Dipping my toe back in the N.D. waters

This was something I'd intended to post a while ago...

So Amazon.com offered me the job yesterday. I was both relieved and disappointed. I'm not terribly anxious to start a full-time desk job again. Today was orientation. While doing our icebreaker (oh god, am I really doing an ice breaker?) I found myself scoffing at everyone's 'fun fact'. One guy said this: "And my fun fact: football." What does that mean? How is your fun fact a noun? Perhaps I should have offered 'sky' as my fun fact, or 'renewable energy'. These are nouns, not facts. There was one guy who seemed as if he may be interesting but he's not even in my training group. However, there does seem to be a plethora of non-interesting people in my training group. Oh--the HR guy this morning (super cute red-cheeked typical ND guy) got an unintended dose of the bitchiness festering just below the surface. The conversation went like this: After handing him my CA drivers license, "California, huh? What are you doing here?" Me: "Ughhhhhhh!" That was it. Just a throaty groan. I didn't even want to be mean to him. But alas. Then during orientation, Amazon catered lunch which consisted of enough pizza to feed Darfur. The thought of people lining up to be mass fed made me angry, so I had an apple out in the car. I have vowed, during my time spent in ND, to never eat fast food, never eat in the car, and never eat at a buffet. Some of why I was unhappy before had to have to do with all the bullshit I ate. Casey thinks I'm crazy but I'm looking around this city and the chicks here are FAT. While I was in France I had 2 different doctors tell me I was fat and needed to lose weight. I cannot imagine what their words for these girls would be. And I find it interesting the different ways these girls try to individualize themselves. Generally I find it's with bad hair cuts and shitty dye jobs. Who are you? Who are you? (said in the wispy voice of the anorexic chick from Drop Dead Gorgeous).

If you don't have anything interesting to say, don't say anthing at all.

There is a creepo at work who will begin conversations with me that may or may not relate to anything being said or done at the moment. I have been quizzed on a range of topics including: what type of tea do I drink, how many candles do I have in my apartment, what kind of car do I drive and why don't I go into advertising. Short of not responding, I am quite sure that I'm exuding a rather potent air of disinterest, leading me to believe this dude really just can't sit and shut it or loves being silently but overtly demeaned. I'm trying to adhere to workplace etiquette whereas I show everyone respect. How about showing me a little respect and quit interrupting my lunch with your inane chatter!?

I work in an environment that must spawn people like this. There's a pregnant chick who likes to join me for lunch and breaks and talk about absolutely nothing. She's one of these who will ask you a question just so she can answer it. And she'll make uninteresting comments like, "I love seeing pregnant women." Hmmm. That's a very not interesting statement. I am absolutely sick of this bullshit silence-filler. This is a call to arms. We cannot encourage this behavior. If someone begins talking about something boring (this includes the weather), you must IGNORE them. This is how we handle children who are throwing fits to get our attention and this is how we must handle adults who are making fatuous comments to keep our attention. Grown-ups must learn to have a conversation! Kids would never sit and engage one another if the convo fell flat, they would find a more interesting companion. I suggest we all do the same.

Another moronic encounter

A chick at work, who regularly feeds from the vending machine at lunch, declared Mexico to be overseas. I pointed out, tactfully of course, that to get to Mexico there is no sea to cross. She paused for a moment and emphatically declared that anywhere that is not in the United States is considered 'overseas' to her.

Everyday is a lesson in humility. Every single fucking day.

Moronic encounters

In my training class, there is a dude that drives me bonkers. He is the posterchild for stupidity. Here's a few of my gripes: he pronounces height as heighth, falls asleep during training, makes assanine quips and my favorite of all (and this is the one that began my silent fuming): he's expecting 2 kids. They're not twins.

Also, in my training class is this idiots female equivalent. She has boldly and unashamedly confessed to burning down her own house and has taken advantage of Rainforests* requirement that you have at least a high school diploma OR equivalent to be hired. She scoots in under the 'or equivalent.'

My trainer may be intelligent, but that is greatly overshadowed by just how annoying he is. He has a soundboard with, seemingly, ONE sound. And he takes advantage of that sound, even when not applicable. For example, in the middle of an online activity, the class would hear "That was easy" 12 times, without absolutely any prompting. One day I tallied, 19 'That was easy's' in 18 minutes. Plus, he likes to engage in conversations with the training assistance about breastmilk. Hello, HR? Yes, I'll be needing your assistance in Training Room A.

Which brings me to my next point; I, in general, am an HR nightmare. I have a very hard time using the filter at work. It's not that I can't distinguish between appropriate and inappropriate, but I won't adhere to a sexual harrassment policy at the expense of great comedy. So if an off color comment about your jugs is due, I'll be the first pipe up. Having said this, I cannot keep track of all the bullshit I hear and cringe at. Is describing something as 'gay' that clearly isn't gay but rather a waste of time, not offensive? What about the chick wearing clothing that is clearly designed for juniors; where skin is falling out of places that should be secured? Either I've become more conservative, or I've yet to encounter this brand of offensive.

