"Who is John Galt?"
You know, I have to wonder if I'm reading too much Ayn Rand when I see the most utterly beautiful factory from a bus window, and find myself literally marveling at the gorgeous functionality of it.
"There are exactly two trees, one of which is in a pot." "So is there any grass?" "I think I saw a bush once."
Since I've been spending the past few days listening to French academics ramble about things like 18th century publishers in Cologne using fake addresses, I haven't had time to blog. However, as penance, I give you... Sili-Sili. Please, keep the laughing to a dull roar.
"Those prisons are leaking like a macrame diaphragm."
I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of evenings I've gone out during the past month, because I have turned into a recluse. I finally planned to go out tonight, to a meetup less than 5 minutes from my front door, but no... my lady parts didn't want to cooperate. I'm on drugs for the sole purpose of fixing my jacked up hormones, but clearly not working. Perhaps the French drugs aren't as strong, or something?
All I know is, no one at the age of 28 should be pining for menopause. I mean, hot flashes can't be worse than this, right?
"All right! I got my own stalker!" "You're so lucky; I have to share my stalker with five other guys at work."
It's days like today that make me wonder where my creepy-man-magnet is located. Sometimes, one could assume it would be right between those things that require me to double-up on sports bras when working out, but when you're wearing this twins-hiding jacket (and those exact same jeans, come to think of it) you've got to figure it's something else. No make-up, hair in a ratty bun, and I'm sort of ashamed to admit this, but I hadn't even showered yet (although I showered last night just before I went to bed, and I was only running out to the store and I wanted to work out when I got home, so it sort of makes sense, right?... oh, ferme-la.)
Ok. So the stage is set, right? We have an image of a sorta-icky don't-mess-with-me Zannah in our minds, right? Then would SOMEONE please explain to me WHY ON EARTH a creepy man followed this sorta-icky Zannah around la place Léon Blum for half an hour? He's headed in the same direction I am, I notice him around the McDo, maybe 150 yards/meters later I notice him REALLY checking this lady out, looking up and down, which I think is kind of cute because she's like 60 and shall we say "lumpy," and I think "how nice - there really IS someone for everyone." A few steps later he pauses in front of the Monoprix, I walk around him and go into the store, stopping downstairs to pick up some cotton balls. As I reverse direction and head upstairs, I see the same guy browsing through the coats in the women's clothing section, right next to the escalator going up. Now, it's sort of early/middle of the day, and it's past time to work and before lunchtime, so a 50-something dude in a suit and dress overcoat is kind of sticking out. Because I'm a people-watcher and I like to figure out people's stories, I wonder who he's planning to buy a gift for - a daughter, perhaps? (Another people-watching thought: Lady with the Purple Coat, please don't also wear bright purple tights and a weirdly short black dress. Not attractive.) I don't really see him upstairs - just once near the frozen foods - but after I've paid and I'm on the way out on the down escalator, I hear someone get on, walk down a few steps and come to a stop just behind me.
I glance back and it's the be-suited old guy from earlier. He tells me that he's not in a rush (i.e. don't move out of my way) or maybe he asked if I was in a rush - I don't know; I wasn't paying attention. I say nothing, he asks the back of my head if I speak French, I shake my head no, and he asks what I do speak. I again say nothing, and I haven't looked back at him since that first glance. I left the store from a different door than I normally do, because the security guard is right there, which happened to be the way I came in. As I'm walking on the street, roughly where the be-suited old guy checked out the older lumpy woman, I notice the very reflective glass acting as a mirror, and I realized that he was checking out my reflection and not Mme Lumpy. I also notice that the guy? Still following me, although he's three or four paces back.
At this point, I want to go home, but also don't want this guy to follow me home. And every window I passed was additional verification that he was indeed still following me. Having recently watching The Recruit during one of my recent Old Lady Evenings, I found myself analyzing my options. Do I look for a choke point? Except... he *wants* to talk to me, he's not just following me, so bad idea there. I stopped at this little place on my way back to get an ink cartridge for my printer refilled - this is at least a quarter of mile away from where he first started following me, mind you - and the guy was just standing across the street while I stood at the front desk. I've never been so glad for the French customer service that is both attentive and slow, because I was in there for almost 45 minutes. I was on edge the entire time - every time someone walked in the door I jumped. I'm not sure when the guy left, but the fact that he followed me that far, for that long? Insane.
