Dans les Rues de Paris - Seriously Quick?

Copain and I were walking down rue de Rivoli, when BAM! we saw this:

Quick must be on the outs or something, because they have accepted to sell the Dark Vador burger - yes, that burger that you see right there, with the BLACK BUN. I was so intrigued / horrified, that I went inside the restaurant to inquire as to whether the buns were really black or not.  What did I see? A sign stating that due to such high popularity, they were out of Dark Vador burgers.  Seriously Quick? High popularity or just so bizarre that you had to stop selling them?

Paris Do Not Eats - Half a Tea Time in Paris

Copain and I spent Sunday meandering around town until I requested that we stop for a bit to rest and have a tea (preferably with something to eat!).

While we would generally aim for the less expensive quartiers, we happened to be near St Paul and I wasn't in the mood to walk for another 20 minutes for a normally-priced thé au lait.  St Paul it would be, but we would have to make a concession and share something instead of getting one each - d'accord, sans problème.


We arrived at Le Bistrot à Pains, 2 rue de la Verrerie, 75004 Paris and decided to share the Thé Gourmand - a tea with some fun sweets on the side for 5 Euros.  There is usually always enough tea in the pot for two cups and the sweets included 2 mini-macarrons and 2 mini-financiers. Parfait.

Le problème: When our tea arrived, the pot was only half-full of water.

We thought it bizarre and Copain promptly got up to request a bit more.  On peut avoir un peu plus s'il vous plait, Madame? Now guess what Madame responded with...

I'm sorry but I cannot give you anymore water because you ordered the Thé Gourmand. You see, a regular tea already costs 5 Euros and includes a full pot of water but since you got the tea with the sweets included you can only have half of a pot of water.  

Since when is water not free in France, the country where the carafe d'eau is de rigeur in ALL restaurants?!

I was flabbergasted.  Needless to say, I will not be going back to Le Bistrot à Pains where even water has a price tag.

French Cannes Cannes' How To Guide - Les Urgences Style

How to End Up in the Emergency Room in Paris - a Step by Step Guide:

1. See mold on the ceiling (not at your own house, don't worry).

2. Be disgusted.
3. Put on a jumpsuit to protect your clothes.
4. Mix up a spray bottle of bleach and water.
5. Spray thoroughly on the walls.
6. Get closer to said mold by standing on the edge of the bathtub. Make sure you are barefoot and that you have nothing to hang on to for balance.
7. As the bleach mixture mists to the ground from all the spraying you are doing, make sure you get a lot on the bottoms of your feet and around the edge of the tub.
8. Lose your footing.
9. Reach for the shower curtain rod - make sure you pull it right off the wall as you go down.
10. Land on the bottom of your foot directly on the corner edge of the tile steps.
11. When you realize what has happened, go lay down in the living room and elevate your foot.
12. Cry.
13. Finish the cleaning job because that is the kind of person you are. Gag from bleach inhalation. Try to open a window for ventilation - yell at the cats in the courtyard who keep trying to get in. Realize that a hopping, yelling mad woman does not scare Parisian cats.
14. Hop back to the bathroom wearing a makeshift gas mask.
15. Create a genius cleaning device by tying a dishtowel to the end of a flat broom. Clean standing on one foot.
16. Hop back and admire your work.

17. Realize that you can no longer walk. Call a cab.
18. Tell the cabbie what happened - let him convince you to go to the Les Urgences (The Emergency Room) because, well, you may have broken your foot. Call Copain. Set in a progressive state of panic - how could you forget he was the son of a doctor?! you stupido!
19. Let the cabbie help you out of the cab - hold onto him as you hobble to the Accueil (Reception Desk). Explain your predicament. Look at your watch - it is 10pm. Tell yourself you'll be out by midnight.
20. Hobble to the waiting room - watch people watching you hobble. Wonder why the two policemen sitting doing nothing don't help you since you are carrying not only your purse but also a large bag.
21. Sit and wait.
22. See Copain arrive with a hamburger from McDo - inhale said burger.
23. Wait. Inspect your foot as it gets puffier and puffier. Think about getting a pedicure in the very near future.

