Thursday, January 31, 2008


Anyone who has spent any amount of time with me in the last 67 days, whether it be morning, noon or night, whether you just met me or you spend every day with me....there is a 99.9% that you have seen me in this hoodie.

It is my beloved, $250 overpriced hoodie and I have worn it every day, all day and some nights for 67 days. I know it's retarded and some might call it a bit on the obsessive side but it is the last thing I bought before I quit my job and left New York for Paris. I have never splurged on clothes EVER (I get excitement hives from the clearance rack at ROSS Dress For Less) much less spent $250 for a lousy sweatshirt but something about this HOODIE, I HAD to have it. The sleeves are extra long and I can hide my hands in them like mittens. Or not. Or roll them up a bit. Or make a half sleeve. Or zip it up to the neck. Or halfway down, or sometimes 3/4 of the way down. And when the world gets to be too much for me to handle, I can put up the giant hood and go to my special place where no one can see me or touch me, especially French people.

Met some friends last night at a bar and then went to dinner with FB (French Boy) and a new friend of ours. As we packed up our things to leave the restaurant, I reached to my side for my hoodie but felt nothing but the cold air. Heart starts racing. No. No. No.
Looking around frantically..NO NO NO...this is not happening....looking under the seat, on the floor, behind the next table, the ceiling....bile starts to build in my throat, my sight goes fuzzy, my palms are sweating....NO PLEASE GOD NO NO PLEEEEEASE PLEEASE...PLEEASE MAKE THIS GO AWAY.....and then BAM!!!!!! It hits me in the face like a sack of bricks dipped in fireballs smashing against my skull.

Hyperventilating but trying to stay cool in front of my new friend, we rush out the door and down the street to the bar. I run to the corner where everyone was seated but it is 1AM now, and the table is empty except for a sleeping dog underneath it. I eye the dog suspiciously, could he have eaten it? FB asks the bartender for me if anyone turned in a sweatshirt. My breath stops, my eyes plead to the bartender with an intensity that reads "yes, you actually might be insane"....time stops for a moment before he breaths the dreaded word:

Out on the sidewalk, head spinning, my fake Zen flies out the window as the tears come streaming in on cue as I quietly cry, " cry hooooodie.....whimper whimper...." (For once in my life, I would LOVE to know a person for more than, let's say, two WEEKS without having them witness me openly weeping. Just once. But yet again, it ain't happening for me this time). We walk our friend to catch a cab, she sympathetically wishes me luck and asks that I let her know if it is found. I must look like a puppy who lost it's bone.

And so we begin the slow walk home a.k.a. The Trail Of Tears. By the time we get to our apartment, I am in an shameless open sob and doing absolutely nothing to hide it. I'm in Paris after all, expressed deep depression is an art form here. OH PARIS HOW I MOOOOURN!! But even I am surprised at the level of devastation I feel at the loss of my beloved hoodie. It's been my wearable security blanket for two months and I feel both lost and now cold without it. No more mitten sleeves, no more half sleeves, no more special place hood. Then my mind turns to the natural conclusion...RAGE...someone has STOLEN IT. OF COURSE! It doesn't matter that it has started falling apart or that I left it at a table with friends who may have brought it home for safekeeping. My mind never developed past the 1st grade mentality that I never lose something, IT WAS RUTHLESSLY TAKEN FROM ME.

FB tries to calm me down and offers "baby, someone probably took it from the bar and will email around tomorrow and if not, I'll buy you a new one, don't worry" which provides me the opportunity to yell that I had apparently been waiting for..."(hyperventilated breath)SOMEONE STOLE IT!!!...and...sob sob....I don't WANT another ONE!....sob sob...that was my INDEPENDENT hoodie!...weep weep....I don't want a DEPENDENT hoodie.....sob sob...I....want....MYYY INDEPENDENT HOODIE..sob sob (rises to a shriek)..YOU JUST DON'T UNDERSTAAAAAAND!!!"

He smartly drops the subject, we get home and go to bed.


