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Recently, I've tuned into the Power of the Flirt. My theory is two-fold: 1) you're not young and S-E-X-Y forever and 2) being "charming" can be useful, and one needs to tap into one's natural resources.
I've never been good at this. First, I takes me FOREVER to realize someone is flirting with me. Even worse, my slowness usually works out for the better, because once I am made aware of the obviously present flirtation, I start blushing and hobbling and saying ridiculous and embarassing things.
However, two things have turned this around for me. Now I am convinced that I have to use my mysterious ways more often.
The first event took place two weeks ago, when I had to go to the post office to send out some packages for Vegas. Feeling especially good and confident (isn't it weird how somedays are just "on" days and others are completely "off"?), I waited in the long line as usual, praying I didn't get stuck at the desk of the woman I got in a fight with last summer.
Fortunately, when my turn came, I was happy to see an attractive, 60-something year-old-man call me over. I had seen him in the post office before, but never dealt with him directly. We started taking care of postal business, and I got a little chatty. This is a common occurence for me in the US, but in France, I keep the small-talk to a minimum. I think this is both because French culture (or at least Parisian culture) is generally less friendly, and also because I am overall more shy in French than I am in English. Here, only certain people can bring out the gab in me, and I'm not sure why this particular postal character had such an effect on me.
So, when he started having trouble pulling apart the mailing labels, I joked with him that he needed to grow some nails, and he said men aren't allowed to have long nails, women would find it weird. We both laughed, and I reminded him that he would have the mailing-label excuse to explain the length, but certainly not the color, should he decide to paint them. The whole exchange was light and flirtatious and sort of fun, and in the end, not only did he not give me any shit for any number of things the other post office workers would have barked at me for, but he also gave me buckets of free labels and order forms (so that I can fill things out in advance instead of at the post office desk, duh). It was like a post office Christmas.
I came away from that experience thinking, "A little flirting doesn't hurt anybody, and I'm sure he appreciated his chance to smile after a long day of crabby Parisians."
So I made a mental note to try out the Power of the Flirt when given the opportunity. Recently, I had another chance.
Read more »There's a homeless guy in my neighborhood who goes by the name of Jacky Chan. I just learned this fact this evening.
Let me back up. First: I noticed this particular homeless man months ago. He's hard not to miss: he wears many, many layers (even in the heat of summer) and pushes an enormous, car-sized shopping cart full of what I am sure are his life posessions. From all sides of the cart dangle bags and bags of... well, I don't exactly know what. He spends his day pushing the cart up Odessa Street, sometimes he ventures down to the boulevard. He is fearless in his cart-pushing: even the bus goes around him.
The Boy and I have admired him afar for at least a few months. Mainly, we medidate on his manoevres as he glides his way through the busy (and poorly designed) intersection at the plaza just up the street. Such a massive locomotive! Such strength in his determination to get from one side of the Boulevard Edgar Quinet to the other!
After months of distant yet determined study, Dr. Jacky Chan and I were bound to meet.
Tonight, my friends, I am happy to say that that eventuality has become a reality.
Sure, I was a little tipsy (and still am?) as I wandered my way up from the metro. And yes, as I noticed Jacky Chan, I might have been moreobvious in my interest than usual. However, it was Dr. Jacky Chan who noticed me, and beckoned me from behind his overwhelmed cart:
Dr JC: (in English) Come here! I have something for you.
Me: (in French) I know you! You live in the neighborhood!
Dr JC: HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR!
Me (in English): Oh, right... it was two days ago? Three?
Dr JC (ignoring me, in English): Yes, I am Dr Jacky Chan... this is my paper. Read. You will be ten years younger. Take photo now. In ten years, you are same. Is a promise.
Me (taking paper Dr JC hands me): Oh, is this for me?
Dr JC: For you! I am doctor in San Francisco (points to paper where it declares he is a doctor in San Francisco). Many secrets of health! Am in front of Cinéma Gaumont!
I took his TEN-PAGE manifesto home with me and read the first three pages out loud to The Boy. The excitement in our house was incredible. I had Jacky Chan's manifesto. Oh, and I know... he doesn't spell Jackie Chan correctly. But I am remaining true to his real spelling.
Regardless, there are a few things to know:
1. JC knows about lots of things the FBI and CIA do NOT want us to know about. They are well-kept secrets, but Jacky Chan is here to bust them open.