I'm finding it difficult to adjust to 9-5 call center life again. For 2 years, I was able to choose who I surrounded myself with and didn't have to 'get along' with someone for the sake of my job. I'm not sure if a steady paycheck is worth all the mental energy I spend berating the morons around me. We'll see...

*name changed to save my ass from getting fired in the off-chance this blog is ever discovered by the appropriate authority

Isn't laughter the best medicine?

Last year when Thibault or Clément got sick and feverish, I was able to avoid administering suppositories. I simply explained to their mom that I have no idea what to do with that bullet-shaped pen cap. This year, I wasn't so lucky. Both kids had fevers at the beginning of the school year. It seems that instead of manufacturing chewable children's aspirin, the French find it more effective to just shove a hardened cream up their ass. I can wrap my mind around this concept for babies, however when I approach a child with a suppository and they immediately drop trou and assume the position, I believe this is an indicator of being old enough to receive your medicine orally. I feel like I've become far too acquainted with my boys assholes. The mind-bending dichotomy comes in that their dad has begun to encourage their modesty and asks them to avoid letting me see them naked. Evidently, full frontal nudity is too imposing but shoving things through the back door is acceptable.

There's Something About Dylan

I did some babysitting last night (I love that this is how I make my living by the way, as if I'm still 14 years old...) for 3 boys. The middle kid, 4yo Dylan, is obsessed with the following: penises, butts, farts, burps and swear words; which is why he is, by far, my favorite of the three. At the end of the night, I asked him to go upstairs and put on his pj's and I'd be up in a second. When I approached his room, he was standing in the doorway with his hips jutting toward me. Reflexively I looked to find he'd managed to pull both penis and balls above the waistband of his underwear. And he's screaming at me, "LOOK! LOOK AT THIS!" and pointing right at it, as if I could possibly not notice. I gave him a high-five for originality. I can honestly say in 28 years, I've never seen this.

I wish I could have done more babysitting for this family (they're moving to England next week) because I have such a good time being a juvenile boy. Before Dylan and his 8yo brother Jacob went to bed, I warned them that if something stank in the morning, it'd probably because I planned to sneak in while they were sleeping and fart on their pillows. They thought that was hilarious and gross; admittedly it is.

I stayed over so that this morning I could have breakfast with the whole family. I knew we were having pancakes, so I told Dylan that his was coming with ketchup on it. He freaked out, and ran into the kitchen to tell his dad that he did NOT want ketchup on his pancakes. His dad was totally confused, and I was laughing my ass off in the living room overhearing this. Where has this kid been all my life?

Dead baby jokes are funny, right?

In April I spent 10 hellish days taking care of 3yo twins in the south of France. Each night I either passed out from exhaustion or cried myself to sleep from frustration. On the 10th day, I vowed to never EVER spend time alone with what I assume to be God's punishment for my atheism. 3 months later, I still get chills when I see those brats, even though they're angels when they are with their regular nanny.

Cut to this morning when I received a call from their mother, proposing a week in the south of France with the twins again. My first instinct is to hold my cell phone directly in front of my face and bellow, "FUCK YOU!" However, I'm becoming increasingly anxious that my bank statements consistently show only double-digit balances and I'm moving to NY in the fall and have two trips coming up this summer. Now, I can understand why Mexicans will illegally work in slaughter houses. The need to make ends meet far outweighs the probability that you'll lose a finger or get a smattering of intestinal blood in your eye. There's really no chance I'm at stake for either of those consequences, but I can't say the same for the twins.

Empty threats?

Last night I babysat for a woman I met at the boys' school. She has 3 boys: 7, 4 and 20 months. The baby is a dream, but the older boys are obsessed with farting and burping. I mean to say, they can't get a sentence out without punctuating it with an actual fart and/or burp or making reference to it. The 7yo, Jacob, burped 3 times during dinner, and they were fucking impressive. I nicknamed him The Belcher, but for reasons unknown, he took offense.

We were going through the bedtime routine, and while I'm changing and attending to the baby, 4yo Dylan refuses to put on his pj's. He was being such a dick about the whole thing that I put him to bed early. When I came back downstairs, Jacob asked if that's how I do things at my house; put kids to bed early as punishment. I told him that normally I don't have to punish my kids because they do what I say. And then Jacob asks, "Why?" What a bizarre question. Why do they obey me? Because I'll break they're fucking teeth if they don't! I told him it starts with going to bed early, and if the dissonance persists, the consequences become more severe. We've had a lot of unplanned visits from the Tooth Fairy. Consequently, when I told Jacob it was time for bed, he didn't give me any friction over it. Coincidence?