Why bother going on? I take a swill from last night's wine. Who cares? Not me. No one ever died from wine at 8AM (at least no one I ever met) and besides, I don't care about anything anymore. I hate you, Paris. Cause you STOLE my sweatshirt.
I wander into the bedroom.

ME: "FYI, no one emailed me back to say if they found hoodie. SIGH"
FB: "You mean no one emailed between the hours of 2AM when you sent the email and 8AM now? Wow, how surprising."
ME: "Whatever, just forget it, I'm never gonna see hoodie again."


At 10AM I get a very nice email back from a girl at the bar who found hoodie and took it home for safekeeping (uh....just like FB said) and I suddenly feel like the 10 year old spastic jerk I consistently act like and feel embarrassed I made such a big deal out of a stupid sweatshirt...but I hugged it anyway when I picked it up today and promised it that I wouldn't ever leave it in a bar again EVER.
I totally heart you, hoodie.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008


I was walking down the street yesterday thinking about the weather yet again and wondering why I spend an inordinate amount of time here pondering clouds vs. sunshine, cold vs. semi-cold, jacket types/warmth factors, blah blah BLAH when there are MUCH more useful things I could be doing with my thoughts like....oh I don't know, maybe learning FRENCH for example??? A song from one of my various bands I am in kept running through my head as it's titled "Weather Song" so I decided to cut together a music video for it last night. The Sobs are me and my musical other half a.k.a. Matt. Matt can write a song with me in five minutes and we used to play and record all the time together in my little apartment in Brooklyn. We once scored a movie in one night.

The footage is from my trip to Paris last summer and makes me dream of sunshine.
I think I'm starting to fall for this city....we've totally been dating for like, a MONTH. That's like, forEVS.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008


"Be back in a few, I'm gonna go walk the horse".

FB's horse's real name is Qamra but I renamed her Qrazy Wizard because...well, it's the MOST AWESOMEST HORSE NAME EVER!
Went back for trip #2 to the horse ranch outside Paris much better prepared this weekend, i.e. wore sweatpants and GIANT mud boots instead of Converse and my only pair of super cute jeans. If I could have worn armor or a metal shark suit and not looked like a fool, I would have. I still got mauled by the two giant Cujo dogs but felt a little more comfortable that they were not going to rip my jugular out this time, maybe just tear a hand off. No big deal. As I stood in the barn watching FB brush Qrazy Wizard and being circled by the Cujo twins, I tried to act cool (hands in pockets, hands out, hands in pockets, hands out) but when I accidentally backed into a horse's head in the stall behind me and it snorted into my ear, I squelched a scream and suddenly thought "wow, I'd actually be more comfortable lost in the South Bronx at 4AM".

I SWEAR I'm gonna get country if it kills me. I just need to get the right outfit.

Saturday, January 26, 2008


The eyes....hurts....can't that you?

What is this thing called SUN for TWO whole days? OK Parisian winter, I'm sorry I smack talked you in my post a few days ago. You just keep up this new "sun" thing of yours and we just MIGHT become friends.

Friday, January 25, 2008


One of the hardest parts about moving away from home is leaving behind all my creative friends. This clip is from one of my last shows in New York at my favorite local bar down the street where I could play whatever I wanted any time I wanted.
And this is Corey. Corey lived right down the street from me and said yes to every single project I asked her to do in 2007 including making a movie in three days, directing and choreographing my dance comedy music video and acting as my sole back up singer/dancer for every show. She's one of the rare ones who does everything, and does it all well. With friends like Corey, you don't need any more back up than that.

A few weeks ago, FB's brother gave this video he shot to me and I both laughed and cried when I saw it, a little piece of home.....Corey and I are already planning our European takeover. It shouldn't take more than a few weeks, duh.

