Anyone remember that '80s TV commercial that went, when a man you've never met suddenly gives you flowers, that's -- what was it an ad for, anyway? Cheap perfume? Intimate cleanser? I don't remember, but I must have been wearing some unwittingly the other day, because Cami and I were sitting at a cafe on the Rue Montorgeuil commenting on the children, wardrobes, and sexual preferences of passersby when a lady from the flower shop across the street came over and handed me a white rose. "It's a gift from someone, but I can't tell you who he is," she said, discreetly rolling her eyes. "This is why I could never be straight," C. declared, "boys are so presumptuous." When the cafe proprietor offered us a glass of water to use as a makeshift vase, we asked if he knew the identity of my mystery suitor. He didn't have a clue, but had figured out that we were a couple and joked that it was probably a girl who wanted to steal me away. Then he marched over to the florist to investigate. "I know who it wa-as," he sang, breezing past our table, "he's got a beard and is very hairy." Ooh, just my type. Hey, secret admirer -- thanks for the beautiful flower. If you're willing to switch teams, I know a lot of guys who are into the bear type. I could hook you up.
On an unrelated note, I love my low-paying job in the independent childcare industry. I do! It reminds me of the episode of Will & Grace guest-starring Demi Moore as Jack's old baby-sitter who's still baby-sitting after all these years. The weirdest thing is that the parents are about my age. I've already read half the books on their shelves. I want to borrow their Beastie Boys CD. The little Nugget and I get along very well. We have a very similar vocabulary in French, and his English is improving by the second, thanks to the British Thomas the Tank Engine DVD he watches six times a day There is really nothing cuter on this earth than a French four year-old saying, "Oh, Bother!" except maybe the part where he says "co-co-coooold" and buries himself in my arms after his bath.
Jodie came back from the Mac hospital this week with a brand new Parisian makeover featuring a French keyboard - the iBook equivalent of the vaguely irritating, yet oh so stylish scarf. She looks so slim and chic. If only I could get her to stop smoking.
Meal of the Week: Duck breast with riz rouge de Camargue, prepared by Charly and Amy from a recipe provided by Ben and Julie, followed by three knee-weakening cheeses and Amy's homebaked grand marnier-chocolate cake. I was bragging about being a bottomless pit who could eat anyone under the table (oh god that sounds dirty), but sometime after I got home and scarfed another slice of cake from our doggy bag, the bottomless pit just...closed up and even Alka Seltzer couldn't rescue me. I don't regret a single bite, though -- except maybe that last one.
Movie of the Week: Last Days, Gus Van Sant's Kurt Cobain movie. I'm glad it had subtitles because I couldn't understand a word Michal Pitt said the whole time. Still trying to figure out if I liked it or not. I definitely liked the Kim Gordon scene, which was in there, even though according to Manolo Blahnik Manohla Dargis of the NY Times, it was cut out of the version they showed at Cannes.
I've tried, really, to update this site a few times in the past days, but never end up publishing my posts. I'll write something banal, let the mouse hover over the SAVE icon, thinking who cares who cares who cares and then, without further ado, steer my browser elsewhere.
We're looking for an apartment in Brooklyn, which basically means checking Craigslist daily and negotiating the limits of how much we're willing to pay for the perfect hovel. Everytime a new place shows promise, my vision of what life will be like changes radically. If we got that place on Atlantic and Court, we'd do all our shopping at Sahadi's and I'd join the NY Sports Club. At Pacific and Underhill, I'd be at Miss Pope's every Thursday night to watch Without a Trace in bed with Chinese food and Pepsi One. The park would be close, and the library. On 6th Street... At Henry and Union...On Columbia... Thank god we don't have to pick a school district.
Yesterday was my first day of baby-sitting. I cried before going, from nerves and humiliation. For some reason, when I tell people about my new afternoon gig, I'm always tempted to say "hooking" instead of "babysitting". Prostitution is just so much cooler (and more lucrative) than childcare. As it turns out, though, the work was easy and fun and I'm thinking of it as practice for someday. We watched Thomas the Tank Engine DVDs and played with toy cars and stuffed frogs. The kid is French but his parents want him to learn English. His favorite word is tractor.
I am charging my camera batteries as we speak. The sun is turned up all the way bright today and there are so many pictures to take of Paris before we go.