The Helen Keller Theory

Thibault has a hard time differentiating between words with 'th' sounds and 'f' sounds. He will often pronounce 'through' as 'frough' and this bugs me to no end. He can clearly hear the distinction when I say it, but then he'll insist that he's repeating it exactly like me. Clément just rolls his eyes. One night at dinner, we were discussing ways to die (again) and he must've said something about me tickling him to death. Only he said, I would tickle him to deaf. I thought that was an interesting concept. To be tickled to deaf. Can you imagine being a kid, and your uncle starts getting crazy with the tickle monster character, and you think, "If he keeps this up, I'm going to pee my pants!" but instead you just stop hearing?

A few honest words

Thibault called Clément a douchebag this morning. I had a mild cardiac arrest, then emphatically asserted, "We do NOT say douchebag. Definitely not. That's a pretty bad one." Clément insisted I define douchebag. Everytime Clément said douchebag, my heart raced a little faster. "Quit saying it! I'll tell you what it means in 9 years." And when I asked Thibault where he heard that word, he told me he heard me say it. I almost slapped his face. I know I haven't said this word in front of them. I've let a few things slip here and there, but never a 'douchebag.' I felt like the dad in those old commercials about marijuana. Dad confronts teenage son about the pot he found in his backpack. Teenage son said he learned it from Dad. Dad looks shocked and ashamed. But I'm not Dad because I really didn't say it!

I'm positive this is another word he learned in the halls at school. It's frightening to me that 12 year old kids go around calling each other douchebags. The problem is that Thibault's vocabulary is stunted as it is, so instead of learning creative adjectives to describe his friends, he's being lazy and resorting to words such as douchebag. I think this is what bothers me most. My mother used to suggest medical terms to verbally abuse the kids that picked on us at school. So when someone said, "You're stupid!" we could retort, "Oh yeah? Well why don't you go duffocate in your backyard!" In which case, the other person would usually walk away confused about what it was I actually suggested they do in their backyard. I am a big proponent of a well placed 'douchebag' but if that's the only word you can conjure up to verbally assault someone, then we have some work to do.

Have you seen my baseball?

Unless I have my iPod in my ears, I am liable to suffer from intense anxiety. I didn't receive my iPod until about 8 months ago and because of that I am attributing my prior severe distaste for France and all things French to not having a coping mechanism for my anxiety. It used to be that if I had to face an uncomfortable situation, I'd consume an inordinate amount of coffee. What a relief to my wallet (and my heart) that now I can stick my earbuds in and focus on the Kevin and Bean Podcast while I have to do all the things that make my skin crawl (like interact with people).

Last year, I intensely dreaded Fridays because this was the day I had to do the grocery shopping. I'd think about it all week and then subsequently bitch about it all weekend. I had to buy a LOT of groceries, which in Paris is uncommon. People will generally do a little grocery shopping every day, buying only what they need for that evening. Standing in line with a cart full of shit, I'd literally start sweating. I could feel people getting frustrated with me. Sometimes I'd even hear a comment about how many groceries I had, usually because the aged dude behind me only had a few things and was pissed he had to wait. The problem was there were 5 people behind me who collectively had less than what I had in my cart, but I wasn't going to wait all goddamn day to buy groceries because these assholes can't figure out the caisse express. Shopping on a late morning weekday meant I was surrounded by old people who apparently had schedules to keep. The kicker was that I could literally run through a cart full of stuff, load my caddie and pay within the time it takes old people to buy their broccoli and cranberry juice. It's always the same situation: After scanning said groceries, the cashier announces the amount owed. The frail patron looks startled, "What? €7.45? Oh, yes! Of course. Now where did I put that wallet? Not here... Here? No... Oh right, in my left pocket. How much? €7.45? That's not how much it was yesterday, but if you say so. I'll slowly count out my coins here..." Meanwhile, I'm eyeing my groceries and mentally calculating how quickly I can load them into the caddy and get the fuck outta Dodge.

This year is a bit different. I put in my iPod and take my time grocery shopping. I'm comparing yogurt flavors; Do I wanna try the mango? I dunno... how many calories? Not too bad. Okay, I'll try it... Whereas last year I'd bolt through the aisles, madly throwing in products and dodging lost old ladies in the candy aisle. When I get to the cashier, I can clearly see the dude behind me has ONE bottle of water and I can clearly hear him through my earbuds complaining about having to wait, but I can pretend that I can't tell he's pissed, and this makes my heart swell. I still efficiently load my caddy and pay with cash, but I no longer eat my way through a bag of Madeleines when I get home because I've just had to get through a stressful situation.

I imagine the folks at Casino (the supermarket) look at me like I'm Warren from There's Something About Mary. I DO NOT go in there without my iPod and when I do, I'm yelling about plums and smacking myself silly. Next stop down crazy lane: being able to call the number of toothpicks that have just fallen on the floor.

