Day Two: Paris Saunter
Somewhere between my friend’s flat and the streets of Paris, I lost my sunglasses. I’m going to revise that and say that I misplaced my sunglasses because there is still a chance I’ll happen upon them when I unpack my suitcase in Positano tomorrow (!!!). In the mean time, I had to do without. Do you think I let this little fact ruin my day? Mais non!
I went out. I braved this city all by myself and took the metro–two lines–to meet a friend.
See? Disappeared shades not a factor.
I have to admit, it was out of my comfort zone to be scooting around this city solo. Even though I’m lucky enough to have navigated this place several times, I’ve never done it alone. But I decided at one point, that—from the outside at least—I looked like I knew exactly what the hell I was doing. So I just worked it like I owned it. I left my map in my purse, stepped off the Metro at my last stop and turned right with intentional determination and long strides as if to say, See, World, I know exactly what the hell I’m doing. All while my better angel was going, I’m good enough, I’m strong enough and doggone it! People like me! And also: Please don’t trip. Please don’t trip. Please don’t trip.
Sunglasses are always good when playing this sure-of-myself role, removing me one safe step from strangers who can’t look me in the eye, while having the added bonus of providing an air of mystery. Or at least, that’s what I pretend. I felt naked which was awkward, but I channeled Rick Steves’ (“If something is not to your liking, change your liking.”) and did it anyway. I stepped out of that subway car and turned right with conviction, hoping it was the direction of the exit. Not only did I turn in the correct direction for the exit (sheer luck), but I didn’t trip or get my sweater caught in the door. Girlfriend was destined to have a good day.
I had un omelettes aux fines herbs for breakfast and can I just say? One of the great things about Europe is that the herbs have flavor. Like, actual, distinct flavor separate of the eggs. Which also have flavor. I paired it with a jus d’orange and a café au lait which had flavor, too. I was so happy as to defy description. Suffice it to say, I kissed our lovely waiter goodbye.
I could have kissed every single waiter today. They were all so charming and helpful.
I also could have taken pictures of the amazing people all day long. Pardon, Madame? Mai je vous prenne un photo s’il vous plaît? (I was actually to chicken too ask in French, so I just asked in English.) “Of course,” she said.
I think she may get that a lot. I mean: Incroyable! Fantastique! Am I right? I’m convinced this woman is somebody. I mean, I know she’s somebody but I think she must be SOMEbody. (Edited to add: Turns out, she is very much SOMEBODY. H/T Sariah). She’s mysterious with or without the sunglasses. I wish I knew her.
And her, too.
Okay, and them, too. C’est la vie.
There is so much to do in this city it almost seems ridiculous to indulge in another visit to my very favorite museum. But God was it worth it.
It’s good every time. Again: My happiness level goes to eleven. I needed more waiters to kiss to fully express this fact, so we stopped at another café and look who I found???
Could it be…? Non…! He’s in an undisclosed bunker. This is simply a doppelgänger. Moving on…
Did I mention yet that there is love in Paris?
And other stuff that feels like love.
Vivre la France!
It’s 4:00 in the morning and I have to be up for a 7:30 ride to the airport. But it’s too tragic to waste this time sleeping when I can write. And look at pictures. Already, I can’t wait to come back.
Uh…that was awkward
Ruby had already buckled herself into her car seat when she realized she’d forgotten the drawings for her teacher. I ignored the urge to say, too bad, kid. We’re late. Chalk it up to a lesson learned about having your shit together. (God, how I love my fantasy life.) Instead I channeled June Cleaver, set my travel mug in the cup holder, dashed back into the house, grabbed the three sheets of paper she’d worked on with her dad and headed out the door.
Ten minutes later, Ruby was handing her pictures over to Miss Sarah. “This is a castle,” I heard her say. I was distracted by her little friend G. who was hurrying to peel away his shoes and socks so I could see how beautiful his pink toenails looked. “And this is Miss Carlee as a princess,” Ruby continued her parallel conversation. I told G. that Ruby’s dad likes to have his nails painted, too. “He likes purples and blues and greens and sometimes sparkles! How cool is that?” I asked him. His mother seemed embarrassed but also relieved at my reaction.
