I think I jinxed it. Only moments after uploading that last post I received a call from my new boss. Apparently I have a temporary social security number and not a permanent one which could delay the process time by up to 3 months! His advice?

Go in, act confident and see if you can trick them.

Ah, France.

I didn't want to post anything and jinx it like I did the last professional opportunity, but today I received my contract so I figure it is all good to go. It is just for a language school, giving one-on-one classes to students and professionals and it is just 8 hours per week, but that is fine! It pays well and I am very happy. Now, all that is left is to find an internship for the summer. I sent a resume off to the Louvre to work in their translation department and I will kiss anyone's ass to get that position. Maybe, just maybe, I will actually find a place for myself in this difficult, difficult city. The song with the line "If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere" refers to New York, but seriously, it is a lie! I think Paris is the real test. Not to knock any New Yorkers out there, but man this is ridiculously hard!

I know, I know. I don't write for 2 weeks and when I do I'm hitting you up for money...

But I just donated a bunch of money that I don't have (remember I've been out of the work force for nearly 18 months) and it feels good. If any of you are feeling particularly generous this holiday season (passover...), then I have to propositions two make :

1/ Support my brother and his friends as they embark on the Greater Illinois MS Walk. Follow this link to donate :
http://events.msillinois.org/site/TR?px=1195619&fl=en_US&s_tafId=1051&p
g=personal&fr_id=1050


2/ Support my friend Kevin (you may remember him from his guest post "The Empire State Building was purple tonight") as he cycles 585 miles from San Francisco to Los Angeles to raise money for the San Francisco AIDS Foundation. Follow this link to donate : http://www.aidslifecycle.org/6806

It is soooo easy! I have lost a close family member to AIDS and have 1 other who is living with AIDS and another with MS, so I would be forever grateful for any support you can give my friends. I would be walking / cycling too if France believed in this stuff, which they don't because here charitable donations are not tax deductible. But in the US they are completely tax deductible! Yet another incentive if my mild guilt trip didn't work. Each site gives you all of the proper tax information.

Thank you all in advance.

• Sunday, 17 april 2005, 21h05 (GST+1)
  avenue Parmentier, 75011, Paris, France
  Study break : Blogging about this moment in Mandounette history



• Monday, 17 april 2000, 21h05 (GST+1)
  rue Vieille du Temple, 75003, Paris, France
  Eating dinner with Blandine, my study abroad host "mother", in our kitchen that overlooks the Picasso Museum garden. It is most likely something yummy and organic involving sprouts.



• Monday, 17 april 1995, 15h05 (EST)
  Coniston Drive, Rochester, NY
  Eating a Little Debbie Star Crunch and watching Tiny Toons, wondering if mom will let me drive to my oboe lesson at 5. I got my learner's permit 2 weeks ago.



• Tuesday, 17 april 1990, 15h05(EST)
  Indian Landing Elementary School, Landing Road, Rochester, NY
  Waiting for the bell to ring during Mrs. Van Zandt's class so that I can go and get splinters in my hands playing floor hockey.



• Wednesday, 17 april 1985, 15h05 (EST)
  Indian Landing Elementary School, Landing Road, Rochester, NY
  Waiting in line in Mrs. Rotenberg kindergarten room with a tag around my neck that reads "Walker". I will be led to Miss Ray's 3rd grade classroom to find my brother and our neighbor Bryan who will walk me home.



• Thursday, 17 april 1980, 15h05 (EST)
  ???, probably at the Doebrichs, on Cloverland Drive, Rochester, NY
  Sleeping? Eating? Teething? Being bald? Whatever 1 year old babies do.

Q. Is it possible to have an acne breakout and white hairs?

A. A resounding yes from Mandounette!

I want to live on a tropical island where we celebrate every holiday/festival from every culture. Except ones commemorating sad events and/or involving any kind of deprivation. Those holidays suck. So, who wants to come make this island a reality with me? We can live off the fat of the land and the money of the tourists.

After so many relatively serious posts, here's one to lighten the load. Literally. A Wikipedia article about an apparently real fetish for passing wind. And guess what? It was a chick.

I think my sophomore year housemate had a minor case of this. (Not you Miz, the other one...).

In the midst of conversation with an old lady at the bus stop which consists mostly of her bitching about the construction on the street and the way it has affected the bus lines and my empathetic nods in response to her repetitive complaints, a café chair floats by, just behind her head, in a magnificent arch interrupted only by the metal fence protecting the aforementioned construction site. Once I recover from the astonishment of seeing a flying chair, I realize that it wasn't magic, but a bloody-faced, cauliflower-eared Young Man who had launched the chair, attempting to hit his Middle-Aged opponent--both half-grimacing, half-smiling, rejoicing in this opportunity to roleplay a boxer fighting for the title, or at least one of those Hollywood honkytonk anti-heros you see chucking chairs in bar fights on screen.