So I repeat, where is my Creepy Man Magnet, and is possible to get it removed? Does this happen regularly to any of you, too?
"I can't spend fifteen minutes breathing and stretching and getting in touch with myself."
Quick Tip : on those late nights when you're up at 3 am because the Germans on the second floor are throwing a very loud party and you've decided to work on your yoga headstand (because you have this misguided desire to somehow build up enough strength to do a handstand push-up) but since you're still an ultra beginner you're doing it against a wall, and since your apartment is less than 200 square feet the best usable wall space to balance against is the closed bathroom door, make sure that the door is fully and completely latched. Otherwise, when you gently push off the door in your attempts to re-balance yourself, you might fall through the now-open doorway onto the bathroom floor.
On the bright side, you might discover that you apparently have the ability to do a pain-free pseudo-back bend.
Our "Getting Hit On In The Metro" feature hits a new level:
Today before rehearsal I was at the Montreuil marché with some of my fellow dancers to buy fabric for our saris, which meant lots and lots of wandering up and down these aisles between rows of stalls full of junk with your standard barkers. As a blondie at that particular part of the périphérique, I kind of stood out, perhaps, and the fact that the girls I was with today were all several inches shorter than me didn't help matters. To make a long story short, I got an inordinate amount of catcall-y "bonjour"s, even the occasional whistle (less common than the standard skeevy "bonsoir" in my experience), a "Здравствуйте" or two, and more than a couple of lewd comments. I was dressed in workout clothes like the others (even though hanging out in yoga pants is kind of gauche here), my hair in braids, no makeup, so you know - not exactly looking my best.
The funny part, really, though, was the fact that the other girls could hear it all. Apparently, the creepy men here tend to hit on the non-natives a lot more, because they were taken back while I was more... shall we say... "meh." After one of the earlier graphic comments, one of the girls looked at me with a mildly horrified look, and all I could do was laugh and say "bienvenue à ma vie."
"If you've ever wondered, wondered who wrote the book of love, it was us."
Do we recall the Bollywood dance I got sucked into doing a year+ ago? Well, apparently, my ward decided that we needed to have an entire Indian night, which means that once again I got sucked in because we're not only reprising the dance from before, but we're doing another, even LONGER dance. Today, on this lovely holiday, I spent more than four hours shaking my hips and attempting to choreograph a faux-Bollywood musical number.
Now, this may come as something of a shock (ha), but I'm not really the world's best dancer, and the fact that we were pathetic enough to need MY skills as a choreographer? Bad news, my friends, bad news. Don't wish you'd been there? Really, though, what I don't get is why we're having an Soirée indienne at all. Most of my ward is black, and the all of the women dancing (or their families) are either from some part of Africa or the West Indies, which means the Indian-esque moves? Kinda done with a nice African flair. I dunno... it just seems odd to me, especially since I can't think of a single Asian in our ward at all
On the bright side, maybe you'll all get lucky and I'll be willing to post a video of my Dance of Shame.
Is there anything better than dashing around Paris in the spitting rain trying to see as much of the city in 7 hours as is possible because your friend, on a business trip in London, is here for only that long, all followed by a late-night snack of ultra-healthy yogurt and a mini clementine, eaten while cuddled up in comfy flannel pjs? Really, it was fabulous. And now I'm going to bed.
Coming soon: a review of my trip to Scandinavia (really and truly; I promise) and a (possibly snarky) review of my class on Scandinavian social systems.
I'm once again not really in the mood for writing, but I thought I'd share this. It's a livestream of the bed of a litter of puppies - 6 of them, I think - and they're utterly adorable. If I could get a puppy that was both house-trained and would actually *stay* a puppy I don't think I'd mind one... Instead, I'll probably start my foray into the world of Crazy Cat Ladies once I get back to the States.
Sigh... If you are luckier than I am and don't live 6000 miles from pretty much everyone you love, do me a favor and give one of those people a hug. And maybe a really incredible, sexy kiss, if that kind of thing would apply.