The C Words

For me there's never been any ambiguity about what is acceptable for breakfast. Cereal, muffins or fruit: yes. Cakes, cookies, or raw sugar: no. However, it is not uncommon for me to see these things on the breakfast table here in France. In fact, while I was in the south, there wasn't even a breakfast table involved sometimes. "Baptiste! Do you want a strawberry cake or cake bread (brioche) with jam?" And then I'd bring it over to him after he'd finished a bottle of milk with 2 giant ladle fulls of Nesquick. This is what I was advised by the parents to offer for breakfast and this is what granny had the cupboards stocked with. For snack, a sampling of the cookie/cake aisle was offered, although the twins are required to begin snack with applesauce, then move on to chocolate cookies, raspberry candy and cakes shaped like bears. When I was a kid, my snacks were always fruit. On a good day, fruit with peanut butter: apples or celery with pb and raisins. If my mom had offered me cakes and cookies for snack, I probably would have avoided it. I'd be suspicious they'd be soaked in some kind of household cleaner or I'd have to mow the lawn for the next 2 years in return. I'm baffled. Why are American kids so fat yet I can clearly see the ribs of any random sampling of French kids?

Contract Killer

I finish 'work' around 8:15pm every night, with the exception of Mondays. I really got fucked on Mondays. Thibault decided he wanted to join a pansy-ass Tennis-Soccer Club. This meeting of effeminate French men gather every Monday night from 7-8:30, which means Thibault returns around 8:45, and then it is my responsibility to serve him his dinner. I'm still unclear as to why this has become my obligation but I'm too much of a pushover to broach the subject. And considering I've got less than 2 months left, I don't think now is the appropriate time to bitch about my schedule.

Anyway, I've constantly got to coax Thibault to eat quickly. Usually by 9:15 I'm not only getting tired but irritable because Thibault is infringing on my Celebrity Rehab watching time. Tonight, was no exception. He appears to deliberately be eating slowly, so I tell him that tomorrow, when we arrive from school before he can have his free time before homework, I mandate that he come and sit with me at the table and watch me eat lunch. He will literally just have to sit there while I eat what appears to be a small portion of food, but will stretch out over 45 minutes. He was appalled.

His reply, "Well I'll do it for 5 bucks."
"No Thibault, you don't get 5 bucks because I don't get 5 bucks. But you do get less time to do whatever it is that you enjoy."
"You do so get 5 bucks. You get paid to make me dinner."

I am getting so sick of this 12 year old reminding me of how little I get paid to listen to his smart-ass comments. This actually happens often. And if dad hadn't been in the kitchen, I would have laid it out: "Actually douchebag, my 'shift' ended an hour ago so if you don't shovel that steak hâché into your gullet, I'm going to do it for you... while I'm holding your nose."

I really wish the parents hadn't told their kids how many peanuts I get paid. It's gotten better this year, but last year whenever I suggested they do something for themselves (take out the trash or come with me to buy a baguette), they'd always remind me that I'm getting paid to do that. I'm considering showing them my contract to prove that no where does it stipulate that I buy bread, haul trash, or accept verbal bullshit from the children.

Last year I thought it'd be fun to stay a third year and see Thibault through the tumultuous teen years. Now I can't wait to get the fuck out. The mood swings, the snotty comments, the endless declarations regarding stuff he knows nothing about is enough to make a girl seek prescription pain meds, which is my advice to the next au pair: Bring an open prescription of xanax.

Soul cookies

I wish I didn't live my life in perpetual obligation. It comes down to my low self-esteem. My self-esteem can be compared to a bowl of pre-baked cookie dough; after the cookies have been put in the oven and the overweight twelve year-old got a hold of it. You can see at one point there was a lot, but now there's just some wet flour stuck to the sides.

In this particular instance, I'm bitching about borrowing books from friends. When friends recommend books to me, it's bittersweet. I love reading a great book, especially if it's been referred to me by a friend. I hate reading a shitty book that a friend liked. I have no problem declaring my distaste for the book to my friend, however, I feel like i have to read through the entire piece of crap if I want my opinion to be valid. What if the best part of the book is in the last 5 pages and I miss out on it because I'm being snooty about my literature. I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

My sister bought me the Twilight series for Christmas a couple of years ago. For the month of January 2009, I powered through all four books, page by shitty page. I really wanted to like the books because I wanted my sister and I to connect on this. I imagined our mid-20's sleepover; discussing plot points and inventive vocabulary. Unfortunately, the author didn't own a thesaurus and was stuck with only one repetitive word to describe the main character; beautiful. I wanted to carve my eyes out with a melon baller. It still infuriates me today that those books are best sellers, but this is the state of our country. The world thinks Americans are idiots and we have proven them right, once again.

