Moommmyyyy, Do you Looooove meeeee??

I enjoy placing the blame on other people.

Michelle!
What?
Did you eat just the caramel out of the ice cream???
NOOO. Dad did it!!!

Michelle!
Yeaaaa?
Did you eat the rest of the portugese pastries?
Nope, definitely Mom.

Of course, I like placing the blame on people even when it doesn't involve food, too.

Which I why today I am blaming 3 different parties: Eva Levy, my carte bleue and my parents. In that order.

Eva, who has the best taste of anyone I know (even if it is a bit questionable at times), really likes (liked?) the designer Erotokritos. Several years ago, she came bearing a skirt from that line for me, as a gift. I liked the skirt but didn't think anything of it.

Here is where the problem lies:
Wednesday started the first day of sales, here in Paris. Sales are a BIG THING. It is the only time (well, twice during the year) that stores are allowed to unload stuff at near-loss prices. This obviously is my favorite time of the year.

Prior to the sales starting, I could count the amount of material things I purchased on 2 hands:
2 Petit Bateau Shirts
A pair of Espadrilles
Louis Vuitton Bag
Dior wallet (passport wallet)
Leather wallet (everyday)
A pair of gladiator sandals
H&M skirt

(and I also purchased a pair of jeans and a winter coat in Cologne).

THAT'S IT!

So when the sales started on Wednesday, I just thought I'd go to look.

FAIL.

I was at Galleries Lafayette, just to see what was going on. And I happened to past the Erotokritos line. And I tried on a dress. And fell in love.

Amusingly enough, I hate shopping. Mainly because I am a) really self-conscious about how I look (in general) and b) everything I like normally costs 800 euros.

So, when I tried on this dress, the starts aligned and I LOVED IT (and looked good in it too, obvi). I decided right there to purchase it. For those who know me, I don't shell out big money on anything. (Minus foie gras.) Now, the dress was way over 300 euros full price. Thanks to the sales, I bought it for around 150.

It's just been a slippery slope from there...I spent the last 2 hours at Le Bon Marche, looking at more Erotokristos dresses. Luckily, I held out and decided not to purchase another dress (not today, anyway), but came out of there with a brand new pair of Joe's Jeans for 40 euro! They'd be that much 2nd hand at home! Lots of exclamation points!

Part I: I blame Eva for introducing me to Erotokritos.

Part II: I blame my debit card for letting me make these purchases. Prior to the debit card, I just carried around cash. And because I don't carry around a ton of cash, I never made big purchases.

Part III: I blame my parents for not footing my shopping habit.

Part IV: Shameless plug: Go to Disco Noir, Eva's handbag line.

Part V: 13 more days!

Stuffed Animals!

The list of things I love is not too extensive, and can be broken into 3 categories: food, animals, and people. Yes, that's in the right order.

The animal category has 2 sub-sections: alive and dead.

My confession? I love taxidermy.

It goes beyond that though: I really, really love taxidermy.

Tell your friends, if anyone has extra taxidermy they no longer want, I'll be more than happy to take my truck and pick it up. Priorities go to people who no longer want their full size animals. It's an obsession, and an expensive one at that.

This love of mine can be directly traced to my mother. For someone reason, the lady who really dislikes the outdoors has a soft-spot for taxidermied animals.

Our collection started at St. Ouen, the main flea market in Paris. I think I was around 15 at the time and my mother made me bargain (in French!) for the animal who is now known as "Richard".

Sadly, I don't have any pictures of Richard on my computer, but for those of you who have not had the pleasure of using our downstairs bathroom, Richard is the (taxidermy) monkey who holds the toilet paper. He is small (no larger than 2 feet tall), and is just at the right height to make men feel self-conscious. Please, where else would you put a taxidermy monkey?

Later, Carlos (the deer) joined Richard, as well as the fake cat (not taxidermy, but more than plush). Our cleaning ladies love us.

Every weekend, I go to the St. Ouen flea market. I look for vintage handbags, fur vests and taxidermy. I succeed weekly in finding all of these things, but only seem to come home with handbags. Fitting a full cougar in my luggage and not declaring it is just asking for trouble, I know.

But today, today was going to be different. After my weekly call to my parents (the "Hey, Mom, Guess where I am?!" phone-call), I found the perfect taxidermy turtle: the size of a small puppy, with the most beautiful glass eyes. He was going to be a gift to my mother, but I'd re-claim him for my first appartment. Sadly, Mr. Turtle was not held together too well...while my love for taxidermy still stays strong, my love of formadehylde has started to waver...

ICK.

"Remplir"

Today I used the word "remplir" in a sentence. I've never used this word before in my life, but while I was talking to the ladies in the Communication Department, it just came out of my mouth. It was the right word, not like I used "bitchass" for "network", but at the end of the conversation I was just like, "Hmm...maybe I'm getting it."

One of the Communication ladies wears this amazing perfume; I just want to stand next to her and breathe deeply. Good thing I'm not that awkward (yet).

The salad bar at work is awesome (grounds to move, H).

Other than that, excitement comes in the form of sushi dinners (thanks again, Ann!!) and finding Madame locked outside of the house. I guess it's a trait in that family; the amount of times I've let someone in because they forgot their keys is insane. Take the following conversation that happened about 2 months ago:

(11 pm, weekday)
*I'm sitting at my desk and hear the interphone ring and try to ignore it, as I thought other people were home. After 5 minutes of constant ringing, I decide I should pick it up*
Me: Allo?
Monsieur: 5 minutes, Michelle? Vraiment?
Me: Uhhh...*buzzes him in*

Monsieur: (in English) Can I borrow your keys?
Me: Uhhh...
Monsieur: (still in English) you see, I am very forgetful sometimes. Just like my wife.
Me: 'k.
Monsieur: (even more English) I'll be back soon!

