So I get there early, and make sure I am in the right room. Two 40-something year-old ladies come in who obviously know one another. Another 40-something wanders in, and she celebrates her arrival with the others. I ask, "Am I in B2173?" and their heads all snap at me. The leader of the pack says, "I dunno." and they go back to gabbing. Friendly folks. So I just sort of sit there stupidly and then Leader Lady comes to her seat (two away from me), pulls out her schedule and says, "Yeah, yeah...B2173." And I say, "Oh. Thanks."

Another 40-something shows up and they are now four standing around the shortest one's table. Am I really in the right room?

The professor walks in and starts celebrating with all of them as well. Oh shit.

And then young Valentine walks in - my age and obviously worried she's in the wrong classroom as well. As if on cue, the professor says, "We were wondering if the two of you would show up" and everyone got down to business. I breathe a sigh of relief.

So um, can I share something? These 40-somethings can really speak Spanish. I got the scoop at the break. They all started in beginning Spanish together, which they took a year and a half ago. They formed a sort of die-hard rat-pack and have been going through all the levels until then (they are on Spanish 4 of 6, now. Like me). They've made some amazing progress. And there I am, spitting out words and not conjugating my verbs, while Leader Lady is telling us about how hot her husband used to be so hot, but now he's sort of balding and she's thinking that maybe she should have thought more wisely about her marital "investment."

I'm sitting there the first half just totally desperate. The prof asks me to describe my first doll. I say, "Oh. Um. It had long arms."

And then I start blushing and feeling stupid.

And it continues like that for awhile.

But at the break the Rat Pack explain their story, and they tell me that they have a lot of fun, and that they make the stupidest mistakes and everyone laughs. And they keep saying, "Oh, I just think we're a really supportive group" and "Oh, I probably would have given up a long time again but I think the people in this class are so fun that we keep sort of pushing one another to learn." They all continually say, "Oh, it's so good we're such a small group. This is really great - it will really give us a chance to get to know one another and to make stupid mistakes without feeling self-concious!"

So by the second half I'm feeling a little bit more at ease. Sure, I TOTALLY forgot the subjonctive, but hey. Details, Babycakes, details. I start coming out of that weird nervous person that I tend to turn into at the beginning of anything new and slightly uncomfortable, and I slowly morph back into my usual, witty, suave self. Sure, when Shortie Pie was talking about how she would like to have a pill for motion sickness that wasn't dangerous (to her health), and I kept understanding that as a cake for motion sickness that wasn't lazy (to her health?), I exposed my idiocy in my true humorous form. The Rat Pack laughed. With me. And maybe at me just a little.

I'm finding I enjoy the company of older people more and more these days. I think my Spanish class is going to be no exception. Those chicks are friggin' hilarious.

Arabic starts tomorrow.

So the first story is good - it's a personal anecdote that is cute and well-told. But then everything turns political and patriotic and I want to put my head under my pillow. Maybe I will just never understand the writer - Bill's - and so many other Americans' burning need to not only be patriotic, but to flaunt this patriotism in the face of other individuals. To run to every hilltop, draped in the American flag and drenched from the brainwashing of the American media to simply cry out "America is the best!" as if other Americans hadn't had a few decades to formulate their own educated opinion on the matter.

I just don't understand it. Maybe America is the best. And maybe other countries are jealous of that. That's entirely possible. But why are we so insistent on pointing this out at every opportunity?

And maybe America isn't the best. Every country has its high and low points. Every country is fucked up and backwards and every country has something beautiful within its borders. Who's to decide what is best? Isn't that a matter of personal experience, opinions, and beliefs?

In athletics, he who wins and flaunts his victory suffers an embarrasing defeat eventually. A tragic flaw. And everyone loves to watch him fall. The end of greatness. Conversely, he who accepts his victory graciously and compliments the competition deserves all respect. There is something to be said about poise and elegance, as well as a casual acceptance of ones superiority. Bill's post is entitled "Confidence." It feels like it is 3,000 frenzied words proclaiming the value of American confidence. Why, especially in today's climate of American pride bumper stickers and United We Stand posters, do we need to reiterate how confident America is? Or is all of this hub-jub just trying to cover up some deeper anxiety that we are ashamed to admit is brewing?

On a personal level, if anything, I think America's jingoistic claims are what have brought on so much of the anti-Americanism that surrounds ME every day. Maybe Americans who have never left their soil are untouched by this. Maybe those that consider a trip to the Caribbean as their "cultural" trip outside the US - where American-built resorts line the sandy beaches and local workers are exploited for pennies - can walk around and think that American cultural hegemony infiltrating other, older, simply different cultures is a good thing. Maybe.

Bill seems to think so:

Am I supposed to think this is a good thing? That America is culturally taking over the world? I despise seeing a McDonalds on every corner. I hate that American television has become the rule and not the exception throughout so much of the world. And the fact that everyone reports on American events while the inverse does not happen troubles me: Americans don't ever care to report on the rest of the planet's politics unless it directly involves the US - with few exceptions. Is it surprising that so few Americans know anything about the world political leaders?