24. See the first care nurses - hold a sugar cube under your tongue while they squirt some crazy meds on it and tell you to hold it there while the sugar cube melts.  Ask them if you can eventually swallow the meds as this was not very clear from the beginning. Feel nervous when they tell you that this crap under your tongue may cause heart palpitations (aren't you already prone to these due to high stress?).
25. Go back out with Copain. Watch Les Guignols on his Iphone. Wait some more. Watch the homeless dude make a pillow out of his shoes and sleep on the floor.
26. At 2am go with the nurses to the treatment rooms. Tell Copain to go home. Get poked. Get prodded. Try to remember your last tetanus shot. Get told you're getting an xray. Go see the Radiologue. Oh wait, she's not there. Wait some more.
27. Look over to your left at the half-naked homeless man who won't stop raising his knees under his thin hospital sheet bedding therefore exposing his homeless nether regions. Look away. Pretend you are asleep.
28. Hear a squeaky fart slip out from under the homeless sheets. Pretend you are deaf.
29. See Radiologue Frenchie arrive - take three xrays of your foot - go wait some more.
30. Avoid homeless flashing that just won't stop.  Roll yourself (in your 1950's wheelchair) to an outlet to charge your cell phone - how else are you going to get home but by taxi at this point?
31. See nice doctor coming towards you with a big xray envelope - let out a sigh of relief that your foot is not broken just severely bruised and a little bit twisted. Feel stressed when she tells you that you don't have to work tomorrow, you have an arrêt du travail and can stay home and rest (what about all of the things on your to-do list?!).
32. Wonder how you are going to walk in Paris - ask the receptionist for a cane prescription. Hobble to the awaiting taxi.
33. Explain your story to the curious taxi driver. Hobble up four flights of stairs to Copain who is waiting for you to come home.
34. Take a one-legged shower to wash off the hospital smell. Write an email to your boss explaining how stupide you are.
35. Fall into bed at 5.45am.
36. Wake up to this:

37. Seriously - consider an emergency pedicure.

Mc-Boulangerie?!

Sunday was a lazy day for me, just as I had hoped...picnic at the Parc Floral, meandering by Nation (where I couldn't help but buy two new nail polish colors - coral is the new IT color this season non?), a Diabolo grenadine (just like a Shirley Temple!) with my friend M, and then, much to my utter dismay, this:

Hamburgers have invaded my local boulangerie!!!!

What is the world coming to? I'm at a loss for words.

Trop Nuls les Tropeziennes!!!

Copain went out to dinner with a friend tonight, so I decided that after work for me would be ...shopping time! I had scoped out a few tank tops at Monoprix that I wanted to buy.  (Monoprix = Target, Frenchie style). Somehow I also found myself at H&M with a new dress and three new belts, but back to Monoprix...

So, I was walking down rue de Rivoli, planning on going to the Monoprix at St Paul, enjoying the view of the cathedral when...BAM! My shoe broke! My 40 Euro Tropeziennes! What the ??!!!!!

I had two choices - venture across the street to André (a shoe store) and pray that it was still open, OR esperer that I was close to Monoprix and keep scooting along until I got there.  Only, I couldn't scoot - I could barely walk. I had so do this little knee lift thing, swing the sandal forward and then drop my foot down on top.  I tried to squeeze the toe part in-between my toes, but no luck - I looked like I had lost feeling in my leg or had endured some kind of momentary paralysis. Nice.

Finally! Monoprix! I knee-walked my way in and made a bee-line for the shoes.  Here were my choices:

-A sandal in the same Tropezienne style for 30 Euros, complete with some flower thingy on top

-A pair of Bensimon tennis shoes for 27 Euros - while they had white, navy and purple, the only ones in my size were, yep, you guessed it - PURPLE.