Thursday, January 24, 2008


I have been in Paris for four weeks now. No, I haven't suddenly become the most amazing cook ever BUT I did manage to find and order EVERYTHING in the above picture by myself which FB proceeded to transform into a MOST amazing ratatouille. There is an open market down the street from me and any cliché notion that the "French hate Americans" is completely gone for me because shopping at that market feels like I'm in a Sesame Street episode. The fish man gives me a hearty smile "BONJOUR MADAME!" and helps me find what I need, I pass by the butcher and his wife who both smile "BONJOUR!", onto the olive man who greets me with a boisterous "AHHH MADAME!", teaches me how to say "sans noyeau" correctly and then asks me questions about New York. I breeze past the vegetable stand and the young guy who recognized me the last time smile and waves as I walk by "BONJOUR" then onto my favorite cheese ladies who both chuckle as I lose my fear of sounding stupid and go for it. "Brie de Meaux est mon favorite. Cette semaine je commence ma clase de francais. Bientot je vais la et je parle avec vous en francais TRES RAPIDE!" LAUGHTER ALL AROUND. OHHH ISN'T LIFE GRAAAAAND!!

As I wave goodbye and bounce off with my bags in hand and a zip in my step, I feel I should break into song but think that might be pushing it too far. I might run the risk of becoming "that nut job from New York who had us all fooled." I think I'll wait until next month to bust out the tap shoes.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008


I had to rub my eyes this morning in disbelief...could it be? Is it really?

Unfortunately it proceeded to rise straight into the clouds and disappear but those few moments SO made my day as I've seen the sun like, three times since I got here.

Monday, January 21, 2008



I got my ass served to me on a platter in French class today by one extremely animated and aggressive French teacher. Any notion I had of actually knowing ANY French at ALL was quickly thrown out the window as I strained and struggled to understand her and catch up to the other students who have been in class for a few weeks now.

Apparently I speak "francais de la route"(street French).
My self confidence actually goes up two notches when she says that.

Unfortunately, my "street" moves got me nowhere today. I just gots to learn me some more fancy moves to take these peoples OUT.

Sunday, January 20, 2008


"I'm sorry, are you talking to ME? I can't tell because I'm wearing my giant sunglasses indoors as it's SOOOO tedious to look at the riff raff and can't you tell by my world-weary sneer that I just can't be bothered right now? I am TIRED and 1st class is FULL so you have NO IDEA how I feel right now so just GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME, OK???"

Had one of those "whose life is this?" moments today as I bought my plane ticket to NYC to finish recording my album next month. Booked the studio time to mix/master it in London in March/April, then back to Paris to launch in May.
I have to say sometimes it is REALLY, REALLY hard to be the international jetsetter I have suddenly become.
Especially when you fly coach and only have one outfit.
No worries......I'll survive.....I suppose.

Friday, January 18, 2008


OK, so MAYBE I should have focused a little LESS on BEEP BEEP CHEATER during my French placement test the other day and MAYBE instead focused slightly more on not faking my own test, my PLACEMENT test. MAYBE I should not have turned it into a competition and MAYBE I should not have pretended to understand what the administrator said to me.

In the end it took very little time for me to realize after I brought my class books home, that I had just overachieved myself into a class that would be way too hard for me. After desperately trying to learn 8 chapters and 90 pages of gibberish in two days, I finally gave up. Today I did what any self respecting perfectionist/A++ extra credit-seeking nerd would NEVER have done.
I walked back into my French school and requested an easier class.

It was really emotionally traumatizing for me and my head hung low as I walked into the building to ask where shop class is, but at least I managed to ask in French and I added a big dramatic sigh at the end to which the perfunctory administrator gave me a quick understanding smile. "Pooor deeear", his eyes said as he erased my classroom number and replaced it with what I assume is the basement next to the gym. "Someone thought she was a LIIITTLE bit smarter than she actually is." STAMP STAMP.
It's OK. I'll learn from this and come out a better person.
There is NOTHING wrong with auto class.
The short bus comes for me starting on Monday.
"Boooonjoooour. Je m'appelle Tracy Flick."