2. That Egyptian airline that went down? The FBI was behind it. Oh yeah.
3. Monica Lewinsky? Totally the FBI/CIA. Bringing down Clinton, yo.
4. Jacky Chan himself? Living in exile, because of the FBI/CIA
So... I am going to work my way through his ten-page single-spaced, totally grammatically incorrect and painfully incoherent piece of literature one day. In the meantime, "Dr" Jacky Chan's advice consists of:
1. Eat two bananas per day
2. Eat one orange per day
3. Eat a bowl of rice per day
4. Sweat 2-3 times per week
Apparently, you will always look young. Interesting. I have to say, Dr Jacky Chan did not have a wrinkle on him. So you never know.
Long-time reader Lottie pointed out to me that she has made several comments, and that none of them have shown up. Know what's funny about that story? I really thought people had just flat-out stopped commenting. You know how some sites just sort of invite people to comment in hordes, while others just don't seem to incite that sort of response? I guess I thought this site wasn't being read all that much, and that those who did read weren't really inspired to participate.
Um. I was wrong. So - let me apologize to all the commenters who have posted anything in the last two months. It turns out I had over 2,000 spam messages, and I think the system just freaked out. Normally, I get little messages in my inbox, letting me know somebody commented so that I can approve the comment. I wasn't getting any messages, and I had to go digging through the spam pile to find yours.
The good news is that I found them. Woo-hoo! And they've been approved and published. And I am finally going to throw in one of those special Turing test things, 'cause this is just freakin' ridiculous.
So thanks to Lottie for making me investigate the matter. And thanks to all of you for just thinking, "Well, I guess she's not reading my comments..." but still trying. I'm reading them all, now. It's a bit of a comment binge, if you will. And I promise that now the comments are going to work better. Pinky swear.
OK. So the carte de séjour thing is "done."
Well, as done as it can be. Let me explain.
First of all, I actually found myself feeling guilty for writing that most of the people who work at the prefecture are ugly with bad fashion sense. The girl who helped me was cute, smiley, and rather stylish. She was also probably a year or three younger than me, but no matter. We had a little nose ring "bond" - this is the only possible explanation as to why we got along so swimmingly, considering the situation.
So let's scratch off the childish insults that are on record from yesterday, mmkay?
Secondly, my file was just dandy, but the girls at the prefecture decided I needed - for some inane reason - proof of having a bank account in France. Naturally, this wasn't on the document list provided (it never is) and comes more or less out of nowhere. So when NoseRingBuddy asked me for my bank card, I thought, "Oh sure, I can totally do that." The problem, of course, was that I don't carry around my card with me all the time. And today just happened to be one of those days.
So great. I was sent back home to recuperate my card, and they said that I might as well bring along my last bank statement so they could invade my privacy a little more. Jolly. And then I went back to the prefecture, waited in that long-ass line that I had woken up so early for in order to avoid, and dropped off my new "required" paperwork.
My NRB told me to sit and wait until I was called, at which point I pulled out my Arabic textbook and began a-studying. Funny thing, though. Right at the moment I opened the book, my January bank statement fell out of it. I had gotten it in the mail a few days prior and had been carrying it around with me ever since, completely forgetting to file it. In fact, and I think this is obvious by now, I had completely forgotten it at all.
As I giggled sarcastically at the irony of it all (could have avoided that trip on the metro, could have not gotten in a tiff over the hour of my return, etc), I heard my name called. Apparently, we're good to go. So the NRB gave me back my paperwork, and we had the following conversation:
NRB: Ok, so here's the original of your proof of housing, proof of money, student card, past grades, work permit, and pay stubs.
Me: Thanks.
NRB: Look over this paperwork and make sure there are no mistakes.
Me: (looks it over) Looks ok to me.
NRB: Ok, so here's your temporary carte de sejour, and here's your paper letting you know when your next appointment is.
Me: ::: a little too shocked to respond::::
NRB: You can come any day after the 16th of February, the sooner the better.
Me: But, wait. Aren't I going to get a carte de sejour?
NRB: Oh yeah, you will.
Me: So why do I have to come back? Aren't you supposed to stick the sticker in my passport now?
NRB: Oh... no. It's all changed. Ever since January 1st, 2006, you get a temporary card and then you have to come back a month later to get the long-term card. It's plastified, so it takes us longer to process them.
Me: It takes a month?
I don't find this amusing because it means I have to get two different work permits - one for the period going from now until February 16, and then another for the period from February 17 onwards. Plus, it means I have to go back to the prefecture in a month, and wait in that awful line, and sit in those nasty green chairs.