Quick quiz, no peaking on Google: George Bush met with the president of Spain last week. What's his name?

This should be easy because he was just on C-Span for hours. On American TV meeting with the American president. This should be very, very easy.

So, I'm 23. I'll bet $100 that nine out of ten 23-year-old Americans wouldn't know the answer. Why would they? American media is self-entered, and thus American views of America's role in world events often are as well.

And THAT is precisely why I fear such "patriotic" talk from people like Bill. He might have good points. Here and there, he makes his case. He might also arbitrarily throw out words like "Islamic terrorism" without considering that linking a peaceful religion and the entire civilization united under it to terrorism is insulting to millions (my journalism professor once said rather eloquently that he refused to use the word terrorist: if remaining entirely objective, one person's terrorist could be another person's freedom fighter. The journalist must remain neutral. I would like to see how some Americans might react to being called terrorists for few misplaced missles; could we call that Christian terrorism by extension, considering how often God and religion come up in our current president's speeches?)

I think I am just exasperated. I understand this need for Americans to affirm and reaffirm their cause in entering into this war. Sort of. And I can even say that I understand how in this post-9/11 frenzy, to not be a flag-waving, "Star-Spangled-Banner"-singing, propaganda-spewing patriotic robot can make you into a traitor. In a way.

I just think it's dangerous. The world is huge. Rich and beautiful and wonderful in all its diversity. And the more I read of posts like Bill's, the more I sense a claustrophic fear of others, a ringing hatred of anyone not American - including some of our closest European allies! - and a closed-mindedness that shows that the American rights of freedom of thought and expression are being suffocated from within. From within.

I still love America. I just can't believe what I hear coming out of some Americans' mouths these days. Honestly, from what I see or read, we're sounding like a bunch of backwards hicks who have never left their confined, albeit beautiful and respectable, community. And I'm worried.

That doesn't make me any less patriotic or any less American.

The bus pulls away from the stop and I double over in pain as my belly takes up gymnastics. No wait, I can't double over, because I am smushed up against the window on the left hand side and by the old man on my right, and he is smushed against me by the big head of hair in front of him. In front of me is a rather attractive guy about my age, so I'm not about to start grabbing him for support. Or should I? "Hey sexy, I might hurl. Can you hold me up?"

The motion of the bus and the constant jarring stops are making my stomach lurch. More people get on and we are packed like rats in a mobile box. And we've only gone three stops.

The bus pulls up to the Place du Chatelet, one of the major intersections in the very center of the city. Along the left hand side of where the bus is stopping are about five taxis waiting at the cab stand. It's a beautiful evening, and the cab drivers are standing around chatting with the casual hope of an eventual client.

I look down just below me and see that our bus is dangerously close to one of those cabbies' Mercedes. In fact, I'm pretty sure we just dinged it, nice and pretty-like all along the right side of the car. Tearing out of the pack of gabbing cabbies comes a big, scary-looking man who must be so close to his car emotionally that he can acutally feel its physical pain. How he saw that the bus hit his car from where he was standing remains a mystery.

But man is he pissed. He starts yelling at the busdriver, and tears off his coat and throws it on the ground in a way that can only mean "You and me, Busdriver Boy. Right here. Right now."

Busdriver Boy turns off the engine and steps down from his seat. He's a scrawny little toothpick of a man, tall and awkward with gangly arms and legs. He charges towards the cabbie, while a policeman heroically comes between the two like a policeman should.

(I think Busdriver Boy must have known that Copper was going to stop him. He would have been down for the count in no time had he so much as touched the enraged bear-like cab driver. That, or he was on a straight suicide mission)

The two of them take a few swings at one another, all of which manage to fall on the misplaced arms and faces of other cops that had come to the scene. A crowd has gathered to watch the spectacle. A few more cops wander casually over to inspect the damage done to the cab. One of them has his fly undone with his zipper sticking out enough to draw attention to the fact. A drunk homeless man tries to explain the situation to one of the cops, who prompty ignores him. He then drunkenly turns his attention to the crowd, acting the authority figure as to what really happened, wildly gesturing the reenactement of the event. Those of us on the bus are nearly suffocating to death, with no means of opening the door with the engine turned off. And I begin to consider fainting. Crazy Cabbie and Busdriver Boy are swearing loudly at one another, arguing over who belonged in that part of the street (clearly Cabbie was right) and generally causing a ruckus.

The cops finally side with the busdriver (such an injustice!), and help him pull out of the intersection. Drunk Homeless Guy serves as the guide saying, "Pull forward. Right. A little more to the right."

Mr. Busdriver drives the remaining twenty minutes to the train station like a maniac, and when the weary passengers finally explode onto the street, I gulp down the fresh air like water to keep my legs from giving way under me.

And then I realized that I left my prescription on the Lady Doctor's desk.