Thursday, January 17, 2008


I did it last night.
I caved in.
I had to, I just couldn't take it anymore. After yet another night out on the town desperately trying to listen, ears straining to hear one familiar word but not understanding jack SQUAT, it was the only thing I could think of that would soak up all the wine and put a smile on my face.
I threw all my principles out the window last night and ordered one giant, delicious ROYALE WITH CHEEEEEESE PLEEEEEEASE. Reeeeal, faaaake cheeeeezy deliciousness melting in my mouth with reeeal, faaaake pomme frites, drenched in reeeal faaaake ketchup.
I almost cried it was THAT GOOD.

I love you wild boar saucisson, canard confit and haricot verts, but sometimes a girl just needs to get her quarter pounder on.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008


One of my favorite films is "Election". Reese Witherspoon plays Tracy Flick, an overachieving high school senior bent on success at all costs, sitting in the front row of every class with hand shooting like an arrow into the air every two minutes, annoyingly knowing the correct answer to every question.

My inner Tracy Flick was brought to the surface yesterday when I went to sign up for French lessons. I asked if I could take the placement test and something in me came alive as I was handed a blank test and shown to the testing room. My stomach immediately calmed, my nerves were quelled and my mind suddenly focused with the single thought...YOU WILL ACE THIS TEST. YOU WILL DO BETTER THAN ANYONE HAS EVER ACHIEVED ON THIS TEST, PAST PRESENT AND FUTURE. IT'S GO TIME!"

I have aced tests my whole life and this would not be an exception. Confidently marching past the other testers, feeling sorry for them because I was about to outdo ALL of them, I sat down at a table and opened the test. OK, name. Easy. Date of birth. Even easier. Passport number. "CHILD'S PLAY", I think as I roll my eyes.

SECTION A: Reading comprehension
Some dumb multiple choice questions about a hotel room and the cost.
"DUH", I snort to myself. Check B, C, A. Done.


SECTION B: Verb conjugation.
Hmmmm, usually I just speak in the present tense with either "yesterday" or "tomorrow" attached. I suddenly remember that I don't actually know French, quickly scan rest of test and realize that this might be a little harder than I thought. Palms starting to sweat, I nervously dart my eyes back and forth as I see my A+ quickly falling to a B, then a C, and a possible dreaded D-. NOOOOOOOOO, NOOOOOOOOOOOO!

And then I hear it. A beeping and clicking sound coming from behind me. I turn around to see another tester looking up words on a portable electronic translator.
I AM ENGULFED WITH RAAAAGE. THERE IS A CHEATER RIGHT BEHIND ME. A FULL BLOWN CHEATER! My eyes bulge out of my head as I drill a look of death into his skull but he doesn't even notice me as he is too busy cheating his way to the top. Conveniently forgetting all about my own test, I am now dead set on bringing justice to the world and outing this blatant cheater for exactly what he is. A LYING AND CONNIVING SCUM OF THE EARTH WHO IS TRYING TO STEAL MY GLORY. BY CHEATING! I sigh loudly and audibly while tapping my pen on the desk and staring at the electronic translator. Nothing. I clear my throat and shift myself further around to look him directly in the face. Nothing. I angrily try and catch an administrator's eye so I can motion to them that there is a traitor and a thief amongst us. Nothing. They are too busy laughing about something in French. Damnit, if ONLY I knew French!

I now know it is my duty and it is up to me alone to deliver a swift and harsh punishment on this empty shell of a student. I look him in the eye and I say quietly but firmly "Excuse me but this is a TEST." Expecting some sort of recognition from him, I am shocked when he simply laughs quietly and goes right back to cheating.
I wheel around again and say louder.."This is a TEST, you are NOT supposed be looking up WORDS on THAT THING." This time he looks at me with utter disdain as if I were an aggressive fly annoying HIM and then he goes RIGHT BACK TO IT. I suddenly hate him and the world. LIFE IS SO UNFAIR!!!

