Friday, July 30, 2010

Crappy Morning. Literally. There was crap. A lot of it.

This morning started off pretty damn good. That should've been a sign already. Good mornings for me are a karmic warning that things are going to go south. Like the cramps before your period. Good mornings are my cramps.

I woke up, felt great, and went to the market just outside my door to do my shopping for the next few days. I love going to the market on Friday mornings. Waking up to a bunch of smiling faces, anxious to take your cash in exchange for fresh herbs can never be a bad thing!

And... it's FRIDAY. FRIIIIIIIDAAAAAAAAAAAY. This means that I get to walk into the office, and yell with my grinniest grin, "HAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPYY FRRIIIIIIIIIIDAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY" and watch as my colleagues roll their eyes at the incredible-optimistic-anglophone-idiot. (They secretly love it, I suspect. If not just for the opportunity to make fun of me a little -- they are French after all.)

Despite the promising début of today, and the fact that the weekend is only a few short hours from now, a surprise awaited me. A smelly surprise.

I walked out of the metro, smile-on-face, whistling, actually WHISTLING, my way to the job I have come to loathe when: Someones bowels exploded. No, no. I'm serious. EX. PLO. DED. Wouldn't at all be surprised if bits of his innards were mixed in there.

Watch your step in front of the stairs at La Defense, because you may end up playing slip & slide on a pile of excrement so copious, that it makes an that triceratops's dump from Jurassic Park look like a Chihuahua's.

The poo wasn't just there. It was everywhere. Long smears of mysterious dried brown filth were littered with clumps. It looked like the pooper was so pleased by his creation that he decided to do a happy dance in it.

The saddest part in all this? I was so busy whistling, that I... yuck... took a step into it. You read that right. I stepped in human poop today. A big gob of it. (Another pair of shoes that I need to throw away now.) At first I was like, "where'd all this mud come from??" and then I took a breath. And consequently, wanted to hurl.

The A-holes at RATP didn't even mark it off. They were already on my bad side for the EARLY (the NERVE, I know, right?) trains, heated cabins in mid-summer, and general "we're on vacation, so you'll get one train an hour" attitude but... COME ON!! There's a drop of water on the ground & you get the "Caution" sign. Vacation or no, they should've quarantined the shit-littered area, put up those toxic waste signs & doused everyone with antibacterial spray.

And so, I say to you all, Happy Friday.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Translation Tips: "Tired" = "Total fucking shit" in French.

Typical weekly conversation:

Me: Hello! How are you?

Worthless French sack of impoliteness: Hi there! I'm fantastic! [insert reason why their life is unbefuckinglievably amazingly perfect here]. How are you

Me: Good, good. [insert typical I-Don't-know-you blah-blahing].

Tactless froggy douche-lord: Oh... Good. (Looks at me with disappointment complete with forehead crinkle.) Are you ok? (Starts studying my face like it just gave birth to twins.)

Me: ...yes? Why? Is there something in my teeth? (A pimple winking at you? Is a rogue alien-blob-like booger throbbing in one of my nostrils, preparing a mucus invasion of your home on planet indiscretion?)

Palpably uncomfortable foreign penis-hat: No, no. (Sympathetically pats my shoulder, to console me before doling out a death sentence.)

It's just that... your eyes are... "exploded". (Yes. That's the REAL word they use. I guess "Puffy" was too warm and fuzzy. In the French language, my eyes "EXPLODE" out of my visage.)

(Awkward pause.) You look so.. Tired?!"

Please note that the word "tired" is said as if I just finished climbing a mountain and or fighting a war, or raising a two-year old or something else that will suck the life out of you.

Show me an expat that has not heard these words, and I'll show you a person who has:

A) never ever had swollen eyes due to fatigue, and is probably addicted to Botox,


B) already scared the pants (and/or leggings) off their entourage after some other maniacally insensitive comment about their person.

Everyone. Has. Been. There.

And you're not out of the woods yet. The french have zero qualms about asking if you're preggo. (So a "you look like shit" with a side of "and you gained weight"... YAY!). I've been asked this numerous times. The jury will please note that I am not fat. They just ask. It's weird.

There is one other thing, but in my nearly 5yrs, I've only heard it once... once! "T'as bonne mine!" = "OMFG GTFO you look almost NORMAL!!". Yah. Once. (sigh)

I love that they can get away with this though. It completely astounds me. Imagine if an American came up to me (who was not a close friend or relative, because we're more forgiving of them, I think), and said "OMG. Wow you look REALLY TIRED."

Don't even try and tell me you wouldn't be all, "DUDE?! WTF?!!!". Cuz, I know you would. YOU know you would too. Let's get real here people. The French are funny about frankness and we forgive them a lot of it.