1. New York men seem to like to call me "Baby."
2. They also have the most endearing accent ever. After Scottish men, of course.
3. If you work to get my entire family together for the first time in fifteen years, and you decide to put them all in a pizza joint with beer, you should be sure to give the other customers earplugs.
4. My brother snagged himself one helluva lady.
5. My sister-in-law snagged herself one helluva man.
6. They are the cutest couple. Ever. She is the size of a biscuit.
7. If you give every table at the wedding personal polaroid cameras with photo assignments ("most unlikely couple," "best use of flowers," "creative accesories" etc), nudity will ensue.
8. The younger sister of the groom (four years younger, mind you), never appreciates hearing "You're next!" or "So when is your wedding?" She especially doesn't appreciate hearing it from unmarried older relatives. Nor does she appreciate hearing it for the third time. Or the fourth, fifth, sixth, or seventh. The sly smiles should also be avoided. You weren't the first person to think of that.
9. When the unmarried younger sister has been lying in bed the entire day of the wedding with the chills and a spinning stomach, she can still have a good time at the evening ceremony and the reception. She cannot eat and drinks little, but can still manage to enjoy herself. The following morning, when her condition is worse, know that her greenish hue is not due to excessive partying. And know that she would rather be crumpled up in the fetal position in bed than watching people eat their breakfasts. And finally, know that wisecracks like, "Looks like someone had a bit too much fun last night" would only be mildly appreciated had they any grain of truth in them, and are just annoying when the truth is just that she has a stomach flu of sorts. She would rather be hungover than just plain sick.
10. If you get fake nails for a wedding, be forewarned that typing becomes a bit of a challenge afterwards.
11. New York City has about 7.236 million American flags throughout its busy streets.
12. Barnes and Noble in no way shape or form rivals Borders. And rock music should never be played at high volume in bookstores.
13. Nothing makes my mom happier than dancing at her children's weddings.
14. The New York Public Library has to be the most beautiful building in the city.
15. CNN is not exactly presenting objective journalism when anything having to do with Iraq falls under the dramatically announced subheading "Showdown Iraq"
16. "Sweet Home Alabama" is a dreadful movie.
17. New Yorkers are nice. No matter what people say.
18. Avoid telling paranoid people that the street our hotel is on has been blocked off because of bomb threats at the train station across the street from the hotel.
19. Older people will leave the dance floor when the DJ starts playing rap music.
20. If you have been filling nauseous for the past two days and decide to get on an airplane going overseas, take two Tylenol PMs. The first hour of the flight will be hell, but you'll sleep through the rest.

He turns towards my lane and walks past the six lanes seperating us slowly. He is standing parallel to me, one lane over. He loudly says over and over "Il faut pas exagerer, eh? Mais quand même, il faut pas exagerer. J'ai 75 ans, il faut pas exagerer, quand même." He's upset because of the way the manager of the store spoke to him; she apparently said something terribly rude.

Meanwhile, the man whom he tried to hit is yelling "Ta gueule!" repeatedly over the noise of all the registers ("Shut up!" in it's most vulgar form). The old man keeps yelling as if giving a speech to a raucous assembly. He's 75. His brother was a prisoner of war in Germany. They found him dead on February 21, 1942. Nobody knows what war can do to a man. Young people have life handed to them on a silver platter nowadays. Il faut pas exagerer quand même. He's 75. He's fought throughout his life. People have no respect anymore. He can't believe the way those people insulted him. He's 75. What is happenening to people? Il faut pas exagerer quand même.

People around me are laughing at him. Laughing. Laughing directly at him. He sees them doing it. I can't believe it. He's gone crazy, sure, but he's somebody's husband, somebody's father maybe. He's doing his shopping on foot, alone, at 75. I can't help but think of my own grandmother who left her house and was found three miles away. She didn't know where she was. Luckily, a nice person helped her, and with the police she found her way back to her front door by nightfall. Were they laughing at her then, too? Was it funny to somebody?

I bite my lower lip to hold back the sadness. The woman in line in front of him is arguing with him, telling him to keep his voice down. She's yelling it. Let him yell. She picks up her groceries and clucks her way away, shaking her head. He passes through the counter. His brother was a few years younger than him, born in 1929. The youth of today haven't lived through hard times. He forgets his card in the wireless machines the French have. He walks away jeering at the security man. He's 75. Il faut pas exagerer quand même.

The young man behind him catches up to him halfway down the grocery's long entrance corridor. He touches his arm and hands him his card. The old man laughs heartily.

Behind me in line is an elderly homeless man with an unshaven beard and a goofy hat. He has long fingernails and is buying flea powder for a cat. He sees how sad I look, I think. He leans in and says, "All old people should be shot. Only young people should be allowed in the grocery store. Keep the crazies out." He flashes me a crooked smile.

He's making fun of himself.

I ask him if he wants to go in line in front of me - he only has one item and I have several bags worth. "No, Madame, everyone has his turn."

