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.