I've become laden with guilt. I love my sister dearly, but I felt terrible for not only NOT liking Twilight but loathing it. But because I have literally read every single page of the series; from Bella giving off her differentiating stink to carrying her vampire baby and then prostituting it out to the werewolves, I am absolute in my mal-opinion of the books. However, it is my obligation to my sister and not myself, that I put myself through that abuse. If I had any self-respect, I would have stopped reading after the first few pages. And after reading the series, the bowl is nearly clean.

Lesions of Awna

My eczema returns every spring in full force, this year not withstanding. I went to the doctor to renew my prescription a few days ago, which led to my memory of getting it for the first time when I was a kid. Now, it's limited to my hands but as a kid I had it on my face. One day I went to school with a band-aid on my cheek to keep me from scratching it. During recess, I was on one of the swings and some kid ponied up next to me and declared, "If you don't let me have this swing, I'm going to make it so you need a band-aid on your other cheek too." I don't remember what I did next, but I assume I let him have the swing because I don't recall wearing two band-aids on my face that day.

And because I wasn't sure how to spell eczema, I looked it up in the dictionary where it is defined as this: an inflammatory condition of the skin characterized by redness, itching, and oozing vesicular lesions which become scaly, crusted, or hardened. Well now I just sound like a freak. I have never described my rash as oozing vesicular lesions, but I guess essentially that's what they are. I wish I had known that when I was a kid. 20 years later, I have the perfect comeback: "If you take one more step toward my swing, I swear I'll smear my lesions all over your face, asshole."

A caring soul

I'm back from hell. I returned to Paris on Saturday. The moment I stepped off the train and inhaled second-hand smoke, I felt relieved to be home. Fredèrique bear-hugged me and congratulated me on surviving. I vowed to never return. It was as if I'd lived through a hiking expedition to the top of Everest, and returned physically unscathed (although emotionally fucked).

Here's the deal: I've had a lot of contact with the twins during the 2 years I've lived here. Our apartment is literally above theirs, so they visit a couple of times a week and I constantly see them in the grocery store with their nanny or walking around the neighborhood. Over Christmas vacation, I'd even babysat a couple of times for a few hours. Perhaps this explains why I was given no warning as to the emotional, mental and sometimes physical beatings I would take over the course of the 10 days I spent in the south of France.

My days consisted of chasing after Baptiste while yelling, "You come here!" and trying to coax the twins away from playing near the pool (while fighting the urge to kick them in and walk away). Initially, I wondered if my accent was so bad they didn't know what I was saying or were they just NOT listening. Turns out it was the latter. The mantra was "Obéis Awna." Everyone told them they most 'obey' me and yet I can't recall a single time that happened. Even the housekeeper said this to them, but these small devil replica's had no desire to obey anyone, except perhaps their creator below.

By day 10 I was running on empty. Over the course of a week and a half, I'd managed to have about 2 hours (collectively) to myself. As our stay ended, I had become quite a bitch. I was yelling at my kids for anything that annoyed me. In fairness to myself, they do a shit ton of things that are insanely annoying but I've become so accustomed to them that I tend not to notice. The entire train ride home, I had my iPod in my ears and was closed for any requests. Thibault asked for water; get it yourself. Clément asked if I could help him carry his soccer ball; absolutely not. I could count in German how often they'd helped me during our vacation, I was in no mood to be a caring and compassionate nanny.

S'okay

It's amazing how your mind can literally shut off and just let your body shift into auto-pilot. Today seemed tolerable, if I don't think about any specific thing. When an uncomfortable or trying situation approaches, my mind goes blank. When Baptiste begins kicking tables and throwing toys, I leave the room. When Chloe begins wailing about wanting a small spoon while she's in the bath, I retrieve the spoon, and stare at the blue tile in the bathroom.

It's so late right now, I can't blog much unfortunately. I'm sharing a small space with my boys, so they don't go to bed until I do and it's nearly 11. Far too late for a 9 year-old in my opinion.

Today's silver-lining: I can now say in French, "After you have finished washing your hair, you can play."

One version of Hell

Chloe went from calling me her love to screaming hysterically when I touch her. Today was a disaster. When their grandma is in the room, I think, "I can handle this. I'm doing quite well." And the moment she leaves, those little turds turn on me. I came very close to a breakdown today, but didn't have the time to cry one out. Maybe tomorrow. Ultimately, I'm pissed that the parents didn't make it clear that their kids are ASSHOLES. Why would you throw me into a situation like this without forewarning me? Now I know why, when they offered me a seemingly decent salary to work for 11 days, the mom asked multiple times, "It's okay? That amount is sufficient? That's fine?" I'm like yeah, bitch, it's fine. Except that it's not fucking fine. I should be getting paid double to put up with this bullshit and Mamie deserves a new house across the bay in Saint Tropez.