I'm wondering if this is like Y2K or if people are really taking it seriously. Granted, in the drugged-out hippie town I was living in right before Y2K, there were probably more wackos taking that whole thing seriously than people that weren't. But I just thought they were paranoid, northern Californian freaks. This time, I'm actually sort of bugged out by the idea of everyday people stocking up for war throughout the States.

So is this just my mom freaking out about something that's not really taking place (very, very unlike her...hence my concern) or are people actually stocking up and taking precautions? How real to people feel this threat is? And how certain do people feel about the upcoming war, and how afraid are they of a possible attack on American territory (assuming that's what these preventative measures are for)?

As if three days of canned food, a flashlight, and some duct tape can save you from nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons anyway.

I thought it would be more like wander-lust or globe of blogs, where you're just sort of indexed and categorized.

But it's really pathetic - I totally took it to heart when I saw that someone had cast a vote to vote me off on Blizg. I currently have nine votes: four good, four bad, and one get-rid-of-that-bitch. And I try to tell myself that it doesn't mean anything, but eh...that's 5-4. And Your Site Sucks Donkey Balls is winning.

And anyway what kind of asshole votes people's sites off? Was my site that bad? I know I can't please everybody, and that there are bound to be a few negative votes, but still...vote me off? But I want to stay (I'm whining, there...I might have even stamped my foot).

I might just pull a Sherry and pull myself off of the index altogether. Unfortunately, I get two or three visits a day from over there, so apparently it is doing what I had originally intended for it to do. Plus, I am currently the only blog in France, and that makes me feel special. But being there is also doing more than I had thought it would - namely hurting my feelings. I don't think my delicate ego can take it anymore.

PS - You can make my day and vote positively for my whiny ass here. (opens in new window). Of course, you could also be one of the dickwads who likes to hurt other people's feelings, too. Apparently there are a lot of them out there.

I like Eminem.

God. There. I said it. I do. I do. I am going to suffer incredible insults from peers that know better of my musical tastes. They might even lose faith in my ability to properly judge music.

I know he represents everything that "true" hip hop fans hate. I know that "real" hip hop is all about the underground, and that he is anything but. That he is as mainstream as you can get. That he is even, God Almighty, one step below the wretched and talentless Jay-Z. I know all of this. And I have even been known to say this at social gatherings. I have.

But the winds of change have blown mightily in weeks past.

So it's time I fess up: I have secretly downloaded all of his number ones. And now I know them all by heart. And I listen to certain ones several times a day. And I keep fastforwarding on my MP3 player to get to them when walking out and about.

Yeah, I said it. I like him.

I am excited for 8 Mile to come out in France (Feb 28). That's right. I am. I'll be there on one of the first night's it's playing with all of the suburban boys with their French ghetto accents and their Nike pants tucked into their socks (That's the "tough" look around here. For clarification, the suburbs of Paris are not nice like the suburbs of New York or Chicago. The well-off people live in the city, and the ghettos are in the suburbs. So when I say suburban boys, understand that I am not talking about the rich white guys pretending to be ghetto. I'm talking about the boys that really live in the ghetto and come to Paris on the weekend. Some people might find those last two sentences horribly fucked up, but I find them representative of reality, so there we go). Me, them, and their swish-swooshy athletic pants and fanny packs.

(Did you guys know that the bad-ass, ghetto-boy look in Paris involves fanny packs? How funny is that? Could you imagine an American gangster sporting a fanny pack? One time I was alone in a particularly shady neighborhood, waiting for the bus around 22.30 when a pack of them approched me. A girl, alone, at night, in a deserted and poorly-lit neighborhood. My heart started pounding. And then the biggest, scariest of the five of them started saying something in their inversed language - they speak French backwards so that people can't understand them - and pulled out a brick of hash. From his fanny pack. I couldn't help it. I just started giggling as quietly as possible. That's just not bad-ass to me. Am I alone here? Can I get an amen?)

Anyway, I'll be there. Me, the fanny packers, and Eminem. And I will sing along to "Lose Yourself" in the cinema silently to myself. 'Cause I know all the words now.

So now you know. Do with it what you will. I just couldn't live the lie anymore.

Apparently, none of the stores in the entire city want me to look beautiful for my loving, fabulous, super-special brother and his blushing bride.

They want me to show up in these gray pants that I wear every day (and have worn for the last two years). They want me NOT to wear my hot silver shoes. They want me to look the fool. Know how I know? Because everything in every one of those stores was ugly as sin. Ugly. As. Sin.

I didn't even find one thing I would consider trying on. This was not an issue of not liking the way the clothes looked on me. No. The problem here was that people apparently think that I want to look like I walked through a garbage can, ripped my dress seven times, spilled some ink on myself, and then decided to go to the wedding. Now that's fashion.

On the way back from shopping, I sat dejectedly in my bus seat. Exhausted, disappointed, and hungry. The woman next to me had such horrible breath that I could smell it from where I was. That's poweful halitosis.

