at the closing credits (apparently in real life, too) is it tragic? Or is it redemption? I'm still undecided.

Pay a visit to your local library.

2009-04-25T15:04:00.000-07:00

I am a fan of public libraries. It seems no matter where you go: Austin, Portland, Dallas..it's always the same scene. Crazy people ranting, children, fat old people, and awkward teenagers. And me! I get a little shiver of excitement when I walk in the doors. Especially if it's an old building in the middle of a neighborhood. It's like coming home, even if it's my first time.

So imagine my dismay when I realized I've been living in Dallas for almost six months and haven't gotten a library card! Shoot, I just figured out where the durn thing was last weekend when I went for a bike ride! So I put on my Mom Shorts and pink helmet and hit the road. I also made sure to pack proof of my address and a license. Unfortunately, libraries are sticklers about this. My Lakewood Branch is just fabulous. Sometimes, librarians can be mean. I dunno why, my own mother is one, I guess they just get embittered that no one reads anymore and children are obese Wii-playing brats. But these ladies were nice.

There was an interesting selection of DVDs, that's for sure. The entire series of "The Waltons" was there...you can betcha I'll be hitting that one up! Also three copies of the Pamela Anderson and Denise Richards classic, "Blonde and Blonder." I actually almost rented that, but realized there are so many quality films out there that I simply can't waste my time with such drivel. So I rented The Quiet Man, The Flamingo Kid, and The Big Easy. Love my Dennis Quaid! Book-wise, I settled on Leonard Nemoy's son's memoir. It's all about his addiction and alcoholism. I can't wait!

Hooray for janky bikes, libraries, and the carrot cake cupcakes I'm about to make. With cream cheese frosting.

Concerts make me hate people (more).

2009-04-10T22:42:00.000-07:00

So I used to go to concerts/shows/what have you alllll the time in high school. I couldn't drink, I was scared of boys...but I could drive! So my best friend and I would drive forty minutes to downtown Austin...on a school night, mind you! We'd put on our best Charlotte Russe top and boot-cut jeans and paint the town underage red. We were always on our best behavior. I doubt we even batted eyes at the opposite sex or tried to sneak in a beer. Nope, we were high on life.

Fast forward. I'm 24, and I hate going to concerts. I know I hate them, and yet, I still get dragged to them. Granted, I love Morrissey. But I hate the people who go to these shows. Especially in the Big D. I'm sorry, I hate to use this term "dumb bitches" buuuttttt omg there were some DB's up in that joint. I had to hear some skinny-ass Dallasites yammer on about their bridal dresses for thirty minutes. Why? Why go to a show to talk about your stupid-ass life?

Then there was the short chubster karaoke-ing his way through the show. But I digress. I sound bitter and old. I am. Morrissey was fab. He took his shirt off and threw it in the audience and I saw his sweaty pecs. The End.

Wearing ugly clothes makes me happy.

2009-04-01T20:42:00.000-07:00

See?

I am the ambassador for beets and brussels sprouts.

2009-03-12T19:25:00.000-07:00

No seriously. If I had a buffalo nickel for every friend/enemy/frenemy I have turned onto roasted beets and hazelnut-braised brussels sprouts, I'd own a bunny ranch in Reno, NV. People are always doubtful when I tell them of the amazing dinner I have planned for them. That's when I laugh in their face and say, "Oh, you'll see, my little friend. YOU'LL SEE."

Then I make them see. My roasted beets and goat cheese spinach salad makes grown men cry. The pickiest hung-up eaters devour my pancetta brussels sprouts concoction. So, what I'm saying is...I should be making money off of this. The National Foundation of Beets and the Society for Brussels Sprouts & Friends should pay me to travel the country in a Winnebago and turn people onto these often overlooked vegetables. It's the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I'm learning da Stanky Leg.

2009-02-28T23:25:00.001-08:00

my mix tapes suck.

2009-02-28T23:10:00.000-08:00

One look at the mix tapes I make for my friends, and you'll realize why I don't have that many... (friends, that is. I have plenty of mix tapes.)

1. "Good Weed" Project Pat
2. "Can U Get Away" Tupac
3. "Can a Nigga get a Table Dance?" 2 Live Crew
4. "Buttons" Sia
5. "Sunday Morning Comin' Down" Kris Kristofferson
6. "Papa was a Rodeo" The Magnetic Fields
7. "It was a Good Day" Ice Cube
8. "Pyjamarama" Roxy Music
9. "I'm Straight" The Modern Lovers
10. "Jive Talkin'" The Bee Gees
11. "Caroline Goodbye" Colin Blunstone
12. "Fresh as a Daisy" Emitt Rhodes
13. "Spooky" Dusty Springfield
14. "I left a woman waiting" Leonard Cohen

I always want to cram all my favorite hip hop songs in. Followed by John Denver followed by old school Liz Phair capped off with 1960s girl groups. I'm slightly schizophrenic.