I can't even anticipate what will happen moment to moment with Baptiste. One moment, he's in the jacuzzi. The next: dropping trou and pissing in the yard. He did this with such ease, I'm led to believe it's happened before.

Being with kids this age reinforces my desire to adopt older kids. This is bullshit.

The Magician

My day was a bit like this: Wake up at 7am. Not usually a problem, however I am so tired it feels as if I've just closed my eyes. Next, trek across the sidewalk to the main house to anticipate the twins waking around 7:30 am. I did a quick check at the pool; things are beginning on the right foot as there are no floating babies. Twins get up around 8am and have breakfast. I help them to dress themselves and then we draw outside. My kids get up about 9:30am. I make another breakfast for them (this is 3 so far, including mine). We play, play, play. Granny leaves for physical therapy and I am left to serve lunch to everyone. This probably doesn't sound trying, but those twins are incapable of sitting in their chairs. Baptiste would finish a chicken nugget and then get up and wander around the yard. I feel like that kids mission is to deliberately disobey me; 'I clearly understood Awna saying I must stay in my seat during lunch, but I think I'll stroll to the swing set and pretend I can't hear her bellowing from the kitchen, just to piss her off... Success!" The rest of the day: more meals, more playing, less relaxing, new white hairs. I'm supposed to be speaking English with the twins, but because they don't really understand, I like to speak French. I'm finally getting the practice I need and I already feel more comfortable in it. Despite this, Baptiste has managed to sponge up one phrase, "Dear god." For example, when Simba is charging through the canyon while being chased by herds of antelope, Baptiste will say "Dear god" so at least it's appropriately used. Chloe has asked me numerous times WHY I speak English? And when I tell her why, she tells me why: Because I'm a magician. I'm not sure if she's met a lot of magicians who speak English or if she thinks it takes magical powers to communicate in English, but I was definitely not expecting that explanation. Also, she is constantly referring to me as 'mon amour,' which means 'my love.' For example, "Awna, take my hand, my love. Let's go to the kitchen." Funny, I've always wanted a dude to say that to me.

I barely have enough energy to jot this down but having no energy at the end of the day for this job actually seems worth it. As opposed to putting in 9-10 hours at the insurance company in LA, commuting another hour home and then shoveling in Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which was supposed to suffice for my dinner. So things could definitely be worse.

Nanny Cave

My days are numbered in France. My kids remind me of this nearly every day, and with this we like to imagine our lives after I leave. We are always coming up with some cockamamie scenario that would scare the new nanny. For example, we plan to take pictures of the boys having me in a choke hold, one giving me a noogie, the other perfecting the wedgie, and then sending these pictures to the new nanny with the caption . The following picture will be me holding Cléments head under water, his arms flailing wildly, with the caption . A few tips for the new nanny: If either have their sassy pants on, offer up a knuckle sandwich. If Clément is naked-dancing in front of open windows, close the shades. If Thibault says he brushed his teeth, he didn't. Also, let it be known that the Nanny Cave is just a myth. Thibault does NOT have a closet in the garage filled with past nannies that "tried to escape." In addition, if you find Thibault is responding to his Christian name, try Robofart. And Clément's equally deserved nickname: Thunderpants. When the nicknames begin to take on strong personalities of their own, I've had to lay some ground rules like, no ripping in the kitchen, the car on a cold day or any enclosed spaces. If it's absolutely necessary that you rip, a head's up is immensely appreciated. This will come in one of two emphatic exclamations: Incoming! or 3, 2, 1...! And because they're really sweet at heart, they'll always apologize afterward. Consequently, this is rumored to be a contributing factor to the large population within the alleged Nanny Cave. I know that I have a great time with them because my humor has never progressed beyond that of a 12 year-old boy. I just hope the next is just as, if not more, immature.

French gentlemen

I was at the bar the other night where a couple of friends met me out for drinks. After our first drink, a loose acquaintance says to me, "Can you offer me a drink?" I feign laughter; hahaha good one Florent! He asks me again; I articulately reply 'no' because apparently my first response didn't translate. So, he turns to my friend Niki, who's never said no to anything her whole life, and poses the same request. She reacts the exact same way I did, except that on his second attempt, she ceded. That didn't surprise me. Here's what knocked my socks off: He actually held her to it. He literally took her money to the bar and bought himself a drink. Let me be clear: he didn't offer to pay her back later or give her some lame excuse like 'I forgot my wallet' or 'payday is next week'. He took her 10 euros and bought a beer, came back to the table and begrudgingly gave her the 3 euros change. What fucking universe is this? Dudes don't ask cute girls to buy them drinks, they offer to buy the drinks, no?. Is this not internationally consensual?