Most of the people waiting for the bus or hanging out around the metro entrance, take a break to watch the fight unfold, with a blasé fascination for the inexiplicable punches, tackles, and kicks. I haven't seen anything like this since high school. As any good pacifist should, I tend to speak disdainfully about the rubber necking phenomenon, denouncing all types of violence and the sick, yet uncontainable human enthusiasm for it. But this time, and God strike me down for hypocrisy, I too enjoyed the scene.

It wasn't so much the flying chairs (the Young Man with the broken nose was wrestling another chair out of a waiter's hands), the bloodied knuckles, or the incomprehensible, slurred shouts that got me; It was the incredible level of passion. The men were not speaking French or English, so it was impossible to discern the cause of the dispute that spilled out onto the sidewalk like a stream of dog piss. So my imagination started churning, trying to think of any reason that could possibly cause two men to react so emotionally and physically. Was there a woman involved? (a burly Parisian waitress has just pushed the Middle-Aged laughing, bleeding man into the cafe and shut the door. Young Man is being restrained by a waiter and an honorable passing citizen.) A "Your Mama..." joke? (the Young Man walks away down the street, and hides behind the metal fence of the construction site.) Did one of them owe the other one money? Insult the other's manhood? (The middle-aged man forces his way out of the cafe, much to the relief of the shocked cafe patrons). Can such passion simply be explained by the effects of alcohol? (The Young Man emerges from his hiding place, takes off running down the sidewalk toward the Middle Aged Man and tackles him from behind. Two members of the metro gestapo look on.)

What fascinates me most is that I don't think I am capable of drumming up enough anger, passion, and emotion to physically attack someone. I think that any violent act on my part would be defensive (thanks to self-defense class in high school, I am well-versed in the ancient art of grab-twist-and-pull). I hate to admit it, but I am slightly jealous of this unbridled gut response. My brain is slowly wiping all of the irrationality from its limbic center. I am a living example of human evolution towards gray aliens with enormous heads and formidable intellectual powers and absolutely know physical strength or ability to reproduce.

The bus arrives and I board with the old lady who seems unphased by the fight, and regretfully leave the rumble behind.

Hey, my commenting service seems to be short-circuiting since yesterday. Many comments have been posted but aren't reflected in the number at the bottom of each post. I am working on it, but until it is fixed, don't hesitate to comment and check the comments to see what others have to say.

Here's the birthday report for those who asked for it :

In France, age 26 is not an anticlimactic birthday. It is a downright depressing one. It is the year when you stop getting your youth discounts everywhere...the movies, the museums, the pool, the metro. I spent the day before my birthday renewing every membership possible. I may be technically an adult, but I had more money during my days as Employee of the Month at Blockbuster than I do today, so I think this policy is bullshit. Instead of showing an ID or a proof of residence, I think they should simply ask to see a bank statement. I am sure mine would qualify for the discount.

Moving on to the day, it was a very tame birthday. It was my brother's last night in town and the 4 of us went to happenin' pastis Bar/Restaurant, where we we lucky enough to get seated on the terrace (it was a stunning evening weatherwise) and made our way through a number of types of pastis, a bottle of wine, and a lovely meal. Stephane and I both flirted with our Aries-Kate Hudson look-a-like waitress (I don't know why I liked her so much...). She laughed as she tried to make the candles stand up in the chestnut mousse that I chose for dessert. [IDIOT! Why did I choose that??? But it was oh-so-good.]

Next stop, Lizard Lounge (still my favorite anglophone safe-haven after all these years) for my annual birthday drink. But it was a Friday night and it was packed with drunk, young things. I ran into some friends, but was feeling too claustrophobic and guilty, spending such a nice night in a smoky, dark Parisian basement where people were snorting shots. (This has nothing to do with my recent exotic drink discovery called Russian Cocaine that I experienced for the first time last week at a bar called, in translation, The Alley Cat. Giddy-up!)

So, we headed toward the Seine and took in Ile de la Cite and Hotel de Ville at night. It will always be one of my favorite sites. Much like the view of the Empire State Building through the Washington Square Arch. Or the first glimpses of the Suspension Bridge at Cornell, seen through the late summer foliage. Then we booked it home to call our parents (because my brother and I pretty much share our birthday, this time of year was always dubbed "Christmas 2".)

As for presents, I once again made out like a bandit. [Although, I have never made out with a bandit, so I am not quite sure I know how one would make out. I bet if I stayed on Nerve for more than a month I could've found out...]

So, back on track, I am now the proud owner of Napoleon Dynamite, a luxurious Dutch Oven (I'm not kidding), a Cuisinart, and Dance Dance Revolution (I have already lost all that birthday cake weight!). Among other things of course. And lots o' cards. So all-in-all, it was a rousing success. Bring it on!

I am on the metro on my way to class. As I watch the beach pass by, I think to myself, there must be a storm offshore. The waves are mammoth and choppy and the sky is a freaky mixture of grays and blacks. The train stops, the doors are opened, and I am surprised to see my brother and his girlfriend get on with all of their luggage. What are you doing here, I ask. We decided to be bumped from our flight to get the 700 euro travel stipend. That means one more night in Paris! Excited to have them for another night, I am suddenly seized by panic. You're welcome to stay, but I can't go out. I have an exam and I have to study.