The Dead Poets' Society at high sea

2009-02-09T18:52:00.001-08:00

Sometimes you just need to see a bunch of young, athletic, bronzed men running around with their shirts unbuttoned and boat shoes a-floppin'. That's when you turn to White Squall. Jeff Bridges is such a handsome fellow, now throw in Jeremy Sisto and Balthazar Getty and you've got yourself a buffet of beauty. Personally, I've never been able to get into Scott Wolf because he is just so short and has big dimples. Also, he's pretty C-list these days. Back then he was hot stuff because of Party of Five. Anyways. I love coming of age films. I love films where men tuck their shirts into their cuffed jeans. I love thick-rimmed NASA scientist glasses. However, I do not like drowning.

If my entire being were encapsulated in a movie...

2009-02-01T19:47:00.000-08:00

It would be the 1955 Douglas Sirk film, All that Heaven Allows. Oh. Dear. God. In. Heaven. (No pun intended.) Sometimes I start watching a movie and feel a tingle in my spine because I think to myself, "Movie, where have you been all my life? We are obviously kindred spirits and have been separated far too long. Join me!" This is one such film. The title sequence almost had me in tears. This is what they mean by, "In all its Technicolor glory."

And Rock Hudson. Rock Hudson! Sure, he's dashing in those frothy Doris Day rom coms. But in this...he's devastatingly handsome in that shiny Ken doll-way. Add a lumberjack plaid jacket, red cords, and a fondness for growing trees and you have me swooning. I literally had to pause the movie and take a breather--it was that amazing.

Ahem. Wow. I am a huge dork.

my Friday night

2009-01-23T16:10:00.000-08:00

Consists of listening to the entire "Laid" album by James.
Sitting on front porch post-jog.
Politely sipping tap water out of my orange cup.
Watching the sunset fade into the bare, spindly trees of my neighborhood.
I need to watch the sunset more.
Thinking about the salmon patties I am going to make for dinner.
Planning my Waxahachie day trip tomorrow--possibly alone.
All in all reflecting on life and its simple pleasantries.

Not too shabby.

why I love my job.

2009-01-19T18:12:00.000-08:00

It's the small things.

2009-01-18T18:42:00.000-08:00

If you want to feel incredibly productive and proud of yourself, wash your car. By hand. With a small sponge. And a hose. Then wipe down the inside. Vacuum. Spray. Buff. Wipe. Polish. 1.5 hours later, you will be a bit sweaty, but you will feel like you have actually accomplished something. And that, my friends, is a tremendous feeling.

Thank you, Blind Date.

2009-01-18T18:32:00.000-08:00

For some reason, every time I am thankful for my family, I am reminded of an episode of that classic, awe-inspiring late-night programming: "Blind Date." In the particular episode I am thinking of is some loser guy and some desperate girl. (Yes, people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw rocks. Is that the correct idiom here?) Regardless, the guy is asking her inane questions about her life, and she says, "Well, my family is very important to me" or something utterly original like that. And I remember (being a naive 17-year-old at the time) rolling my eyes in disgust and thinking, "Family?! UGH. I am so TIRED of hearing about how people are into their FAMILY these days..."

Cut to seven years later. I went to school close. I went to school far away. I moved 2300 miles away. Twice. Came back to Texas. Dated people. Broke up with people. Learned some life lessons. And, there's no other non-cheesy way to say it: I am really, really grateful for my family. They are incredibly important to me. They are kind of a big deal in my life. I love them like I love Paula Deen's Ooey Gooey Butter Cake. And I know now to never take them for granted again. And if I ever end up on an episode of "Blind Date" (fingers crossed!) that very well might be my emphatic opening line: "I just lurrrrve my family, y'all! Now, where we eatin'?"

Still doesn't mean I want kids though. And there's still nothing wrong with expressing that very practical, sustainable opinion in public.

Music for fuddy duddies.

2009-01-11T19:00:00.000-08:00

I defy you to blast the song "Laid" by James at any intimate social gathering and not have people get up and dance. Or at least play the air drums really, really hard. Or sing along to that high note, "Pret-tyyyyeeeeyyyyyyyeee..." Goodness. What a feel-good song. A pounding on your steering wheel, making a fool of yourself song. I think that will be my ultimate karaoke song. Like, if I actually was not self-conscious and could let loose, I would sing that song. And play the air drums. And not care what anyone thought. Good New Years' Resolution!