Suggestion: Next time someone says you look fatigued, tell them their ass looks unusually large. Ask if it might be swollen. Find out if they have hemorrhoids. Encourage them to see a doctor. You are, after all, only worried about their well being.

Edit: ps - I don't mind this coming from family or friends... it's the strangers who annoy the bajeezus out of me.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

RP Part Deux.

Horribly Embarrassing Confession:
It's official. I'm a cougar for life.


That's right be-yotches. I said it.

Robert, I want to be your next pointless, filandering, soon-to-be-forgotten mistake. I haven't had a man-crush this bad since Devon Sawa, so that's gotta count for something.

Needless to say, hubs took me to see the latest Twilight film not long ago. He may even have wiped a conspicuous drop of drool or two from my gaping trap, the dear.

Sometimes I don't know how he puts up with my flagrant admiration of this brooding, tormented, gut-wrenching hard body. I MEAN ACTOR. He is a thesbian worth his weight in massage oil. I MEAN GOLD.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

The Paris Blog Guestage: Travel Tales Part 3: Attack of the Dabies

Walking around Paris, you will spot your fair share of "Dabies". But they got nothin' on Colorado. I'm telling ya, this sleepy little mountain town of mine is a Dabie-Fest.

They're everywhere. I'm not sure, but I think they may even be more numerous than people. That's right. Dabie to people ratio in my estimation = 3:1. I feel like they may take over the town at any moment and start making me eat Eukanuba with luke-warm water poured on it while I watch them eat bacon. I literally just saw a woman with two dogs wrapped up in one of those African sheets so they would be all snuggled against her like infants.

"What in the shell is a Dabie??" you're wondering. Do not fret, my pets, I'm here to tell you.

A "Dabie" is a dog that serves as a pseudo baby. They are coddled, swaddled and loved as anyone would treat their very own offspring. Except, they have a tail and drool all over you. (Love is blind.)

"How can I tell what is a Dabie vs. your typical spoiled domestic pet?" you're asking? Well, here are a few key identifiers (Warning: links and photos may induce projectile vomiting. Consult your physician and/or psychiatrist before viewing or don't come cryin' to me when you're covered in lung butter:) :

1) They are crippled.
Dabies cannot walk. It is a well known fact. Their owners are required to carry them everywhere, or find some other type of transportation, ie: Canine Bjorn, Pupoose or Dog Stroller . Sure, it's an investment, but better than listening to the sound of your dragging Dabie behind you on every walk. That shit can get annoying.

2) Swaddlage
Dabies are too often tiny, cold-blooded creatures. They require swaddling cloth and must be nestled safely against the warm bosom of their owner. Dabies would rather perish, suffocating between breasts, than be cold. concurs.

3) Style Gurus
Dabies are notorious for accessorizing. Be it bedazzled collars or little yellow slickers, Dabies know how to work the catwalk, even if they cannot actually walk (see point 1). It's almost funny how often Dabies can be spotted wearing some article of clothing with the word "spoiled" actually ON it. As if you really needed a more flagrant indicator than things like this. You should try to dress in matching clothes with your Dabie. People will not at ALL think you are a Weirdo-Obsessed-Tom-Cruise-Kind-Of-Crazy fuckwit. Promise.

ps... if I had the good fortune of owning a pup, I'd totally dress it in this shit.

4) Persnickety Predisposition
Do you like steak? So do dabies. Save your table scraps for the rats. Two words. Rib. Eye. Ex: This freakin' mutt.

5) Supercilious blank stare
To dabies, you are only a hand that feeds them. PS: they will bite you if you do not feed them. PPS: They will most likely bite you, even if you do feed them. That's just how they roll.

6) Language of Love
Dabies do not speak English. Actually, they don't speak ANY widely known language. If you're going to own one, you must adapt. They speak "Dabius", a dialect of baby-talk that only has 3 vowels and a handful of consonants. "Eez eee ungree?!?! [Name of Dabie] Wa treeah!?!" is the most commonly used phrase. (2nd most common: "go peepeepoopoo likah gooh [Name of Dabie] geh treeah!!!!!")

7) Headliners
To say Dabies enjoy the spotlight is to say that MJ was a tad excentric. Brass Tacks = they need a website. Dogbook is not going to cut it. They need publicity dammit. THE WORLD must know how Cute/Adorable/Lovable/Smart/Hilarious/Talented/Proud/Amazing they are. Get on it. Stat.

BE alert people. I fear they may be spreading in Paris....
ps... this image came up while searching for photos... WTF?

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Where the EF you been hooker?

So... I've been terrible at blogging lately.

Not that I was every really fantastic, you know like blogs that make you think "OMG I could've have written that, and then everyone would think that I was a genius instead of that assdouche.", but lately it's been especially shit-tastic.