-A pair of expensive sandals for 50 Euros (my foot hung over the side)

-A pair of lavender espadrilles for 10 Euros (yes, lavender)

-A pair of Toms knock offs that looked like Grandpa slippers for 30 Euros (with no Tom's promise of a free pair of shoes for the shoeless kids!)

-A pair of bright white Keds knock offs for 20 Euros (I think the last time I wore Keds I was 8 years old in Mrs Collin's third grade class...)

Purple - dude.

I tip-toed barefoot around Monoprix hoping for a pair of cheap flip flops (5 Euros anyone?) - I even looked in the men's section and finally the children's section (hey, I girl can hope right?).  No luck. Nada.  I was thisclose to buying the expensive sandals but with that whole foot hanging off the edge situation I just couldn't justify a 50 Euro spend.  The lavender espadrilles seemed summery, but dude, Easter is over. 

My feet covered in dust, my ego just about buried, my phone rang - it was Seester! I told her the sad story - go with the Keds she said. Even if you wear them twice you've gotten your money's worth.  I limped to the check out counter, one shoe on one shoe off, weird stares all around me, paid my 20 Euros and promptly changed my shoes right there next to the purses. 

And blinded by the white of my brand new Keds, I walked all the way home....

Do they make your eyes hurt too?

La Fête du Travail - Muguet and Manifestations

Today, May 1st, is the Fête du Travail in France - Labor day to us Américains.


It's a day to buy and sell muguet, to hang in the park, brunch with friends - or manifester if you are so inclined...

Muguet for sale....

Streets blocked on the way home from our day out in town

Full on manifestation

I won't rant about the manifestants in France today but let me say this: if their manifestations are to be expected every May 1st (as noted on this evening's news with Claire Chazal), then where is the strength in the argument? Is this now just a simple tradition or are they really fighting for something? I think I smell a case of the boy who cried wolf...

Sad Dancer

Remember this problem?  yeah. ugh.

I'm still not fixed and now it has been over a year since I've taken a dance class.  I'm depressed.

bah.

It didn't help that today I saw this and this and this and this  and this and then I tortured myself with this.

I can't take it. Get me to a dance class. Stat.

Pauvre Marthe (and poor me!)

When I hear about new TV shows in the US, I know that if I'm patient enough they will ultimately come to the land of wine and cheese. This was the case for Friends, American Idol (perhaps not so cool anymore?), Greys Anatomy, How I Met Your Mother, Who Wants to be a Millionaire etc etc. While the French dubbing makes me want to tear my eyes out (French Ross Gellar anyone??) with time I can generally get over it and enjoy the wonderfulness that is American TV  (and sometimes Copain figures out how to watch the shows in English!!! Merci Copain!!).

So when I heard that Dancing with the Stars (Danse avec les Stars) was headed to La France I was excited to watch some new American genius.

Only- dude. Dubble-you-tee-eff.  Les Stars Français CANNOT DANCE.  Was this the case for Jennie Garth? Brandy? Bristol? Kelly Osbourne (or was she just in the UK)?  And who decided it was a good idea to do a paso doble to the song "Pretty Woman"??!!!

Do the Americans cast the equivalent of the 82 year-old Frenchie Marthe Mercadier (who was oh-so-sweet but who could have broken a poor little French hip)? Don't get me wrong, I totally dug her Celine Dion searching searching face during her Titanic performance but well, oh dear, pauvre Marthe. The headlines today in the French press said that she had  "fait naufrage" (was shipwrecked!) after Saturday's performance.

Is the show this lame-o-rific in the states too? Are the Frenchies doing something wrong? Isn't it fairly easy to follow a program format?  oh. la. la. - and not in a good way.

Non Non Blondette

After 8 months of Parisian living I finally got my act together and got a gym membership and yes, I would like a medal and/or a cookie for my efforts.

Thankfully, instead of paying the 800+ Euro annual fee, I got a super duper amazing discount through my work.  phew. compte bancaire sauvé.

The first day I headed over there with the Copain was a Sunday - very chill - jumped on an elliptical - lasted 15 minutes - thought I was going to die - could barely walk for about four days.  The second time we went it was a Tuesday...