I had a big old post planned, but I just finished not one, but two long conversations that were... at least somewhat emotionally exhausting. Thus, my description of my first days of classes and the apparently-not-one-eyed homeless guy and other things will have to wait. What won't wait, though, is mentioning that today is my Grandpa's 92nd birthday. We tend to live long lives in my family; I just hope that when I'm his age, I'll be as cheerful and into baseball as he is.
"Courtney, this is not a democracy, it's a cheerocracy. I'm sorry, but I'm overruling you."
So I know today is "that day," and while I've contributed to the online glut of election-related stuff, I'm electioned-out. I'm looking forward to waking up in the morning, watching the taped live show that Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert did tonight, and that being that. I'm looking forward to not listening to any more Democratic hand-wringing, but I'm not looking forward to listening to the Republicans talk about the impending apocalypse. On the bright side (if I may be so offensively generalizing), at least Republicans tend to be less whiny.
Of course, that's not to say that I haven't thought about politics. For example, I dug through the thousands (and I do mean THOUSANDS) of pictures my sister has scanned and put on CDs for the rest of us (three cheers for Katie - hip hip!) and found this one of me, typical self-satisfied smile, gnawing on watermelon on an Independence Day celebrated long ago on the farm still owned and worked by family, in a county my ancestors helped settle before Illinois was even a state.
Thinking about the kind of history my family has in this (or should I say "that"?) country... I guess that's more patriotic than political, but whatever. It's America-related. I've thought about the problems we face, and how what we're staring down is... huge, and yet, how I'm starting to really miss old Mother America (doesn't have the same ring as "Mother Russia," does it?). I think I'm getting trunky, if you will. Oh, and tonight I watched 12 Angry Men for the first time. Was kind of surprised to realize I'd never seen it before, and it kind of seemed like the right thing for the day. Amazing, amazing film. Again, not overtly political, but you have to admit, compared to the alternatives, the US justice system isn't so bad. And then, being the historian that I am, I was thinking a bit about France's political history, and a sketch I saw again in the Musée d'Orsay when a friend was visiting me a couple of weeks ago:
It's by Honoré Daumier, entitled La République, done in 1848 for a contest searching for fresh iconography for the new Second Republic, which would only last for four years. You know, I'm glad that unlike other successful democracies, we change "administrations," and not "governments." We may be young historically, but we're pretty old politically.
And one last thought that actually is more political: over the past few months, I've discovered that I don't really respect people who aren't informed about politics and who therefore have no opinion. I understand being conflicted about certain issues - goodness knows I am. I mean, I'm quite glad I don't have to cast a ballot in, say, Massachusetts, and therefore decide on important measures like the Greyhound Protection Act. But people who just don't care enough to know what's going on? Or people who just take the first argument they hear and run with it without even thinking about it? Literally no respect. I've had more than one date in the past year go south because politics came up and the guy had apparently no interest in knowing about the things that impact his life (and they WILL impact his life, whether he wants them to or not).
On the other end of the spectrum, I think I tend to attribute more intelligence to those who are more politically informed (and informed in general, I suppose). If you can give me a lecture on federalism that actually teaches me something, and then state that if you'd been alive during the Civil War you'd have fought for the South and are able to BACK IT UP, despite me coming at you with all the historical crap (it's amazing how long the "was the war really about slavery or states' rights?" debate has been going on) I've got stored in my head about it? That, my friend, earns respect. I may not agree with you, but at least you're not an idiot.
Speaking of which: if you're a US citizen and didn't bother to vote today, you are an idiot.
"The pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum."
After having spent the last year or so manning the nursery at my ward (aka church congregation) by myself, they finally called (aka asked/assigned) someone else to do it too, which means that I'm no longer alone in trying to corral a bunch of snot-nosed little Frenchies. I should probably point out that when I say "snot-nosed," I mean that quite literally. I spend the majority of those two hours wielding tissues, after which I douse myself with hand sanitizer. Tissue, hand sanitizer, tissue, hand sanitizer, and more hand sanitizer. This reminds me of another point: why on earth do most wards call singles and/or the childless to work in the nursery? Maybe you're just trying to give the parents a break, but the dripping mucus doesn't do anything other than convince us that we want to stay far, far away from having our own loud drool machines - 24/7. You want me to get married and have kids? Ask me to be in charge of something that doesn't involve wiping excrement off of other people.