The waves get bigger and bigger. I wake up suddenly, still feeling the same panic that had just washed over me in my dream. I do have an exam, one that I had successfully pushed from my head, one for a course of which I missed 2 of 6 classes because of my trip to NYC. Then every single minor, ridiculous cause of anxiety springs to life in my brain. It is 4 AM. I know that I will not be sleeping again until several hours later. Every time I have a bout of insomnia, I inevitably fall asleep about 45 minutes before I need to get up. Just enough to totally leave me out of sorts. I pet the cat, I roll over. I roll the other way. I play with the cat. Ste gets up to go to the bathroom. I pet Ste. Ste falls asleep, snoring peacefully and I am enraged with jealousy. Why can't I do that? I count to 100. I count backwards from one hundred. I think about all the first names that start with the letter F. I am pretty proud of myself for Fatima, Federica, Francoise, Finnius. Wait, is Finnius a first name? In Finnigan's Wake is Finnigan a first or a last name? Damn, I should read some Joyce. I make myself close my eyes. I fall asleep. I wake up. Have I slept long? 12 minutes. What about the letter H? I finally doze off around 6h45 and the alarm goes off at 7h30. I sleep through several snoozes, contemplating skipping class as not to waste the precious fatigue that has finally taken me. I roll out of bed and spend the rest of the day (between caffeine bursts) with a wicked headache.

This happens to me more often than I would like to admit. Every morning I am amazed at the thoughts that kept me up. They are all so banal. I have never had trouble sleeping before, even in periods of enormous stress. If anyone can give me some suggestions to help me stay asleep, I would appreciate it.

Thank you to all those who remembered my birthday!

For the rest of you sloths, beware. You may be coming down with either 1) a severe gastro-instestinal infection; 2) a nasty VD; or 3) a Celine Dion song caught in your head for all eternity once I put my new VooDoo doll (Thanks Bee!) to use.

To cheer me up, my better half took me on two-wheeled tour of our fair city yesterday evening. It was my first ride on a Vespa (different brand, but same idea) and it truly kicked major ass... fortunately not ours. As anyone with an overactive imagination can attest to, we tend to imagine colorful accidents where our remains have to be identified by dental records and then we suffer a sudden panic when wondering if we actually have any dental records, cursing our 26 years of excellent dental health, and the accepting that we are doomed to be thrown into a common grave with the bums whose livers exploded in a moment of wine-induced ecstasy and the poor souls who were mowed down in a mafia knock-off and thrown in before they could be found, all because of a stupid craps game. But after a few minutes of screaming "Attention!" and "Watch the leg!" (fortunately muffled by my massive helmet) I began to appreciate the freedom of darting in and out of cars and feeling incredibly sexy, holding on to my man's body and watching the cityscape fly by. The young people sharing a bottle of wine on the quai of the canal. The green cast-iron bridges where dreamy poet-types smoke cigarettes and take in the scene as a still-life opposed to the amphetamine flash that is pressed against my protective mask.

When I got off the bike, I tore of my helmet off, shaking out my hair, imitating every commercial and rock video I could think of, feeling incredibly beautiful and inspired even more to go to the far corners of Paris, if only for the ride. And if anyone wants to race, we'll take you on greaser-style.

One solitary beer. That is all that is left in the aftermath of a month of houseguests, travel, hedonistic gluttony, and the nightly aperitif ritual. Cracking it open, the first foamy drops are quickly regurgitated as tears. Tears of relief, of exhaustion, and of loneliness. Of gratefulness, of nostalgia, of terrifying fear. I know that of all of these, exhaustion is the most powerful and I should probably try to sleep off this sudden sturm und drang, but for the first time in weeks, I am not tired. I want to stay awake and wallow in this not completely unpleasant moment.

Hysteria sets in every time I watch someone wave to me from beyond the security checkpoint. Every time I close a taxi door and wait to wave. Every time I watch the train disappear down the tracks. I am meant to be the one that leaves.

I remember saying goodbye to a college boyfriend, one who no longer speaks to me, who had taken Amtrak to come see me one summer weekend. I cried as much when I saw his train leave as I did the night four months later when I broke up with him (again…I need to be the one that leaves) and he put up no resistance (but they are not supposed to let me go!) A woman at the Rochester Train Station, which resembles more of a lean-to now than the beautiful 19th century building that used to stand there, empathized, “Oh, honey” handing me a wad of tissues which could not contain the free-flowing tears and snot that made it impossible for me to drive home.

Perhaps this is reason number infinity for me to get therapy, but I find it to be a sweet part of myself. One of the few remaining pockets of sensitivity hidden amongst my anxiety-ridden neuroticisms and biting wit.

“Every time we say goodbye, I cry a little / Every time, we say goodbye, I wonder why a little / Why the Gods above us, who must be in the know / Think so little of us, they allow you to go…”