Not. So. Chill - I should have known...

The entire working population of Paris goes to the gym between the hours of 6pm and 10pm leaving you running/wrestling for ANY cardio machine. It makes you wonder why the eff you went to the gym in the first place when you could run ANYWHERE for FREE in Paris.  (the answer to that question is that you decided it was more important to wait 30 minutes to run on a machine than to risk running through Parisian dog poo and French loogies only to be harassed by your local corner homeless dude on the way home).

Hence our decision to try out a group class instead of braving the cardio machines the following Tuesday.

Copain signed up for the crazy ridiculous and très difficile RPM biking class while I went for the zen relaxation class "Body Balance".  I should have known better having tried these yoga- thai chi -pilates combo classes for dummies before, but it was either that or thoroughly injuring/killing myself on a bike for an hour so Body Balance it was.

I somehow managed to get a spot in the back, shoved in a corner by the molding over
Emergency Exit door. Great for my health.  Our blond (with dark roots) instructer began with what she calls a "Thai chi -inspired" warm-up followed by a "Yoga-inspired" stretching section.  ooh goody. Her musical accompaniment: lyrical versions of Jay-Z's hit "New York". I cannot tell a lie my friends - this ish is the TRUTH.

Beyond the "balls of light" we had to swish from right to left and the "crocodile pose" that I am convinced she invented and try to pawn off as yoga, I got to listen to Blondette sing along - Neeew Yooooork...(mumble mumble because I don't know the words in English) Un, deux, et trois - YES! YES! Saying YES in English instead of French so obviously made her feel super cool - it was her trademark call out during the ENTIRE hour of class.

It pretty much brought on suicidal thoughts that I had to supress while I swished balls of shining light, à droite, à gauche, à droite, à gauche...YES.

Like so Totally OCD, for sure

My mornings are like clockwork:

My alarm goes off.
I hit snooze.
The alarm goes off again.
I turn off the alarm.
I open my emails on my Iphone.
I read any new ones.
(this is where there is variation...): Sometimes I check Facebook, sometimes I don't.  Crazy, I know.

I lie in bed for about another five minutes trying to wake up.
I get out of bed and put on sweats and slippers.
I walk into the living room.
I go to the toilette.
I prepare the coffee and let it brew.
While coffee is brewing I prepare a mug with some milk.
I turn on the radio.
I prepare my lunch in a tupperware and put my breakfast biscuits on the counter to take to work.
The coffee is ready. I poor it in the mug.
I pour a glass of fresh water to drink after my coffee.

I plop on the couch and drink my coffee.
While I drink I think about what outfit I will wear depending on the weather. I realize I don't know what the weather will be...
I drink the water.
I realize how late it is and I go to the bathroom to get ready.
I wash my face.
I put on deodorant.
I put on face lotion.
I brush my teeth.
I put in my contact lenses.

I go to the toilette. again.
I pick out my outfit.
I put the outfit on.
I look in the mirror and debate whether or not I like the outfit.
I tell myself to stop being stupid and just go with it.
I go with it.

I go back into the bathroom.
I do my makeup.
I do my hair - this involves two seconds and a bobby pin. voila.
I put on my jewelry - 2 rings, earrings and a watch.
I put on my shoes.
I look in the mirror again.
I decide to go with it, again.

I put my lunch in my second hand bag for work.
I double check that the stove is off.
I double check that the lights are off.
I double check that my phone is in my purse.
I double check that my work keys are in my purse.

I grab my house keys.
I grab my two bags.
I walk onto the landing and lock my door.
I walk down to the 3rd floor and wonder whether or not I locked my door.
I go back upstairs and double check my door.
My door is locked.

I go all the way downstairs and walk to the metro.  Three stops and I change lines.
Two stops and I get out.

I walk down the street and make a left.
I walk to number 6 and open the door to work.