“Thanks for saying that,” she said.
“I’m not making this up,” I told her. “He’s artsy.”
Just then, I turned to see my daughter handing her teacher this:
He’s artsy, alright. He’s 8th grade, trapper-keeper, boy-doodle artsy.
Down there in the lower left quadrant? That is a naked person bending over with an asterisk for a butthole. Up above that guy are two formerly androgynous people drawn “without clothes!” per request of the child. Since Sam decided to make these two clowns G-rated—unlike the blue muscle man bending to pick up a dumbbell—she who is obsessed with all things penis, grabbed a sharpie and filled in the blanks. And then there’s the scary monster thing with hair made of lightning bolts, a squiggly smile and a Sonny Crockett 5 o’clock shadow. Notice the sharpied-on boxer shorts with the open fly. I’m not positive, but given the severe focus of conversation in our home lately, those are either tampon strings or urine running down his leg. Could just as easily be one as the other.
Of course, the upshot—I always like to find an upshot— is that the child is accurate and has some fairly impressive fine motor skills. But back to pre-school.
I saw the drawings and gasped. Then I stammered. So much for having my shit together. I hemmed and hawed and grabbed the paper with less subtlety than I would have liked. “I’ll just take this back home,” I said, withering. “Ruby’s in a phase…she asked Sam to do it and…um…well, we don’t do everything she asks…I mean…she did it.” I was selling out my man and my kid. I was losing credibility. I looked back and forth at the teacher and G.’s mother, apologizing, swearing that we do not normally sit around the house drawing wieners and sphincters. Princesses with giant breasts and “nibbles,” sure. But wieners and sphincters?
No siree.
Normally, we prefer naked dancing.
My punkin’ across time
THEN…
AND NOW…
This is, like, totally bananas
I’m the recipient of The Honest Scrap Award, the only award that I have ever accepted on this blog. I don’t believe in these bloggy awards, much the same way I don’t believe in tiaras for women over the age of 12. But! I do quite like the bitch who presented the award and so, for her, I’m going to divulge some honest crap. Just. This. Once. Because you all know how I never do that. And please, to the masses of 19 people who read this blog: Don’t go giving me any more awards because ignoring them always makes me feel bad.
Now, moving on. I’m only following the steps here as dictated by the aforementioned bitch and she said I should do the following:
Mmmmm, okay. Thanks? I think? No, really: Thank you. Thank YOU! Merci! Muchas gracias!
2) Share “10 honest things” about yourself.
1. I wear my pajamas, a.k.a. my Uniform, as often as I possibly can.
2. I think death will be a lot like being under anesthesia: I won’t even know I’m gone. This makes me a lot less afraid of it than I used to be and more appreciative of Right Now. I mean Now. Okay, NOW is already in the past but I mean Right This Instant. Pfffft! Gone! You get the idea.
3. While I think I got the death thing all squared away, I’m terrified of failure and can expertly employ excuses to avoid even trying.
4. I watched the Rachel Zoe Project one time, by accident, and was swirly-eyeballs hypnotized. I think she is one of the most pretentious, self-absorbed, catastrophic women I’ve ever not seen in real life. She’s oily, too, which bugs the compassion right out of me. Like, who rubs her down with the EVOO? She is exactly the kind of woman I would never want to be or be friends with, for that matter. And yet, despite it all, I would let her dress me. For free, no less.
5. I like to paint my husband’s toenails. He has perfect feet. Blue or green or glitter polish preferred.
6. I take a lot of pictures but have very little idea what I’m doing.
7. By the time my father dies, he won’t remember that he didn’t love me. I will remember but I’ve made my peace with it. My daughter will always know her father loves her more than anything else.
8. I loathe Crocs, cats, Disney themed clothing on adults, the advertising of religious beliefs via bumper sticker or window decal, pickled herring, bigotry, ignorance, Rachel Zoe (see above), ostentatious jewelry and burping. To paraphrase Dorothy Parker, these things—individually as well as collectively—are not just plain terrible, they’re fancy terrible. They are terrible with raisins in it.