I turn back to my own test, grudgingly accept defeat and try desperately to remember the Latin roots of the gibberish in front of me. Thankfully there is a creative writing section where I could really shine, as I write a pretend letter to friend filled with misspelled lies and wrongly conjugated tales of the glorious Parisian winter sun. I am suddenly reminded of my science class in college on earthquakes where I asked the professor if I could do a dramatic interpretation of an earthquake victim instead of actually taking the mid-term. He said no and looked at me like I had flown into class from Mars.

As my administrator marked up my test with giant red lines, I died a million silent deaths inside. But she laughed at my ironic letter and proceeded to place me in the advanced beginner class. As I left, I shot a last nasty look at BEEP BEEP CHEATER and memorized his face so I could knock his books out of his hands the next time I see him in the cafeteria.


Determined not to repeat my cinnamon/nutmeg/swiss cheese debacle of last week, tonight I chose the following recipe instead:


1. Chop 1/4 onion and 1/2 garlic clove
2. Place oil in pan
3. Turn on stove top and exit kitchen
4. Go to bathroom
5. Check e-mail
6. Look out window
7. Smell something funny
8. Enter kitchen to see stove in flames, exclaim "OH SHIT!!! OH SHIT!!!"

Thankfully, FB caught me before I threw a bucket of water onto the stove. He extinguished the fire with a towel, asked me to open the window and to please leave the kitchen. Then he explained the concept of oil and water to the retard who is determined to burn the entire apartment down to the ground.

For the love of God, SOMEONE needs to teach me to cook better here.
Without any recipes, I have resorted to arson.

Sunday, January 13, 2008


I happen to adore straight lines. Give me point A and point B and I can very quickly tell you the fastest and most direct way to make it between the two. I pride myself on always knowing where I'm going and I have perfected the "don't even THINK about fucking with me" walk down a city street. I despise pulling out a map of any sort on the street and instead spend hours perusing routes before leaving home, memorizing street names and finding my beloved straight lines.

When I first looked at a Parisian map, I was horrified...a mess of wandering streets which change both shape and name seemingly every few hundred feet and whose sole purpose is to drive my control freak nature berzerk with confusion. But one of the joys about moving to a place with someone who is from there is that you get to let go and follow them. You will not have to figure out a maze and constantly check your handy pocket map. You will not have to panic with every lost step because you are with a NATIVE and all you have to do is concentrate on looking cool.

I have quickly realized that this does not apply to me at all because trying to follow around FB is much like trying to follow a senile cat. He actually prefers wandering circles, unfinished lines and messy triangular misshapes. He wanders here and there, stopping to look at this and at that, losing his focus, forgetting where we are, turning multiple 180° circles then quickly jetting off a different way, leaving me in the dust until he stops mid-thought again to look at yet another fascinating building corner or poster in a window. My particular favorite is when he stops in the middle of the street to finish his thought or start another one, completely oblivious to oncoming traffic or to the fact that I am screaming for some continuity and order.

This makes him and therefore ME highly susceptible to anyone looking to bum a cigarette, ask for change or to sign a petition. I am convinced we have signed up to to vote about 12 times (my American mind can't compute the concept of "protest" yet and I just think everyone is signing up people to vote). I am also convinced that we have given away next month's rent in change and cigarettes. My million mile an hour walk has been rendered useless here and I am now at the mercy of perpetual distraction and a burning sensation of chaos every time we leave the apartment.

My straight lines are gone, much like my language skills and my sense of familiarity. But oh well, I'll figure it out eventually. Paris may be a bunch of circles but I am really really good at memorizing. :)

Friday, January 11, 2008


I knew instinctively the moment it came out that I shouldn't have done it. I felt the ice form in my stomach and the inevitable doomed feeling one has when one knows that in just a few short moments, one will be facing a public humiliation followed by a possible execution.