So you can imagine my surprise today when a Katy Perry (featuring Snoop Dogg) song about California girls came on the radio and I got a sudden case of homesickness - all during my bathroom preparation time. It was awful with knots in my stomach and daydreams of BBQs, car washes and my dad carrying a cooler on the beach whilst sporting a hip visor.  It just came out of no where and in my scheduled morning I didn't know what to do with it.  I had to remind myself why Paris is so great - Eiffel tower and all that crap.  But it didn't work. Somehow the sound of Snoop Dogg and Katy Perry singing about daisy dukes  and bikinis on top just got me all choked up.

I might have to stop listening to the radio - it throws off my whole morning.

America the Air-Conditioned, America the Great

I wasn't going to blog today - I vowed I'd be in bed by 11pm.  But after reading my friend Sunny Life's post I had to blog!

Today I was speaking to an anglophone who was new to France - this person has been a little errr...challenging.  At any rate, she was jet lagged and tired and I was trying to be understanding:

"Um, so like, what kind of accommodations do they offer in the South of France? I might want to go there instead next month."

"Well, I'm not sure," I answered. "All cities have different kinds of accommodation options. Why do you ask?"

"Because it's so HOT in Paris! In the South of France it will be less hot and more bearable because the ocean is there!"

hmmmm....how to explain....

First of all, it's a sea, not an ocean, but let's not get into technicalities. Second of all, uh NO it's not less hot in the South of France!  I told her I lived there, I knew.  And then she threw this one at me:

"So do they just like, not have air conditioning here?"

"Well, as you've noticed by the way I have swamp ass, there isn't even air conditioning in our offices...no one really has air conditioning, you know, like San Francisco or Santa Barbara."  (I tried to bring it closer to home for her)

It was a ROUGH conversation.  One that I had to quickly relay to my Anglo friend as we chuckled over her uber-Americaness.  But after a five minute pause I had to bite my tongue. I was a big ol' hypocrite:

At 15, during my first trip to Europe, all I could do was complain about the lack of air conditioning and how stupid all of these Europeans were. What the eff were they thinking suffering through summer like they did? And why the eff were they making me suffer too??!!  I spent most of my vacation in Berlin at the large mall in the center of town, not because I cared to buy anything but because it was friggin air-conditioned.  Call me a spoiled Southern California girl but I just couldn't take it!  To this day, that is pretty much all I remember of Berlin.  And cold showers.

Over the course of 6 years I, like Sunny Life have gotten used to the sweaty, smelly mess that is France during the summer.  I live with swamp ass, I sweat a bead of sweaty mustache, I feel the sweat drip down the back of my legs in a store that is hotter than hell and I save money - why? Because I leave before I can pick anything out.  The heat makes me angry and I have to GO.

I give up trying to look suitable and I just deal with it - cotton and linen are de rigeur, the hair goes up in a bun, rings are totally off limits due to heat inflated sausage fingers, and makeup? makeup is a total joke! But I don't stink - I will never go that far into the French realm of summer.  C'mon people! Antiperspirant it up! Fill your pores with alluminium! For the love of déo! For the love of my nasal passages and gag reflexes on the metro!

And to continue my rant just a bit further, what really gets me are the people who stink already at 9am.  How for effs sake does that thappen?! I'm at a loss.

So where I had a little chuckle about the naive newbie who just didn't get it - I take it back. I take it allllllll back. Girlfriend is right. Get it together Frenchies.  Install the AC. And if you "get sick," as you always claim you will,  pas de stress! The government will pay for your lovely doctor bill anyways!

Too Nice

We have a new recruit at work today and I already feel bad for her. 

I walked in at 9.30 (ok 9.45) and there she was at the front desk.  We'll call her Charlotte for the purposes of this blog.  I shake her hand and say hello, let her know that I am just upstairs if she has any questions.  She thanks me and as I walk up to my desk she chipperly says, "I need supportive people today!"  To which I reply, "I completely understand, don't hesitate."'

So we are off to a good start, her and I. 