I've encountered facets of this behavior in my 20 months of Parisien life. Dudes will mosey up and make the obligatory conversation to establish that we have a modicum of mutual interest. After some time, they'll ask if I want a drink, point me to the bar and hang back. Huh? Let me get this straight: You want me to get myself drunk? I think no. I'm no hooker, but if you can't shell out the 25 euros it's going to take for me to make some shitty decisions then I'll stay sober enough to make you think I'll go home with you until the lights come on, in which case I'll haul ass to the mètro, leaving you desperately scouring the leftovers.



Either French women are having to put up with a lot of douchbags or I'm attracting the wrong guys. Unfortunately, I feel like it's probably the latter, but in any case, I'd never met dudes like this in the States. French guys get so much undeserved credit for romance, chivalry and kissing. I've yet to be impressed on any count. Congrats American guys; you get the point in all 3 areas.

A pee treaty

I went to Printemps (a large, high-end department store) the other day to enjoy an amazing sandwich in the café. I was browsing over-priced ice trays when the diet Coke I had with lunch had made it's way through my system. My bladder was urgently informing me to dispel this diet Coke immediately. I found my way to the restroom only to find it would cost me a euro to enter. 1 euro to pee? Are the €24 table coasters not flying off the shelves fast enough to warrant patrons a bathroom pass? I realize they don't want people wandering in from the street to relieve themselves at a toilet that doesn't smell as if it hasn't been cleaned since 1973 but can't I show a receipt or something? I started devising ways to cut costs with my friends: What if we shared a stall? Do you have 50 cents? I decided to wait. I had a euro but refused to pay strictly on principle. This is ridiculous. What if I just pissed myself in the middle of the cookware department? How would that affect sales? I'd save a euro and I'd clear out your entire house ware floor. How 'bout that, you greedy bastards!

Interstate to Insanity

I leave for the south of France with my boys in a few days. Usually this would be a fantastic opportunity, however my fam is big on offering 'opportunistic' vacations to me. Instead I will be helping to care for the 3 year-old twins with their grandma. The twins are the boys' cousins that literally live in the apartment below us, so I see them often. They're really cute babies but here's the deal: I did a bit of babysitting for them over the Christmas vacation and the boy is very aggressive and the girl likes to play with dolls. I am going to need mild psychedelics to get through the next 2 weeks. As much as I like babies, I enjoy them most in small doses. When I'm forced to interact with them during their play time, I'd rather get kicked in the face with a cleat. To further complicate matters, there's a pool in the backyard and I am terrified I'll wake up one morning to see Chloé floating face down in the pool (this brings to mind my friend Dave's dead baby jokes which do not seem so funny anymore). My plan to avoid this is to have both kids wearing their floaties at all times; swimming, dinner and bed-time; they are not coming off. This may become uncomfortable when they're trying to use the toilet, but I'm not taking any chances.

I'm hoping that granny will spare me an afternoon to go to Saint Tropez. The weather will inevitably be gorgeous and the sea will look amazing. I just hope to get a chance to experience that between feigning excitement over pee-pee in the potty and incessant questionings of, "What's that?" I'm trying to stay positive. How can a vacation in the south of France in April be bad, right?

Idiot for hire

My return to the States at the end of summer is forcing me into the job market again. Because I've been nannying for so long, this seems like the easy route, however when I look up nannying jobs, many people are asking for college degrees. You think people with a degree are looking to wipe your kids nose? Gimme a break! I understand that parents don't want a backwoodsy moron raising their kid, but Alabama has colleges too. I've only recently learned that a college degree does not equate to any level of intelligence and I don't like being disqualified for any entry-level position simply because I haven't committed myself to the sad state of affairs known as America's education system. Even looking at administrative positions where the job is described as light filing, answering phones, and ordering office supplies are requesting degrees. For fucks sake people, let's stop profiling! College doesn't teach people common sense like filing alphabetically. We learn that in grade school; any idiot can do it. And I'm for hire.

Christmas come early

I picked up Clément from school this afternoon. He came out of his classroom with his friend, Jed, who began telling me that a kid in their class was saying 'bad words' at them. I don't know why, but I always assume the kids tattling are leaving out the part of the story where they caused the offensive behavior. So I maturely retort, "Oh yeah, well what did YOU do to make him say that?" In which case the answer is invariably, "Nothing!" Less than 5 minutes later, the 'bad word' culprit is walking by and Jed screams, "That's him! He said the bad word!" I'm looking at this little pipsqueak of a kid, he's gotta be like 5 inches shorter than both Clément and Jed and he looks adorable, so I give Jed this look like, 'Are you kidding me with this? I've seen this kids photo on Christmas cards.' But then as we walk down the hall, Christmas Card seeks out Jed and Clément, walks right up to them and says "You fucker." I did a double take; wha what is this? And just to be sure they heard him, Christmas Card repeats, "You fucker." And I'm standing right next to these kids! When I was young, I liked to put on some sailor pants and shout a cuss word or two, but I always made sure there wasn't an adult around. However, I AM an adult, in the biological sense, so I looked right at that kid and he looked right at me and I said the first thing that came to mind, "Hey! Not nice!" I'm sure Clément feels safer knowing that I'll always stick up for him with razor sharp words like not nice. I must be 5. Clément could come up with something better than that. The kid had wonky teeth, I could have called him out on his shitty dentistry work or his barber must be on vacay because his little afro is getting nappy. To top it off, Jed marched right up to this kids dad and told him that Christmas Card had just called him a bad word and you know what dad did?! Looked onto his son and gave him a little smile as if to say, 'Oh, you little so-and-so! Always saying naughty words!" Like the kid had mis-pronounced the word beach or sheet. It's unbelievable the hands-off parenting I witness in France. I should have walked up to the Dad and emphatically stated, "You fucker." Perhaps I would have received the same patronizing smile.