PLACE: a very busy Monoprix at rush hour (the grocery store).
CHARACTERS: American girl pretending to be Parisian
Young French woman cashier/executioner
15 witnesses/angry mob

I don't really know what made me do it. Maybe it was the cocky feeling I had having just come from the bakery, successfully ordering a baguette and giving the right amount of change this time. Or maybe it was my cute black trench coat and my stylish boots click clacking their way down a Parisian street. The sun shining, baguette in hand, I waltzed into the Monoprix to pick up some groceries. Confidently click clacking my way to the counter, the cashier is in an animated conversation with a young man who also works there. He leaves and she continues the conversation with me, sharing the joke they just had. Without a moments thought, I burst into laughter as well. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA" I exclaim loudly. I have a naturally loud and distinctive laugh which I knew the moment it departed my lips, had just risked everything on the flip of a dime and some overblown confidence.

It was just enough to send her into a deep suspicion as her smile faded, her eyes narrowed and her pace of scanning my items slowed down to a mere crawl. My heart raced and panic set in as my face froze in a desperate cry for a stay of execution. Inside I was begging her to PLEEEEASE just let me go, my lesson is learned, I vowed never ever EVER again to pretend I understand if only I could get out that door that now seemed a mile and a half away.

And then....just like that....she did it. Holding up an orange to me, looking me square in the eye, she icily asked "hmpf jeshmdnfjsd something something ghgmjsdh l'orange sjdhfmg something fhgfkdjg?"

Silence. Panic.

OK OK OK OK OK. It's a direct question involving an orange. I know it's a question because her inflection went up and her eyes are challenging mine for an answer. My mind races with possibilities. Uh, type of orange? Uh, weight of orange? Uh, do I like oranges? Uh, have I ever tried orange juice?

I know immediately she has gone for the jugular and this is not a simple YES or NO question. I scan my short list of words I know which takes all of three seconds and decide upon the worst possible answer. My face admits defeat as I mutter "uhhhhhh....uuuummmmmm". Instead of claiming a quiet gracious victory, she repeats the question loudly and slowly as if talking to a moron so the 15 people in line behind me can bask in the glory of a French battle well won.


Riding out the downward spiral, I repeat my eloquent response but flip it to "yyyyeah....uhhhhh...ummmmmm". My face now bright red, I nervously look behind me, grasping at straws and hoping to magically see a translator appear. Seeing only an annoyed angry mob, I look at her with a "ok, you won, NOW can I PLEEASE go?" as she briskly drops the orange into the bag and completes my order in total silence. I sheepishly give her a 50 euro bill (the only bill I have left) to which she rolls her eyes and delivers my change succinctly and with a heavy sigh, she announces loudly and slowly "MEEERRRCCCIII MAAAADDDAAAAMMMME".

I hide my head and clonk clunk my way out the door.

Two points France.
You win.

Thursday, January 10, 2008



If this sounds disgusting to you, I can assure you it is actually much worse than that. I know this for a fact because this is what I accidentally made for dinner last night. I am a "follow the recipe" kind of cook and when left to my own devices, it usually ends up somewhere in over-extremist spice hell as everything smells like oregano to me and I'm generally of the mind that if something is good, then more of it must be REALLY REALLY good.

1. Fry up way too many onions and garlic in enough oil to deep fry a chicken
2. Add a small can of pulped tomatoes
3. Arrange all your spices in unmarked pepper mills.
4. Play Pepper Roulette straight into the sauce (ABSOLUTELY NO TASTING ALLOWED)
5. Add 1 teaspoon cinnamon. Exclaim "OH SHIT" and furiously try to scrape it off top of sauce.
6. Add 1 teaspoon nutmeg followed by "GOD DAMN IT, WHERE IS THE FUCKING PEEEPPER??!" and furiously try and scrape it off top of sauce.
7. Generously add more garlic to mask cinnamon
8. Generously add more onion to mask garlic
9. Generously add more salt to mask everything
10. When husband brings Swiss cheese home instead of Parmesan, think "screw it, how much worse could it get?" and shred 1/2 cup or more on top.
Serve lukewarm on watery overcooked pasta.