9. As long as I’m talking about fancy terrible with raisins, have you seen Kathie Lee Gifford lately? She falls in my love-to-hate category. I just can’t get enough of her yuk-yuk-yuk laugh and frenetically blinking eyes.
10. Everyday, I wake up to a kiss goodbye, the Perfect Cup of Coffee on my nightstand, and the knowledge that I’m not half the partner my personal barista is. It’s good to play up, I say.
Whew. That was…something. Finally, per my lovely friend:
3) Present this award to 7 others whose blogs I find brilliant in content and/or design, or those who have encouraged me.
Okay, see, this is where I have to bail. I just can’t do it to anyone else. But I invite you all to please play along and if you do, leave a link in the comments so I can come read all about your honest scat. I mean, crap. I really want to hear it, I do. I just can’t help being the weakest link in this chain. And oh, hey, as long as I’m being honest? I’d like you to know that Wordpress formats my photos however the fuck it decides it wants to at any particular moment, and the fact that the motherf!*^%!g award banner up there at the top is aligned LEFT makes me crazy like a crooked painting in the home of a stranger, which I can never stop myself from fixing. That I can’t fix that banner up there is nearly enough to make me want to delete the stupid fucker.
She is sixteen going on seventeen
I woke Ruby this morning, got her dressed and then told her that I needed to rinse her hair in the sink so that I could poof it out a bit. Revitalize it. She started to cry a really slow, dramatic cry and continued until we had her head turned upside down under the faucet. At that point she only whimpered.
When she was all done with a head band in place—two minutes later—she ate her breakfast and watched a little Noggin. I passed through the room on one of my many trips taken while getting ready to leave, and stopped to tell her how brave she was to let me wet her hair (which was completely disingenuous because there is nothing brave about getting water on your hair and she was mostly crying for effect, but I figured a little positive reinforcement would bode well for tomorrow and anyway, it couldn’t hurt to take her seriously).
“You did such a good job letting me rinse your hair, Ruby.”
“I cried,” she said.
“Yes, you did. But you pulled it together and your hair looks great.”
“I cried because I was really stressed out, Mama.”
Wha…??? “You were stressed out, honey?” I tried not to laugh but it was sort of adorable.
“Yes. And what I wanted you to say was, ‘Ruby! I love you!’”
“Well I didn’t know that. I thought you wanted me to say that less because I say it so much.”
“No, I don’t want you to stop saying that because it makes me sad and it really stresses me out.”
She needs me, she needs me not…
This picture was taken by my friend Jamie using her Nikon D300 while she was here on vacation with her family. All I can say is it would have been way cuter if she’d used a canon 40D. But whatever. You have to work with what you got, right? This will have to suffice.
We’re off to San Francisco for five days of entertaining our little Nikon-captured roommate up there. This person who resides down the hall from me can pour herself a bowl of cereal now. By that I mean, she can get it out of the child-proofed cupboard, pour it and put it away, sealing the open bag with a bag clip. She can access the bowl even though it’s on a shelf above the counter, retrieve, pour and put away the milk. Helping herself to a spoon is baby talk by comparison. And the kid can clear her dishes when she’s done. Without being asked!
But with Candyland, a matching game, a plastic dolphin, two barbies, a pair of underwear and a terrycloth swimsuit cover-up, the child cannot for the life of her pack a suitcase. To say this makes me feel needed is an understatement.
Four years ago today, I met my beautiful daughter
And this morning we had a very frank conversation…
Ruby: Mama, you need to brush your teeth.
Me: I already did that, honey. It was the first thing I did when I got up, before I got dressed.
Ruby: You need to brush your teeth again because your teeth are really dirty.
Me: My teeth are not dirty! My breath probably smells like coffee, though…
Ruby: Well, what are you going to do about that?
Me: (…) I think I’m gonna drink some more coffee.
La famille
Le pere
et la mere
et la fille.
C’est une artiste.
It just sounds so much better in french…as if it isn’t magnificent enough already.