Sorry folks, but
when shit hits the fan, I think you're allowed to be a failure. These past couple of weeks my shit has hit the fan, then splattered all over the walls on to priceless, irreplaceable silk scarves, which fell on-to and suffocated a baby seal, then ricocheted into my shocked, open mouth. Now everything I taste has a shitty aftertaste. It's as if I've gargled shit, if you will. I've been too busy shargling to blog.*

*I am not at all dramatic. Not at all. I'm TELLING YOU. Seriously, I'm NOT!! WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT??!!! BASTTARRRRRD!!! STOP JUDGING ME!!!!!!!! (Runs away, trips, cries, gets a giant snot ball on her cheek, looks back forlorne.)

Some people enjoy blogging about it. I enjoy wallowing. Wallowing in books. I've read 6 books this month... not a good sign. And Smoking. Yes. I admit it. I've been smoking ciggies again. :( Bad bad bad Shannon! We all have our vices, they say. Whoever "they" is, probably had a bad one. Like catapulting baby kittens into a pool of flaming gasoline filled with grenade-floaties. "They" is bad people I'm willing to wager, but the point is a valid one.

I'm in some kind of funk. A french funk. #FF. Ever since I've been home, I keep feeling like I WANT to write, then the aforementioned shit gets in the way.* I am going through this non-productive phase. It's like when something you HATE comes on TV, but the remote is two inches too far away to change the channel & you just shrug off the annoying Dora cartoon with a "Mehhhh... fuckit." (You can't tell that I've recently done this at ALL I'm betting.)

*Btw, I had massive jetlag, my apt was robbed, my job is going to hell and ... ok that's it, but it's enough to throw me off my game.

It's not like I don't have anything to write about. I have as many topics as ever in the hopper, but can't seem to get to them oddly. I think I'll blame True Blood for now. yeah. Sounds good. Who can resist True Blood? ... oh .. you.. well... you don't count. I'm the author here. I think the root of the cause may be coming back from vacation though. Everyone in the halls keeps asking me "Soo! When's your next vacation?!" and then I want to chop off their ball-sacks with a rusty nail. Or maybe kick them in the clitoris, if we're being fair.*
*Not an exaggerated or undeserved response in the least, I'm sure you will agree.

Point is, I'll be back very soon. With a vengeance. Stories about dog-babies, vacations, Frenchies, etcetera etcetera. Maybe I'll be worthy of your assdouche insults?

Monday, July 5, 2010

Travel Tales Part 2: Detective Work

"You know the Westmoore Country Club?" the frizzy-haired t-shirt shop owner asked with multiple pauses between words.

"Aahh... Yes?" My friend El answered a bit tentatively.

"We TRAAAASHED (long pause) the PLACE!!!!" he replied, followed by some kind of insane giggle spasm.

Buying a sweatshirt should not produce this type of conversation. "Joe Mountain" only wanted to know where we were from, I thought, at the beginning of our conversation but it spiraled into a cross-examination worthy of Judge Judy and ending with our retail retard relaying his best-hits version of weird things he's done in Wisconsin.

Needless to say, people on the mountain are their own breed. I'm guessing the legalization of pot in our little ski-town is not helping this phenomenon, but despite their acid-hit-too-many nature, the mountain folk are rather nice.

You know what else they are? A slew of gumshoes. I have never in my life felt more Frenchified than the last week.

"Where are you from? What are you doing here? Where do you live? What is your job? Are you married? Do you make more money over there? Are French people all bastards? Do they hate Americans? How often do you masturbate?"

Ok, ok, no one has asked me that last question yet, but they may as well. I'm starting to realize that the mountaineers have no boundaries. It's like island living up here. Life is innocent. People chit chat. They talk about their lives and spill every last tidbit of personal information about themselves... and that is normal in this neck of the woods.

But I am no longer accustomed to this friendly informational banter and it's starting to feel like I'm being interrogated by the Mountain Brigade. I liken it to dogs. They're just sniffing my bum and my ginie trying to figure out if I'm friend or foe, but after 7 full days of their noses poking in my private life, I'm just a wee bit put out. I have gained a whole new respect for my Parisian counter-parts and their perspective on American curiosity.

How does one politely refuse to answer these questions? Is it even possible? My Parisian instincts are to make a face somewhere between "Did you just shove a red-hot poker up my asshole?" and "How's about I pinch your nipples 'til they're blue & see how you like it?", then I'll answer with a snort before I turn on my heel and leave them scratching their dread-heads.

I guess the right thing to do is respond, but I'm giving one-word answers for now. It's the happy middle. It's the "I'm huggin' ya, but I'm hittin' ya".

Married? Yes.
Masterbate? No. (I'm sharing a cabin with my mother for the love of personal space!)

I'm so ready to be back in the land of civilization where people who are selling you Colorado paraphernalia don't need to read your diary to make a sale.

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