Then she comes upstairs to ask the accountant a question about mail.  The mail question is asked and answered and then she offers to take the mail to the post for the accountant once she figures out where the post office is in Cannes.  I realize that she is not from here and ask where, in fact, she lives.  "Grasse," she says, "in a little piece of paradise! My house has exposed stones and 5 hectares of land! You couldn't pay me to move!" 

Now, that's a lot of information when you consider the simple question I asked.  But...all the same, I think she is nice, maybe a bit too nice, but still, she's trying and she's new.  She must be nervous, I think to myself.

I go to lunch with my French female colleagues and before we can even get five minutes down the street the s**t talking begins.  She is too mieleuses they say! She is syrupy sweet! It's only the first day - when is this going to stop?!  I try to explain that she is probably nervous and that she will calm down and be normal soon but they think she has crossed the line of nice-ness.  "You can't just be nice like that on the first day!" they say.  "It's indiscreet and rude!" they hollar. "She even complimented me on my new top!" says one of them.

I really try to explain that I think she is just trying to find her place and that her nervousness has manifested itself into an overly perky person where dog poop turns to rainbows in the blink of an eye, but they don't believe me.  They think I'm standing up for her and that I'm on her side.  Which I kind of am since the French aren't the most welcoming bunch on the block.

I agree that she could take it down about five notches, but c'mon!

Poor Charlotte. Chastised for her niceness. Only in France my friends, only in France.

IHD - the Proof

The fun never ends with the IHD - if you don't know about my adventures with the Iphone Homeless Dude, you can read about him here, here, and here. 

But my friends, I'm about to bring your experience with the IHD full circle.  Prepare yourselves because here he is in living color!

IHD morning routine: charging his Iphone and accessories

See his system?! See the cable? See the black bag?  It's holding all of his electronics and hidden behind it is the power strip!  Homelessness has become a whole new animal.  Nothing like the lady with gold teeth and two sad children begging on the Croisette yesterday.  She was happy when I gave her three juice boxes and you better believe she doesn't have an Iphone.

The IHD is Back

You read right - the IHD is back in town - right on my street - right outside my front door to be more exact.  For those of you not in the know, the IHD is the Iphone Homeless Dude who used to roam my quartier.  I know, I know, a homeless guy with an iphone is hard to believe but I am here to tell you my friends that he exists in real life!

He took a hiatus for awhile there, probably because my street was under construction and the fumes from the tar was too much to take in the morning.  Or maybe because it was snowing in Cannes and he needed to find better shelter from the cold (it's true that his usual porch was pretty shallow and he definitely would have gotten snowed on). 

Anyways, he's back. 

And now guess what he has???  A power strip with four outlets! - or what the French call a multi-prise. Where there was once mystery surrounding the IHD, I now know why he loves my street.  My street being the main street of restaurants and bars in Cannes has lots of exterier outlets on the walls - perfect for say, plugging in a heater for the café terrace, or...charging your Iphone in a pinch.

This isn't just any IHD my friends - he's a smart one.  With lots of charging to do on weekday mornings...

R.I.P. Harold

After bragging about my Heat Victory I have been defeated - by the Heater - who will now be called Harold. Harold has drawn his last breath, sung his last song, in other words, Harold has met his maker. My friends, I'm devastated to announce the death of Harold on Friday, January 15, 2010. 

We tried to resussitate him by turning his dials, checking his plugs and verifying his fuse, but to no avail.  Harold is cold as a corpse. His wheels no longer turn and we awake to a chill in the air that permeates the house with sadness. 

Harold, you will be deeply missed. My eyes well up and my teeth chatter in memory of you.....

Cannes I Get Some Heat Up In This Heezy??!

As a California girl, I think we used the heater in my childhood home about five times during the course of the winter months.  I remember the musty smell that would radiate from the hallway when we would turn it on for the first time each year.  Eventually my mom would start to feel claustrophobic and we would have to turn it off and put on our turtlenecks and socks. Hence, my experience with heaters is needless to say, quite small.