But at least my paperwork was accepted with only an hour's worth of unnecessary hassle. It has been far, far worse in the past.
Tomorrow is The Big Day. The one where somebody I don't know (who is almost always sort of ugly and with bad fashion sense) decides my fate. That's right! It's time to renew: I'm going to the préfecture.
Technically, this is supposed to be a yearly affair. I get the sticker in my passport and am gone. As Stephen Colbert says, "Three minutes, in out, that's how I like it!" But NO, I have yet to go without being told I am missing a required document (that is mysteriously not on the required documents list), signature (from the person who is on vacation for a month) or secret stamp. I'm just waiting for them to tell me I need to learn to hula hoop to live in France. They'll just shrug and say, "That's the way we do things here," as if that served as an explanation. And then they send me away with an unnerving piece of paper telling me to come back again in three months.
A few years back, I went through the process four times. You do the math. By the time I got my carte de séjour officially renewed, I didn't need it anymore. It was time for the following year's.
A good friend of mine said it best when she went to renew hers a few months back: sitting in that stifling room with a bunch of other uncomfortable foreigners pointedly reminds you just how unwelcome you are in this country. They don't want you here, and are willing to make it damn difficult for you to stay.
So I think I've gotten down the routine. I've put together all of the requested documents in two files - one of originals and one of photocopies. That way they can't get me on that point. The photocopies are picture-perfect and are in a logical order. My grades are good, my residence hasn't changed, and my pay stubs are all collected. My "proof of resources" documentation for this year is a bit rickety - partially due to all of the job manoeuvering of late - and I'm just hoping that whoever looks over my file tomorrow has some degree of mercy. Oh, who am I kidding? They never do.
I've learned by now that it's best to take the first appointment in the morning, and to get there half an hour early to beat out the other 55 people who signed up for your appointment time. The later in the day your appointment, the longer you're going to spend in the waiting room.
Bring a book, knitting, or puzzle. Something to distract you. Above all, for Pete's sake, find yourself a chair.
And pray.
That's the most important thing.
Just pray to the God of French Immigration that they don't give you shit for something in your file.
Again.
There has been a lot of commotion here recently. The LongIslander went home after a week-long visit filled with desperate attempts to avoid spending too much money. We did alright though - only going out the first night she came and the night before she left. The other nights, we cooked at home and played cards, and some nights I would stay home and work despite a strong desire to hang with my dawgs. Sometimes I felt bad because I couldn't see her as much as I would have liked - I only did about half of the work I usually do, and I let it hang over my head. However, The LongIslander is understanding, and she is one of my favorite visitors to have in town. Some nights, I just had to stay home and get a good night's sleep. Obviously, the girls and I have learned to be wise about things - at least some things.
Anyway, she is gone now and life will go back to normal tomorrow.
Well, reasonably normal. There is some significant shifting going on in the job department. It's too early to speak concretely of anything, but there are going to be massive changes. These changes take the form of one full-time job, and one rather irregular one. This beats my previous technique of two different jobs, with a third thrown in for luck. So these are good changes. I feel ready for them. More than that, I feel ready to have a job I am proud of, and a salary that can pay my rent and maybe my groceries, too.
Of course, the professional changes have brought out social changes, as my current place of employment is also the regular meeting point for a group of people sort of orbiting around those who work at the store. Without really meaning to, we have developed into a hodge-podge clique of sorts. Despite myself, I feel sad when I think of pulling myself away from it. Additionally, the bookstore is closing in three months and moving to a new location - one that is indeed a much less practical meeting center than the current store. What will happen to all of our impromtu apéritifs? What about the three-hour-long Sunday coffees inside the store?
In all, I am happy to move on to greener pastures, and I suppose it is nice to look fondly upon what is soon to be my former place of employment. Whatever hand-wringing I'm doing about my current social circle's impending metamorphisis is really just peripheral to the excitement/hestitation/giddiness I feel about jumping aboard a brand new, better paying boat.
Meanwhile, I have some terrible news. Remember when I mentioned my older client who asked me to take him out to dinner? I saw him a few days before I left for break, and I once again clarified that I didn't think it would be a good idea for the two of us to see one another outside of the store. Although nice, his overzealousness gave me the creeps (after he called seven times in one day, for example) and I thought it better to be clear with him than to leave him in limbo. So before wishing him happy holidays, I once again refused his dinner request (politely) and told him that I still appreciate his visits, but I didn't want to meet up with him outside the store.