So I don't know if you non Francophiles reading this know about French - and maybe this extends to European but I wouldn't know - teaching styles. In the US, the idea is to give your student a warm, cozy environment in which the student can learn and, eventually, grow. Come into his own, if you will. Develop new, creative ideas. American schools are like wombs, nurturing and caring, a place to allow a person to develop before going out into the cold, lonely world. However, in the French system, the classroom is that cold, lonely world, and the metaphor is far less comforting. In France, students are in need of no more nurturing than a wireless remote-controlled metal robot. Grown in the mad professor's home laboratory, the robots sit in hard, uncomfortable chairs consuming facts that the mad professor has deemed important. A robot's worth is in his ability to repeat these facts in six months time. The mad professor believes that his robots are merely a miserable reflection of his own underappreciated genius. For this reason, he is frustrated and harried at each mistake the robots innocently and unknowingly make, and he therefore takes to insulting them in hopes that they will learn more efficiently out of fear alone. When a robot answers correctly, the mad professor simply makes a checkmark in his records, but when a robot answers incorrectly, he is greeted by a showering of insults and incredulous stares from the mad professor's cold, uncaring eyes.

Today I was a robot in my uncomfortable chair. And I answered incorrectly. My response was dramatically received by my professor's exclamations: But no! You're SOOOO wrong! Do you have any idea how wrong you are? This is very, very bad. A serious problem. What were you thinking?

True. What was I thinking? I should have been able to identify that word as the third person plural subjunctive of the verb "to retract," shouldn't I have? Yes, yes I should have. I do know the third person plural subjonctive of the verb retract. I do. Give me half a second and I've got it - bam! Right there.

The problem was that Ms. French Grammarian Expert had been terrorizing the students before me to such a degree that by the time it came my turn, I had sweaty palms and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Looking down at my paper, I knew the answer to my question immediately. But the words sat jumbling and turning on my tongue, all there but spinning in an unintelligable order.

I spat out something like, "It's the subjonctive of the verb third person retract plural." A sentence I would never say. A sentence that seemed to have gone through the syntax blender. A sentence that resulted in that look of sheer and utter horror now crossing Ms. Stick Up Her Ass's face. But I had been zapped into some terror zone ruled only by my teacher's exclamations of "No! But no!! But you couldn't have possibly said something so wrong!" and the accompanying pounding of her fists on the table.

And so I did it. I fucked up. Bad. I said a really stupid thing in class. Something I never, ever do. I cannot come up with a more viscious form of personal torture or embarrassment.

Honestly, I don't talk in classes. It's my fear of being "the stupid one." So I only talk when I am totally sure of myself. Or totally forced.

So now Ms. French Grammarian Bitch Ass Ho has already decided I'm the stupid one. She has. It was like our own little personal war in there today. Nothing I said for the rest of the class (two hours!) was right, no matter how right it was. She still found something wrong with my rightness.

And grammar's my favorite topic!

How can you not love your life when you realize that your new morning commute is roughly 40 minutes that break down as follows:

8.20-8.26 - A brisk walk down a local sidestreet that smells of fresh-baked baguettes. Cross the Boulevard du Montparnasse - where important writers of yesteryear hung out for inspiration, and head down another set of slightly more upscale sidestreets, where every other store is filled with the most adorable baby clothing. Love those little baby shoes.

8.26-8.38 - Enter the Luxembourg Gardens from the southside. Walk straight through the middle to the fountain, up the steps, and out on the north side. The guy that sells nuts and popcorn is slowly setting up his stand. Brave souls are jogging. Brave and slightly "off" souls are jogging and wearing spandex. Stroll out to the maginificent Pantheon, where France's most important men have been buried.

8.38-8.40/8.45 - Pick up an early morning Chai Tea latte.

8.45-9.00 - Cup hands around the Chai Tea while meandering up the rue Soufflot, heading towards the Pantheon. Vear right along a cobblestone street that spills out onto a small plaza where old men feed the pigeons. Amble along, and waste a few minutes away while sipping tea and watching pigeone. Continue following the cobblestone calmly, smiling, and walk into the building.

This is really my morning commute. The evening commute is the same, only backwards, without the tea but with the added bonus of having the gardens full of well-adorned children running, giggling, and clapping their hands while their parents keep a watchful eye.

If anyone ever hears me complaining about my life, please remind me that my father drove an hour and a half each way in heavy Chicago traffic for ten years, and that I walk through Parisian gardens. Just remind me of it. I am grateful today, but I never want to forget how wonderful it is.

Ok, that's an exagerration. But I would still argue that, on blogs anyway, TV takes up about 50% of the entry space. This is so foreign to me - I haven't turned on my TV in over six months. Literally. I'm not saying that in that haughty way that people say, "I don't OWN a television." I'm just clarifying that I am way out of the television loop. It just doesn't occur to me to watch it. Why would I want to waste away like that? Were I to return to the States, I'm under the impression that I would HAVE to start watching, just to keep up with everyone else. Just to be able to participate during social gatherings. To get the jokes, to sing the theme songs, to gossip about the characters.