When I moved to Santa Barbara for college the heater had a bigger place in my life because it was colder on the coast.  Unfortunately, the dorm heaters were anything but efficient and even my first apartment on El Greco road only had one heater downstairs that was supposed to heat the entire 1960's duplex. I think we were lucky we didn't burn the place down.

After Santa Barbara I moved to the other side of the Atlantic and found myself in Toulouse.  It was in Toulouse that I experienced my very first real winter and my very first heating bill that was over 200 euros. My roommates N and C and I lived in an ancient building on Boulevard Lascrosses owned by a coniving French woman who lived in an apartment overlooking Hyde Park in ritzy London. Just to give you an example of the s**thole in which we lived, we found the previous tenants dentures in the cupboard, the sink fell off the wall and there was a pipe explosion leaving us toilet-less for three days.  And that is just the beginning. But I digress...

The problem on Boulevard Lascrosses was that we had radiators - radiators so old that the dials controlling the heat were locked in position from years of deterioration resulting in the only temperature choice of SUPER HOT.  We California raised kids didn't understand the concept of regulating heat on a day to day (or hour by hour) basis and therefore just kept the heat on 24/7 until said electric bill arrived in the mail and we realized that we were in hot s**t.

My next apartment in Toulouse was newer and outfitted with electric heating.  When the French asked about my apartment heating and learned it was electric they made a face which I quickly understood to mean that electric heating was trés cher. Greeeeat. As a result, (and also due to my experience the previous winter) I only turned the heat on when I absolutely needed it and spent most of the winter in multiple layers at all times. Or, I turned on one heater and tried to remain in close proximity to it for most of the evening.  I made it work for my measly teaching assistant salary while managing not to lose any extremities from frost bite. My heater was on, but in "moderation" as we Americans like to say. I ate just one square of chocolate, not the whole bar. Winter 2005: No 200 euro bills - all ten fingers and toes AHA!

Now I find myself in Cannes, known admittedly more for the cold people than for the cold weather. I also now happen to live with a Copain who I have had to teach the English words cheapskate and tightwad to due to the subject of our one main fight this winter: we have very different feelings about the use of our heater.  After spending all of 2007 and 2008 without turning on the heater so much as once - and after having to provide (embarrassing) blankets to my friends when they came over for our weekend Star Academy nights, I told the Copain that this year I would be turning on the heat! (It became especially clear when both of my friends came over this December equipped with extra sweaters for the dinner I had invited them to.) We both earn normal salaries, we are grown ups, we don't even have a dryer so god damnit we get to have heat! And I meant it.

When I got home from spending the holidays in California, in comparison Cannes was CA-OLD. cooooooooold. I kept my jacket on in the house until it was time for a shower at which point I turned the space heater on in the bathroom to warm it up before I had to brave the cold sans jacket/clothes/underthings. I then hopped in the shower to the amazingness of steamy hot water - ahhhh happiness.  But my euphoria came to a screeching halt when I opened the shower door to dry off and found that not only had the bathroom door been opened letting out all of the warm shower steam, but more importantly, the heater had been turned OFF!  I was LIVID.  The Copain was in deep dog doo.  He had crossed the line and was going to pay!  And I knew exactly what would get his attention.

Me: You turned off the bathroom heater that I turned on specifically for my shower!
Copain: But you didn't need it.

Me: AND you opened the door!
Copain: ok, yes, I opened the bathroom door, but here is your towel - it's not that cold.

Me: WHAT!? my towel?!  not that cold??!! This is beyond inconsiderate! I turned on the heat because I wanted to be warm - and I closed the door to keep the warm in and you effed them both up! A towel is not making this situation any better.
Copain: **blinks**

Me: You know what  (dramatic pause) I'm turning on the heat!
Copain: (panic rising) Noooooo! Don't turn on the heat! We don't need it! I don't earn enough money to put on the heat!
Me: I'm doing it - the heat is going on right now! I warned you that I wanted to use it this year and your inconsiderate actions show me that it must go on now! Here I go!
Copain: (pleading look in his eyes) Nooo please! No heat! No no no!  (switches to French due to panic) Non, ce n'est pas possible! On n'a pas besoin du chauffage!!!!