On Christmas Eve, he drowned himself in the Seine.
Read more »I'm making a belated New Year's resolution: I aim not to complain for an entire week.
That means not one ounce of "I'm cold." Not a single comment about being tired, hunry, annoyed, busy, grumpy, and so on. Quite simply: no complaining.
I've been doing it for two hours now. Already, it's proven difficult. This is going to be eye-opening to say the least.
Try it.
The LongIslander has landed. She is here for a week and things have already gotten crazy.
Not really. But we did have a wonderful time last night; the first time in a long while where I've allowed myself to just suck it up and spend some money even though my inner voice was saying "Restraint! Restraint!" with a German accent and a ruler in hand.
But we had a good time, so no regrets.
The evening began at the bookstore, where we collectively downed two bottles of wine without any trouble at all. There were six of us, so it didn't take long. Afterwards, we went out to dinner (three of us) and had another bottle, but I was curiously far less tipsy post-meal than pre-meal. I almost felt as if I had not had anything to drink at all.
Afterwards, we went to a bar where we got goofy. MopHead showed up, and the four of us played darts until five am. Darts are FUN. Where have they been in my life all this while? My brother-in-law is apparently quite good at them (plays in a LEAGUE, my friends). I should have tried playing far earlier. It's amazing how well they kept us entertained. Next up? Bowling. I'm so not kidding about this. I've always loved bowling (maybe the Midwest just does that to people) but I have had a hard time convincing The Boy to go. After our evening of darts, the entire quartet thinks bowling should be our next priority.
All in all, a great night out on the town. Nobody got obnoxiously drunk or stupid, or annoying. For the most part, people left us alone and didn't give us any trouble. We were mellow, but giggly, and it was a fun time overall.
One of the highlights of my evening, however, was sitting in the metro at 5.15.
I was listening to Chris Rock's "Never Scared" today on the metro, when I realized I was grinning from ear to ear and occasionally giggling out loud. That shit is so damn funny.
What is not so damn funny is the looks you get for smiling in this town. Day-um. You would think I smelled bad or was shouting obscenities. If I see somebody laughing to him/herself because something on his/her headphones is amusing, I don't scowl at the person. As a matter of fact, as long as he/she keeps it more or less to him/herself (ie laughing silently), I usually think it's pretty cute.
Nope. Not my co-travellers. So I was faced with a bit of a dilemna - keep listening and control the laughter? Or turn it off and scowl with the rest of 'em?
Obviously, I went for the former, 'cause the latter's no fun. I even took Chris with me to the post office, and then carried my box across Montparnasse with my giggles.
Of course, a man had to stop me ("Vous êtes charmante, mademoiselle" - I have a particular distaste for this pick-up line) for the giggling, and I just continued laughing and said thanks. Then he asked me for my name and I said, "Does it really make a difference?"
He was a little dumbfounded, and managed to say a meek little "Yes..." before I got by. So I guess Paris has made me a bit of a scowling bitch as well. I mean, he was only asking.
I still don't have my luggage yet. We are three days from my arrival date, and still no equipaje. I'm having a harder time with this whole just-take-life-as-it-comes philosophy I thought I should incorporate into my life (see previous post) than I had thought I would. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that all of my underwear is stuck in a bag in some mysterious airport.
Did you catch that last bit? Yeah, not only have my bags not arrived, but NOBODY KNOWS WHERE THEY ARE. The Airport Baggage Expert Man informed me, "Yes, normally at this point we would be at least about to locate your bags, but they're not even showing up as being in the system." The outlook is grim. ABEM closed the conversation by saying, "While I'm sure you're not exactly comfortable, don't start panicking yet..."
First of all, the phrasing is not exactly comforting. Second, doesn't he know that I have all of my Christmas presents in there? I hate to sound greedy, but damnit I want to try out my new pots and pans. I told The Boy I was upset that I might never get to see my new pots and pans again, and he said, "Think of all the poor people in India." Normally this sort of phrase just annoys me, but today I felt justified. What a cruel joke to at least SHOW me that I would have new pots and pans (and a new cutting board, and new books, and some yummy teas, and. and! AND!) but then yank them out from under me.
Airport Baggage Expert Man told me that they don't start worrying until 5 days post lost-baggage claim. I tried calling American Airlines again today just to double-check and ABEM was not kidding: they have no idea where my bags are. They're just nowhere to be found. They could be in one of three places: Chicago, London, or some theif's living room.
Let's pray for one of the first two options, mmmkay?