That's a scary thing.

I heard somewhere that the average American watches seven hours of tv a day. While 56.78% of statitics are pulled right out of the writer's ass, I'm starting to think this one might be true.

What happened to books? The outdoors? Reality? Oh, wait...that's right...reality TV. Now that's a mindbender.

I could hardly contain my excitement once we walked though Ikea's glorious sliding doors. I had been informed (via my sister) of the general set-up: there would be a sort of "exposition" area - with complete Ikea-furnished rooms - where you could wistfully mark what you wanted - and then another floor where you would pick it up later. Upon arrival, I realized that not only are these "expositions" just the greatest things in the world, but that you can actually walk through them, touch stuff, and pretend that this kitchen with such great cupboards is actually yours, all yours!

I had honestly been expecting the exposition rooms to be roped off. Can you imagine my excitement at the possibility of playing "house" for the first time as a grown up? Yes, I certainly did pretend to be cooking in that American-style kitchen overlooking the stylish yet airy living room just beyond the kitchen's breakfast bar. Didn't you?

Creative ways to save office space? I'm all about it. Funky towel hangers? Bring it on. Boxes that stack differently to create new bookshelf arrangements? Hell yeah!

Without going into details, Pennsylvania Boy won by having spent the most, but I was a close second. And he had the excuse of having moved into a new apartment last week. Nevertheless, I managed to exceed my predefined spending limit by only nine euros. Nine! I have never forced myself to hold back so much. While I don't necessarily like the look of an entirely Ikea-furnished home, I do believe that I was sorely mistaken in not having bought all of my kitchen utensils, picture frames, rugs, lights, curtains, and pillows at that creative home furnishings shopping wonderland.

Our plan had been to go to Ikea early, beat the crowds, and head back to Paris by afternoon to pick up two other friends. From there, we would head out to the 'burbs for awhile, and then drop off one member of the rather full carload at the airport by 8 pm. Unfortunately, Ikea sucked the Three Americans in for so long that we had to skip the 'burbs entirely, and we still almost missed the airport.

I love Ikea. We just couldn't part.

One last thought: driving in Paris is a funny thing. Everything is fine if you are on one street/boulevard/avenue that goes straight. But why do seven streets have to keep converging at once? And why is it totally unclear where exactly you're supposed to turn? My friendly navigators would say, "Go straight" and I would respond, "There are two straights!" And how does everyone else seem to understand this? And why did every turn I made have to be a leftwardly one?

The mysteriously devised French system was most pronounced when I boldly drove through the Place Charles de Gaulle-Etoile. For those that aren't familiar with it, it's the big circle around the Arc de Triomphe that you see in pictures or on postcards only as lines of thousands of cars' headlights. Those lines of cars are coming from eight? nine? ten? different huge avenues that all come together around the Arc - the biggest avenue of which is the Champs-Elysees (which I managed not only to drive down once, but up once as well). There are two things to know about that circle: 1) there are no rules concerning right-of-way. Everyone is out for him or herself in a speeding circle ruled only by survival-of-the-fittest and 2) Because of this, all insurance is void in the circle. If an accident happens, it's your own fault, whether somebody ran into you, or you ran into them. Car insurance just simply does not apply. To anyone, in any situation.

This is fine when you are not particularly concerned about keeping important limbs intact, or if you are driving your parents dinged-up Pinto that they were thinking about chucking anyway. But when you are renting a Mercedes for the day (it's the only kind EasyCar has to offer - I wouldn't have paid the extra price for a Mercedes. And it comes with an atrocious EasyCar orange adverisement along both side panels, as well as along the back window. But at least now I can say I have driven a Mercedes through Paris...doesn't that just sound snobby as hell? And another note - those are damn nice cars to drive), you know you're pretty much screwed if you fuck up.

I am proud to say that there were no terrified screams from the backseat at any point during the day - including our two visits to the Circle of Death - and that I was honked at as many times as I honked at someone else (one). My honking karma has therefore remained intact.

And my house looks a lot prettier, too.

First, the New York Time's closing paragraphs:
(link only works if you have an account, but setting up a NY Times account is easy, worthwhile, and free)

And then, Le Monde's second-to-last paragraph:
(translated from French, although I am pretty bad at translating...)

Now go back and compare the first line in the NY Times piece to the last line of the translation of the French article. Although the two quotes are not directly butting heads, aren't they rather different views of the same story? From the NY Times articles, I read it as Powell walking away from the talk having successfully made his point, much to the surprise of some skeptics. From Le Monde's article, it seems that people were thinking, "Yeah, well, he sort of has a point, but it's not all that convincing."

Tracy's singing is clear and strong, and it carries up to the last person in the last row of the concert hall. When she began singing a cappella "Last night I heard the screaming..." I didn't dare breathe for fear of missing a moment of the song.