Me: **flip** (heat turns on - FCC wins the heat war)

To fully understand the pain and trauma that the Copain went through by me turning on the heat, just remember that this is the man who wants me to charge me cell phone during the "non-peak" electrical hours to cut down on cost.

We have now had heat for three days though the Copain insists on closing the bathroom and kitchen doors to "keep the heat in the rooms where we need it." oh good god.

Don't Bend it Like Cannes Cannes

French Cannes Cannes

+

(about 5 times in less than 5 minutes)

=

(at least 3 every four hours - overdose???)

and

(plus the inability to walk like a normal person or put on her shoes)

Doc appointment tomorrow at 16.30

Neighborhood Watch - My Quartier Has An IHD.

In an effort to save some euros seeing as how it is "La Crise" and all, I decided to make myself lunch at home. Leftover stuffing, cranberry sauce (I celebrated T-day last Saturday) some weird asparagus soup and cooked carrots plus one two slices of chevre cheese and a clementine for dessert.  (Dont worry, I totally packed some chocolate for later).

Since I have a chiropractor appointment later today and have to leave work a bit early (I'm such a good employee) I only took an hour instead of the hour and 15 minutes I am allowed. 

Well, who did I see on my way back to work (besides the row of pissed off drivers waiting for some guy to unload his truck in my one way street)? You guessed it my friends - Iphone Homeless Dude! We'll call him IHD here. Only guess what he had this time?

Accessories!

His Iphone was shamelessly out and plugged into what looked like a tiny computer thing - like a large gameboy turned horizontally.  Next to all this was a tin box (à la Altoids) and a lighter....who does this guy think he is??!! 

The lighter - ok, I can let that slide.  Even though his money is probably wasted on cigarettes when he could be buying food, I will let that go because he's French and he probably grew up taking drags on Marlboros inbetween breast feedings.  (Please note that this would not be accepted if the IHD was American - and especially a Californian).

The tin can - well yes, that too I can accept.  A guy needs some kind of recipient for sorry-feeling passers by to leave spare change.  The tin is a necessity.

We all know how I feel about the Iphone - but now this! Now accessories! Does he have a Wifi connection too? (is he stealing mine??!!) Where does he charge it? Where do they send his bills? Obviously, the IHD is playing us all...

Either that, OR French Riviera Homeless Peeps are just more glamourous than your average homeless guy.  They have to keep up with the Jones' because hey, they live in Cannes - they're not just any homeless person.  They are French Riviera baby - iphones and all!

My theory may be correct, but I draw the line at homeless people carrying their mangy dogs and iphones in Louis Vuitton bags. The minute I see this in Cannes I'm out. I don't care how much their monthly government stipends are.

I may be Cannes' only hope to stop this madness. I must send a notice around my quartier letting them know that we have an IHD roaming the streets...maybe I will organize a neighborhood watch. I'm sure I can get Madame on the second floor to take the day shift...

Will Work for... Iphone?

I generally take the same route to work every day - it takes me about five mintues to walk from my front door to my office. Amazing, I know.

Almost everyday there is what I have assumed to be a homeless man on my neighbor's stoop. He has a backpack and headphones and just chills there as I walk on by in a rush because let's face it, I'm always running late.

Sometimes he talks to the garbage man or the street sweepers...but other than that he's just kind of there. I couldn't even tell you what he does there because he's never doing anything. It's weird.

Today, however, I noticed him. Today he completely took me off guard. As I walked down my street and discretely looked to my right, there he was, local homeless guy - with an IPHONE?????? Yes ladies and gents, local homeless man who chills on my street every morning rain or shine has an iphone. Whaaaaa??

If I ever thought about giving him a euro, that completely killed it. Iphone??!!! What about food? What about shelter? Iphone??!!

I'm at a loss for words.

deeeerrnit

I think I'm sick. bah!