Barcelona vs. Me

I played soccer with my kids today. This is always a humbling experience. It brings back memories of primary school; standing in a long line of kids to be chosen for dodgeball teams. I wasn't chosen last, but chosen so far from first that it's clear that I am not a favorite. I'm only considered better than the smelly boy or the red-head with thick glasses. Anyway, the boys begin to blatantly discuss who's team I will be on:
"Do you want her?"
"Ugh, I dunno. You don't?"
Eventually, it is decided I will play with Clément against Thibault. Throughout the game, it becomes clear that I am playing by my own set of rules. I can't NOT use my hands when a ball comes flying at me. It's a natural instinct to put my hands up so I don't get clobbered in the face. However, this same scenario happened minutes after to Thibault and he just turned around and got beaned in the back. I thought this was hilarious. What an inventive way to field a ball being launched at your body.
Despite all my fouls (hands, pushing, pulling hair, etc.), I was able to make 2 goals. In which case, I ran around the field with the utmost dignity and yelled at both boys, "In yo face, suckas!"

Clément and the Dinosaur

I am a nanny for a couple of french boys, 9 and 12 years old. Despite them being boys AND pre-pubescent, they never have and currently do not expel gas orally, i.e. burp. The first time I did my pterodactyl impression, the youngest looked at me wide-eyed.
"What was that?"
"What was what? What happened?" and I looked around to find the cause of such surprise.
"That noise you just made..."
"Oh, well young grasshopper, that's what we, in America, call a burp. Do you not burp? Because I've witnessed enough farting from you to warrant extra underwear for filter. How is it that your gas only travels down and not up?"
Luckily, I've desensitized the both of them to my random and often unexpected bouts of mouth-gas. But it has come to my attention that the French are NOT avid burpers. And this disappoints me because it further drives the wedge between me and French culture. How is it that some cultures harness and nurture burping and others are completely unaware that it even exists?

The Introduction (Day 1)

Well because I've spent the past 30 minutes trying to come up with a clever title for my blog page, I refuse to fill out profile information until later.

I haven't blogged in a couple of years. I actually stopped blogging at the most convenient time to continue blogging. I moved to Paris, had loads of free time on my hands and decided to employ said free time by taking naps. Last year napping was my preferred way to pass the time. I'd be having coffee with a living person, having fine conversation, yet incessantly checking my watch because I wanted to be sure to get home in time to nap before I had to pick up the boys from school. I was living it up in Paris.

I've spent the past 12 years of my life working and/or going to school full-time that I'd never had any time to loaf. Before I came here I worked full-time, went to school full-time and nannied overnights and weekends. When I came to Paris and was only required to work 6 hours a day and had every afternoon off, I had no idea what to do with myself. Initially, I had grand plans to write novels, study art and read the classics. Instead I spent 10 months catching up on all the sleep I'd missed out on in my early 20's. It wasn't unusual for me to show up at the boys' school with lines imprinted on my cheek and forehead at 4 o'clock in the afternoon.

However, now that my time here is limited (as I'll be returning State-side in less than 5 months), I'm motiviated to make the most of this ideal work schedule. I'm thinking of returning to the self-deprecating world of comedy and I'd like to have some material worked out before I land.

The au pair world is a complete universe of its own. It's severed from all reality and I'm very much looking forward to re-acclimating to Planet Earth; where people aren't concerned with where they will go to 'Uni' (this means college in the UK) next year, or which club has free entry on each night of the week. I'm significantly older than most of the people I meet here. The disparity is never more obvious than when I opt to go home at 9:30 on a Saturday night while everyone else suits up for the Party Boat, docking at midnight.

I plan to use this blog to bitch and moan and complain and be ruthless. I will write as if nobody reads this and I hope that if anyone's feelings get hurt in the interim, you will forgive me and attribute it to my comic genius. And if you don't think I'm funny, well then, you are justified in thinking I'm an asshole.