Everybody was moved. I have never seen the French take to a performance so well. Even by the end, once the serious, solemn songs were over and the fun began, they were dancing and clapping and stomping their feet. It was like they were finally released from whatever cocoon they have been stuck in for the last three hundred years.

What I appreciated about Tracy was her simplicity. She spoke - telling little stories before singing a song or two - talking to a fairly large sold-out audience as if she was speaking to each person individually. She never played up the fact that she is a multi-platinum, grammy-winning star. She giggled sheepishly from time to time, showed her nervousness at others, and jokingly made fun of her band members throughout.

At the closing, for her second encore, she said, "This is a song by one of my favorite songwriters. It's a song about standing up for what you believe in. It seems appropriate given the present climate; France seems to know something about standing up for what it believes in. This is for anybody that believes in peace."

It was a groovy version of Bob Marley's "Get Up, Stand Up."

What a beautiful human being, and a beautiful evening.

Yay Mr. Ricker. This is good news, and shows that at least someone has at some integrity within the industry. But I fear that those "right-wing wackos" are going to pull a stunt similar to what happened in the Philip Morris scandal (you all saw "The Insider," right?), except that these people not only have their financial interests on the line, they also have lots and lots of readily available guns.

Those California police better be protecting his house, and Mr. Ricker should consider going into hiding. Or the Witness Protection Program. He's a bold man.

If you have a NY Times account, read the whole article here.

1. The One Strap: This can either be a shirt or a dress, often worn by the same girls that jumped on the black pant bandwagon in 2000. I know you're probably a sorority girl, but do you really want to wear a shirt inspired by a 1980's Barbie swimsuit? May I remind you that the highest selling Barbie doll in history is 1992's "Big Hair" Barbie. Should we all start emulating that, as well?

2. Pointy Clown Shoes: Be they boot or pump, they are not to be worn. For those of us that are size 11 (not me, of course), this is just a funny funny idea. Are people trying to make their feet look big? I tried these on once at the request of the young, hip shoe saleswoman helping me at Nordstrom's. Mom and I just started laughing uproariously once I had them on. My feet practically touched the Ohio-Michigan border.

3. Rennaisance Gear: weren't those people that wore these shirts considered freaks in high school? And wasn't that judgement based on the fact that they were wearing friggin' Rennaissance shirts? How did this horrible fashion idea not only fight its freaky stigma, but somehow manage to become semi-mainstream?

4. The Sleeves: Sleeves are meant to be boring. They cover our boring arms. Keep them boring, or wear a tank top.

5. The Ruffles: Somewhat along the line of #3, the ruffles are just a little over the top. At first, the diagonal cuts and slight ruffle at the bottom of some skirts and dresses was sort of cute. But excessive use of this trend, as well as its increase in ruffledness and diagonal cuttedness makes it trashworthy. Please put it in your Goodwill pile. Now.

So there you have it. Please send me any other suggestions, perhaps with accompanying photos (or links to them), so that I can ameliorate this list. I know there are other fashion no-no's out there. This is just the start.

Meanwhile, I must share this picture I found while trying to find the Barbie swimsuit in question in #1 (I have a photo of it in my "A History of Barbie" book - but I don't have a scanner. If someone stumbles upon a pic of that pink swimsuit, send it along. It will make the case against the One-Strap so much stronger), I had the displeasure of investigating several doll collector's sites. At on of them, I found a picture of the freakiest dolls I have ever seen in my entire life.

I got excited at the possibility of an innocent Parisian encounter with one of the single male cast members, our fun and exciting nights out on the town where he "discovers" the City of Lights, his early but expected profession of love for me over the air waves, his inability to tell me personally because of his shy, quiet nature and the fact that I just seem so out-of-his-league, his later discovery of my three+ year-long thing going on with my beloved, the ensuing confessional where he says that if we can't be boyfriend-girlfriend he'll still want me around because I am THAT cool, the understood sexual tension created by editing tricks and the accurate use of whatever love-related pop song is in at the moment of airing, the female cast members' slightly psychotic territorial protection of the poor, innocent boy who had the misfortune of falling for me, the one really psychotic female cast member who outright calls me a "pretentious bitch" in the confessional but who later "really opens up" to me and admits she had only misunderstood me, the eventual heart-to-heart initiated by the boy-in-question regarding his profound love for me and my heartfelt yet crushing response (perhaps my exceptional guest-confessional?), the appropriate scenes of him moping around the house following said discussion (dramatically enhanced by editing and music as well), the over-the-top departure of the group and much-discussed au revoir during which Boy gets very emotional with me and maybe even cries, and my eventual yet inevitable takeover of their SWEET loft at Oberkampf or Abesses or somewhere equally as hip immediately following their departure.

But now I see it's in Las Vegas. I am going to have to reconsider some of my Real World infiltrating strategies.