Wednesday, January 09, 2008


Woke up this morning to a cold, dark and rainy morning. Had dreams last night of various objects going down in balls of flames...started off with an airplane (obviously), moved on to my stuffed animal collection I had as a child (easy breezy - lost childhood, duh), then to a blazing robot with red mittens and an eyepatch (caaaan't quite figure that one out yet). It all wrapped up nicely with my career along with all my hopes and dreams going down in a giant orange, smoldering blaze of failed glory.
Opening my eyes I think to myself, ' this maybe a sign of stress?'. Shrugging it on, I decided today would be a good day to sink into a depression so I chose not to shower, put on my stinky "It's Go Time!" shirt, made some watered down coffee and cried in front of the mirror a few times to get the day off on the right foot and to also to practice looking as pathetic as possible. As I sat dutifully ignoring my piles of work and googling Britney Spears, I was hit with a sudden light from the windows. My eyes squint in pain as the sun has chosen to bust through the gray Paris sky and hit my grease and dried tear-ridden face with a sudden burst of happiness.
I am immediately enraged.
What the FUCK, Paris?
What the FUCK?!
You sneaky bastard city. You were really working with me this morning. I was 110% committed, dedicated and totally focused on being a sniveling, self deprecating/I want to shake you until you die type of loser today. Sigh. I hadn't even gotten to the part yet where I gaze out the window and cry for World War II victims while pretending to be in a music video. And how exactly am I supposed to write an unfinished crappy poem about no one understanding how painful my life is when the friggin' sun is now shining down on everything? Ruined. I yank the windows open to find a bright and warm day below me. Goddamnit, it's not even COLD out anymore. So much for the depression. Oh well.
So instead I shower, put on some makeup, rearrange the furniture, do the laundry and get to work on my various business plans. Maybe there will be a sleet storm or something later on. Just in case, I am wearing black. You never know.

Monday, January 07, 2008


We have un Americain friend in town for a few days. This was the perfect excuse today to go to all the tourist sites. We did all the big sites in 5 hours. Notre Dame, the Left Bank, the Louvre, Rodin Museum, Ferris Wheel, the Eiffel Tower AND I signed up for French classes. Productive, American style. Was the perfect day to touriste visit as every place was not that crowded.

Two people afraid of heights riding the giant Ferris wheel, scooping two Jerseyites over Paris. I see giant castles in the sky and it makes me get out of myself and see the beauty of this city I have launched myself into. I talked French to three people today by myself and they were all realy nice to me cause I tried.


I'm a strong and powerful kid.

Sunday, January 06, 2008


Spent all day organizing my business plan for all my various launches this year. Spent 2007 making shit and now 2008 is the year of the LAUNCH. Get ready for the album, the webshow, the music videos, the short films......I may be stressed out to be in a brand new country and not understand what one person says to me but hey, I always have been an overachiever. I'll figure it out.

Friday, January 04, 2008


No, I am definitely NOT rested. FB was in a rush this morning as he was late for his first day of work. He had to get me on the correct train first to go to the village where his parents live and where his mother will pick me up to take me to the mairie (town hall) to take care of my visa there. I am too embarrassed to admit that I am extremely nervous to travel by myself and that I had insomnia all night along with some nightmares about getting lost. He is jumpy and short with me, I am over-sensitive and crying once already by 9AM.

Gare Du Nord train station. We rush through it and I have a sudden memory flash of when I worked there for a month in 1992 passing out flyers for a youth hostel. My friend and I befriended a gypsy family over in that corner and would often blow our earnings on the McDonald’s there across the street. That was 15 years ago and now I sit on a platform, stomach in knots, FB no longer by my side, scared to death someone might actually speak to me. I don’t remember being this frightened when I was 22 and living here. Maybe I was frightened and I only remember the adventure. Is it a mindblock or is it just that nothing bad had happened to me yet?

My stomach hurts. A woman walks up to me and before I have time to process the dry heave inside me, she asks me for directions. I answer “Je ne sais pas” very quickly and then for no reason decide to add “Je suis tres tres desoleé” (I am very very sorry). I guess it was the pathetic and sincerely sorry look on my face and the emphatic way I said those words, as in “I am VERY VERY SORRY to have disappointed you, to have ruined your life AND mine, to have rained down destruction upon ALL who live here. For this I AM VERY VERY SORRY”. She patted my hand and said something in French I couldn’t understand and walked away. I felt like asking her if she’d be my Mom but I don’t know how to say that in French.