(12.45 am)
Monsieur: Merciii! *gives me my keys*
Me: Uhhh....

There are times when you just don't ask questions. This was one of those times. And yes, sometimes Monsieur just likes to break out the English. It's indiscriminatory, but when he's on a roll, good luck stopping him.

(...3 weeks and counting...)

And You Never Once Repeated an Outfit...Or Gave Me a Detention

When I started blogging this year I did it for one main reason: to keep in touch with everyone who I thought might be interested in my goings-on. It was also a hell of a lot easier to update a blog bi-weekly than to write a whole bunch of emails.

With that in mind, I sent out my first link to my Beijing Blog to a variety of people: friends, family, people-who-might-as-well-be-family, and even a few teachers from the Millburn district who I have kept in touch with over the years.

While I will still be blogging up to my departure (less than a month and counting!), I will be down one reader in a matter of days. And I can't let this reader slip away un-thanked...

So this entry is dedicated to Dr. Schaeffler, my 7th grade French teacher, whose advice and (at times, daily) banter got me through 2 continents, a language plateau, sticky situations at the homestay, and (most importantly) is the reason why I continue to study French.

Gold Star for Dr. Schaeffler!

Just Look for the one with the Peach Drapes

Being that none of you really know where I live in Paris, this is the street:

(I have black'd out all the important bits...aka, the actual number of the house...and my e-mail/skype address..)

It is the equivalent of Park Avenue, in New York City. I could’ve done a lot worse, I know.

Take 1:

Last weekend when Amberle was here, we played a game called “Chase Obama”. It was frustrating, if not fun, because I had to go to the bathroom for an hour of that game. Public toilets in Paris are a no go, trust me on that. So, during this game, we chased President Obama’s motorcade across Paris…as in, hanging out at the Hotel Crillon for an hour to see if we could get a view of him (which we didn’t). Eventually, I gave up and my need to get back to the apartment was great, so Amberle and I headed back home. As we headed back home, we saw a whole bunch of blocked off streets – one of which being the street on where I live.

Right here, at the intersection, was a whole bunch of people. We knew Obama was close because there was a huge American flag. And a whole bunch of people were saying “Obama”. I might have my moments, but I can put 2 and 2 together.

So I gave Amberle my keys so I can use the facilites above and she can stalk him out on the street. Eventually, I manage to get back down to the street, where we wait an additional 15 minutes in this spot.

All of a sudden we hear the roar of the crowd and a motorcade advances, then stops. Then, like lightening, we hear the swoosh of cars going 80 miles an hour in the opposite direction. As in, exactly where our back were turned. We were actually staring at the decoy cars – not the actual Presidential motorcade. FML.

But anyway, this was big ‘cause it meant that we were, as I liked to say, in shooting distance of Obama (joke! Joke! Joke!), but also, because I live on a really well-traffic’d street. At midnight it wasn’t a big deal, but it’s kinda like closing down Millburn Avenue in the middle of the day – not impossible to circumambulate but it’s a pain in the ass.

Take 2:

Friday morning I put on high heels to go to work, something that I never, ever do. I left the apartment a bit later than normal, in order to pick up my debit card at the bank, which opens at 9. (Yes, dear reader, I have my own French bank account – an experience I will detail in a future post.) I leave the apartment and realize that my street, which ALWAYS has cars on it during rush hour, is mysteriously quiet. I cross the street, to get on the side with the bank, and all of a sudden, I hear someone screaming at me in French, “Get Back!” This someone happened to be a military man with a gun the size of 10 baguettes strapped across his chest. OK, I can listen to directions.

All of a sudden a whole bunch of policemen surround me.

“What are you doing here?”

“How did you get on this street?”

I managed to stammer out “I live here” and then promptly get REALLY nervous because I don’t actually have proper residency cards and have no proof that I actually live where I do, minus my set of keys.

They nod, and I go to the bank (without asking why my street was cordoned off). I get my debit card (woo-hoooo!) and head back to the apartment to change my shoes. (I promptly realized that high heels were just not going to fly, being that I had to walk to the bus stop at the end of the street, instead of the one that’s right next to the bank.) All the while, I’m thinking that maybe Obama is still in Paris and maybe he is just purposely trying to ruin my everyday life. (Yes, the world DOES revolve around me.)

So I head back to my building…to be stopped again by the police officer telling me that I can’t get into my building…Great. This is when I started to whine: “Mais, J’haaaabiiittteeee iciiiiiiiiii.”

If there is one way to accentuate my American accent, it is to whine, as I found out. Note to self: stop whining.

However, I did manage to find out that there is a film being shot on this street for the next week.

Cool.

Moral of the story: Filling out housing questionaries really, really specifically is a good idea.

Best Card Ever

...excuse me while I grab some more Kleenex...

Number Game

7.5 hours 'til I wake up for work

1 month, 3 days 'til I'm back in America

5 months since I was on American soil (minus those 3 days)

15 hours since I said bye to Amberle

4 days since I saw Madame

15 hours since I saw Monsieur

9 days since I saw Lara

7 days since I saw Priscilla

72 hours since I saw Obama ("saw" is used loosely, btw, more like "sped past me")

21 years on Earth.

(Happy Birthday to meeeeeeeeee)

Just a Wall...

Just moved. And even though I will see the homestay fam every now and then...I am officially "on my own". (Or as on my own as I can be...I closed the door that leads into the apt, and Madame re-opened it and handed me 2 rolls of TP, reminding me that I didn't have any in my new bathroom). My new digs are directly connected to the apt...but only they can get in to my room...I can't get into the apt.

It's weird and sad and I will miss them more than I ever thought I would. And it hasn't even been 5 minutes yet...

:(