Annnnnyway, so just as we got this new guard of the garderie we also got a new manual with fewer lessons, more visual aids and an all-around better understanding of the amount of patience most 18-month-olds (or four year olds) actually have. Unfortunately, the new guard did not have the wisdom of the manual, and as we sat there planning next week's lesson, she's coming up with ideas for laminated pictures and costumes and props like Moses' tablets o' the Ten Commandments. While I appreciate her enthusiasm, I just don't get how putting "Moïse" on a headband and carrying around cardboard tablets is going to do much for a kid who isn't even two yet, especially when the story you're trying to tell? Doesn't actually involve the Ten Commandments. Granted, maybe I'm just an under-achiever, because for the last year I've done (or tried to do) three things: prevent the kids from harming each other or themselves, limit the transference of bodily fluids, and teach a lesson that typically involved holding up a picture of Christ and having ninety seconds of "who is Jesus?".
So I'm planning with Mme Ambitious, and she's got this list of materials, and I've tried to nicely explain (at least I hope it was nicely - it's hard to couch words in a foreign language) that the likelihood of our hoodlums sitting for as long as she seems to think they will is beyond slim, but it's not taking. And she's just added a list of the parts of the lesson to the list of materials, and I'm trying to figure out how to explain that I don't actually care and I'm too busy to spend hours laminating pictures for, well, anything. And she's trying to figure out how to do her cool ideas without stepping on my toes, and I don't know how to explain that when it comes to la garderie and stepping on my toes I don't even have feet. I think I managed to convey the idea that I'll go along with whatever she wants so long as she doesn't demand much outside of church, and I may have succeeded because I was assigned to bring my camera and a black marker.
"From my house, I can see Belgium. That's kind of less interesting than you."
A couple of Quebecois comedians prank-called Sarah Palin, pretending to be French president Nicolas Sarkozy, and... it's hilarious, to say the least.
I know I'm behind, and I've owed you, my dear loyal readers, so many updates for so long that I think at this point the only word that applies is "pathetic." Currently, not only do I have Copenhagen to write about, I have a trip to Burgundy and an amazing weekend with a visiting American friend to add to that list. And yet, today? Still not the day you've been waiting for.
Frankly, I've been lost in thought lately - and not just the thinking in the shower (Item #6 on my list of Things I Miss About The US: big water heaters and the accompanying long, pressurized showers) that typically constitutes a big chunk of my lost-in-thought time. This morning, I woke up before 5 am and found myself contemplating and analyzing and connecting and, well, figuring the world out. I swear, if I hadn't gotten a headache from lying awake in the same position for four hours, I could have come up with a unified field theory (and then become the new A New Dawn, which reminds me: Katie, when we were still in the old house, why did Jack Weyland come stay with us? Do you remember?)
This is all to say, when I find myself thinking less about, I dunno, what it all means, or the limpid yet turgid pools of limitless depth that have me so preoccupied, THEN the belated stories of my hijinks-less life will come. And since my planned pictures of me dropping my absentee ballot into a La Poste box were thwarted by the tags o' French profanity on my local La Poste box, I have for you instead a store window I passed today that is still, even now, making me twitch.
"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark."
Since the postcard I mailed myself from Copenhagen arrived today, I figure I shouldn't really put off the travelogue(-imony) any longer, buuuuuut I'm also not in a very bloggy sort of mood, so instead... a teaser.
This is one of my last pictures from Denmark (this was my actual last picture from Denmark, but it's much less interest-piquing) and looking at it, you might be wondering where I am or what fun things I did earlier that caused the tired look on my face? Who might be the lovely people in the picture? Is that organic beer you see? "Denmark: Green Even When We're Drunk." Anyway, full updates will follow, perhaps when the call of my readers is louder than the call of my bed... although until Marky Mark takes a blog-reading break from his fancy-pants corporate lawyering boulot (since he won't take a break long enough to fly aallllllll the way over here), I make no promises.
I know I'm behind, and I've owed you, my dear loyal readers, so many updates for so long that I think at this point the only word that applies is "pathetic." Currently, not only do I have Copenhagen to write about, I have a trip to Burgundy and an amazing weekend with a visiting American friend to add to that list. And yet, today? Still not the day you've been waiting for. 