Thursday, January 03, 2008


We arrive back from the country and can really move into our sublet apartment which is, by any meaning of the word, GORGEOUS. It’s HUGE for Paris with giant picture windows overlooking a busy plaza. A grand piano sits in one of them and I play and play and play. Two bedrooms, an office and a big kitchen…..all ours. I am spoiled rotten and feel as though I am sneaking around someone else’s life. It’s easy to feel as though this will at any point be taken away, I will be shipped back to New York and reinstalled in my corporate job that is quickly becoming a distant memory.
In the tradition of my famous great-cousin Virgil Thomson, I am now a musician living in Paris. Rock on.
We go grocery shopping and I nervously cling to FB for fear of doing something stupid. For a ballsy girl, I sure feel off balance. It’s uncomfortable but as long as I can stand next to him, everything is cool. I wonder if I can follow him to his job where he will start work tomorrow morning and I could just sit in the back and look at him with my mail order smile. Sigh.

Wednesday, January 02, 2008


It was coming. It was bound to come. One cannot avoid destiny. Being a person of a somewhat “crybaby” or as I prefer “sensitive” nature, it was only a matter of time before the tears released themselves in front of a captive audience. I was hoping to make it to at least the first month before I openly wept in front of my new husband’s entire family but alas, sometimes you can’t stop a flood with a sandbag. The last of the English speakers left this morning leaving me alone in a sea of French. My brain was fried from my flashcards and trying to learn too much too fast, my body tired from jetlag, unfamiliarity and possessed farm animals. The perfect conditions brewing for the perfect storm to come….

At lunch I sat with my painted on “foreign wife” smile. I can’t help but feel like an Asian mail order bride, politely smiling, not understanding a word on the outside and on the inside all I see are knives and a noose. Is it just me and my impatience at not being able to communicate? I wonder if Asian mail order brides often contemplate such dark and violent thoughts?

However, when I try and brush those thoughts aside, I then have to fight the urge to go to sleep. Something about the French language is so soft, so musical, so dreamy….it makes me want to go sleep immediately instead of actually concentrating. Not only am I fighting to understand, but now I have to fight narcolepsy as well. Caught between violence and a quick nap, a miscommunication happens between FB’s mother, myself and FB. How can one have social graces when you only understand “the” or “and?” I am at a disadvantage and as I desperately look around for guidance, I feel the tears spilling over the floodgates and I run to the bathroom in horror. Slapping myself in the mirror yelling “PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!!!” does not work nor does hitting myself in the head with my fists. Nothing will stop this.

Defeated, I creep back to the table in the eye of the storm mumbling “allergies, hehe” and silently clutch my forlorn tissue in my hand and stare blankly into my French book. The minutes tick by. FB’s brother says in English “It will get better, do not worry yourself” and with those simple and thoughtful words, the skies open and the tears REALLY present themselves in all their glory. I try again to excuse myself but choking with tears in the kitchen, his sister-in-law and mother come in to give me a hug. I try and say in French “I cry all the time, no worries” but it comes out as “it snows all days”. His young nephews just look at me like a dinosaur they don’t know how to feed and his father comes in to give me a kiss and tell me they will speak English for me all night which promptly sends me straight into another wave of tears.

This family is so sweet to me, so kind and so giving. I want to be perfect for them right now. I want to speak French fluently and make them laugh. I want to talk with them and find out all about their lives. I feel just plain stupid. I didn’t know how hard it would be to not understand the language. I feel cut off and afraid. FB and I go outside and he calms me down. He is the best husband in the world and we are just figuring out how to deal with all these new circumstances one at a time. I know I need to relax and stop worrying that I won’t be good enough and that it’s OK to let some kindness in, I won’t owe anything in return but being myself.
OK, I officially sound like an ABC after school TV special.