Everyone is looking around. I am giggling at how everyone is trying to pretend they understood. The less timid are asking neighbors if they could make out what was announced, and by listening to tidbits of conversation, I am gathering that the 20-somethings next to me only have three stops to go, but don't feel like walking in the cold. That the girl next to me has been waiting for 45 minutes. That the guy in front of me is a fruit loop.

Somebody coherent is saying that the announcement said the train is at Gare du Nord, and it should be arriving in fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes roll by.

Fifteen more minutes roll by.

"Mesdames et Messieurs, qslkdoqib lqkjsdgoia interrompu blkqjsgd oibqb iat Porte de Clignancourt."

Everyone across the tracks from us, headed towards Porte de Clignancourt, are shuffling out of the station dejectedly, gathering by the three discernable words that service in that direction has stopped.

Meanwhile, my crowd is getting larger and larger, and available space on the future train is getting imaginably smaller and smaller.

I am considering walking. It's only seven metro stops, and it is a walk I have done on several occasions. About a 45-minute trek through reasonably safe, albeit slightly drunken, neighborhoods.

A harried looking older French man is waving at me, trying to get my attention and pulling me out of my reading trance. "One minute," he is saying. I am wondering why he insisted on telling me this, as opposed to those that are within earshot.

I am nodding and saying back, "Well, we'll see. They said fifteen minutes over forty minutes ago," and, as I am saying this, I am calculating that the girl to my left, also engrossed in her book, must have been waiting for over an hour by this point.

The man is responding, "I get off at Odeon. I only have three stops to go."

Not sure what to respond to this comment, I am giving a faint smile and nod before returning to my reading.

At the train's arrival, applause shoots through the grimy station, and some people are even hooting and hollering. The packed car of people is spilling out only to let a few off, while the now rather large group collected at the edges of the platform is finding creative ways to fit more and more people in. It's making me think of a game my mom used to tell me they played in college - how many people could they fit in a telephone booth? A VW bug? Etc. Only this is with strangers and involves a locomotive in motion.

At the closing of the doors, the conductor is announcing that this is the last metro. A psychotic group of tourists with luggage is attempting to board. They are being dismissed by the disapproving groans, Oh-la-las, cluckings, and sighs so typical of French. Giving up, they are cheerily waving us goodbye as the train is lurching forward, and my breasts are being flattened against the doors.

It occurs to me that I am resting my cheek on the man in front of me's shoulder. The young man behind me is sidling his groin right up against my ass on the right side, and the attractive man to his right is resting hand on my ass's available left side. He is trying to find a less compromising place for it without drawing too much attention to its current position, but the train is so crowded that he cannot even lift it.

I'm not complaining.

At Odeon, I am amongst those that spill out to let a few people get off. The man who had so enthusiastically told me that the train would be arriving shortly is tapping me on the shoulder. He is excitedly holding out his hand. I am reaching out to grab whatever it is, assuming it is his phone number (I'm not interested in it, but the least offensive thing to do in this situation is to take the number, say thank you, and ride away with my new-found boyfriends in my metro car).

He gives an excited little nod and fervently drops the piece of paper in my hand. It is $2000 bank note. From Monopoly.

Here I propose to take excerpts from the speech - highlight, if you will - the oddities that began at 21.01 EST on January 29 on probably every national network in the States. Each excerpt will be followed by a single question, in an attempt to shut myself up.

Doesn't war usually hurt the young - aka the upcoming Congresses, presidents, and generations - the most?

Who did George Bush wink at when he said this, and why?

When looking up the "faith-based initiative" - already a suspicious name - I found that it is based on the "the same belief that every person in need is a worthy child of God." That is its foundation. Does this bother anyone?

Haven't several people pointed out that some "terrorists" learned to wreak havoc thanks to high-end American training? Perhaps this sentence is true in more ways than one?

Did someone say oil...er...vital region?

Did Bush really have to repeat this charming and oh-so-well-written conclusion to each paragraph FIVE times? Which speech writer's idea was that?

Since when is medicines a word? (He was paraphrasing so don't even tell me that it has anything to do with the South African dialect or what not...)

Seperation of church and state, anyone? (I realize this was already brought up previously, but it still gets my goat)

Now that that is finished, I would like to say that, in fact, some of the measures he introduced are in fact rather impressive. Nevertheless, I also know that these speeches are occasionally about spreading false promises at a key time. However, if Congress does go through with the $15 billion in AIDS relief, I will officially rethink my opinion of Republicans.

Does anybody else know that Winston Churchill quote? I am paraphrasing here, but it is something along the lines of "Any man who is under 30 and is not a liberal has not a heart. Any man who is over thirty and is not a conservative has not a brain." I can't find it anywhere besides the half-memory I have of it in my head. It sounds like "The Wizard of Oz" to me.

Lastly - click the image above. Is there some sort of rule that if you don't wear black, you have to wear that hideous red? Are those all women in that awful color? Do they have State of the Union uniforms or something?