CHICKY & BYRD

This is Byrd. Jeff Byrd but most people call him Byrd. He produced my album with me and we've been having a blast in London listening to each song come alive, one by one. This album has been in the works for almost two years now and hearing our hard work mixed into one big beautiful album brings tears to my eyes.
Byrd rules.

This is Chicky. Charles Reeves but a lot of people call him Chicky. He is the reason we came to London, to work in his studio. Chicky is a true master of sound and I would trust no one else to mix and master my songs. His ears are golden and he is taking each song to a completely new level.
Chicky rules.

I wrote this album but these two creative forces are making it come to life.
Work with talented people.
Always.
Especially with Chicky and Byrd if you're an air sign like me. :)

I SEE LONDON, I SEE FRANCE

Woke up at 5:15AM this morning to catch a 6:40AM train to London where I am mixing and mastering my album for the next two weeks (YAY). I am an ALWAYS on time person. It disturbs me DEEPLY to arrive anywhere less than 15 minutes early. I usually average 30-45 minutes early because I probably have some big issue I never dealt with somewhere in my past but I like to think that I just don't like rushing. Yesterday, I had even gone to the trouble of picking up my ticket from the station early and going to scope out where the gate would be.

With this in mind, it was especially perplexing to me that I left myself exactly 26 minutes this morning to drag two giant bags and a 40 lb. accordion on my back into the subway, take the metro to the train station, go through immigration, fill out customs form, push and cut to the front of the line and then RUN to the train while shouting "OH NOOOO!!!!WAIT FOR MEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!" as the departure bell rang. Sweating profusely and gasping for air, I practically hugged the steward as I literally fell onto the train. "OH MY GOD (pant pant)....OH MY GOD....MERCI MERCI MERCI"

As I loudly tripped over a passenger's foot and huffed and puffed my way into my seat, I saw the others on the train staring at me...hair a mess, visibly heaving, pained expression. Oh my god, I'm THAT GIRL. The one I always think is SO DUMB. The one I always say to in my mind "if only you had gotten up 30 minutes earlier...YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF, STUPID".

It's nice to see how the other team plays but I'll happily take my anal retentiveness over cardiac arrest any day. I did this to MYSELF. Next time I'm totally getting up at 4AM.

FISH HEADS AND ASSHOLES - DAY 90

Today marks my three month anniversary of moving to Paris. Between the mix of traveling and having a stream of friends stay at our apartment, I feel I've only dipped my big toe into this city.
Now I want to stick my face in it and open my eyes.

Yesterday, after a most annoying 7.5 hours spent yelling at my computer and trying in vain to upload the latest Les Alpes video installment (I have not given up), FB and I went to dinner. I had but one request. FISH. I wanted grilled whitefish. No sauce. No butter. Just grilled fish and vegetables. Having gorged myself on a mixed medley of red meats and cheeses for weeks on end, I yearned for a simple piece of whitefish sans le gravy, merci.

We found a nice place by Odeon and I smiled in anticipation as I ordered my grilled fish. Just as I was sitting back sinking into Frenchness, the aural missile entered my left ear like an unexpected A-bomb. "I THINK THAT A PRESIDENT OR A PUBLIC LEADER HAS A MORAL OBLIGAAAATION AND MUST STICK TO THE MORAL CODE THAT HE PREACHES!"
I whipped my head around to see who had launched the missile into the middle of my French bubble. And there they were.
AMERICANS.
BIG.
LOUD.
AMERICANS.
I quickly snapped my menu up to hide myself should anyone mistake me as "one of them". Blood boiling, I started my litany, spit flying across the table towards FB. I first tried in French so I could further separate myself from the apes but as "to speak strong, it's BAD...MUCH noise" didn't really showcase my wit or allow for the full expression of my deep disdain, I instead launched into an angry whispered "WHY does that guy feel it's necessary to YELL what he thinks about MORAL CODE to the ENTIRE RESTAURANT? IN ENGLISH! You know, they are EXACTLY the reason why people think Americans are loud and obnoxious. BECAUSE THEY ARE! THEY ARE RUINING EVERYTHING AND RUINING MY DINNER!"
Before FB had a chance to respond, another missile was sent our way, only this time in English with a heavy French accent, "I THEENK THE FRENCH AND ZE AMERICAINS HAVE SOMESING TO LEARN FROM EACH OTHER! SARKOZY FOR EENSTANCE!"
This was yelled at an even louder decibel than the American.
I was struck into silence.
Wait.
AMERICANS are loud and obnoxious.
FB gave me the look of "See? We have assholes here, too".

And then our fish arrived. As the waiter set the fish down in front of me, my first thought was "Houston, we have a problem". It was the whole fish. Tail, head and charred eye staring straight at me. I have a history of not eating food that can look at me but I didn't want to come off as amateur or unworldy so I carefully set a piece of lettuce over the eye and got busy with the middle of the fish. Digging straight in, I filled my mouth with a hefty bite and then....
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH
OK my mouth is filled with fish bones. Shit. I've heard people die from this. OK just keep chewing like it's totally normal. Alright, just nonchalantly slip that bone out of your mouth, ok, next one, ok number 3, 4, 5...no one noticed, keep going.

But when I got to 8 bones picked and spit out of my mouth, I gave up and looked at FB's plate. With surgeon-like skills, he had neatly spread his fish apart, extracted the bones and was happily and precisely eating just the meaty parts.
My plate looked like a murder gone bad with a lettuce cover up. I decided to come clean.

ME "Um, I have never actually eaten a fish like this before".
FB "Never? As in, never in your WHOLE LIFE?"
ME "No, never in my whole life. I never liked things looking at me while I eat them."
FB "Ahhhh, I was wondering about the way you were cutting into it! Do you want me to help you?"
PAUSE
ME "Um....yes."

I quietly sat like an embarrassed five year old while FB reached across the table, cleaned up my murder victim and cut him up correctly for me. He explained what the different parts of the fish were and as he cut the slimy egg sac out, held it up and asked me if I wanted any, I was able to hold my gag reflex down while muttering a "no, no, no, I think that's enough for tonight."

Lessons learned after three months in France: There are assholes everywhere and fish have lots of bones. Maybe I'm actually getting somewhere.

SHOCK AND AWE

This is by far the most dramatic example of a public safety image I have ever seen. In addition to the universal lightning bolt sign, it includes the addition of the dramatically bent over backwards victim, head arched to the sky as if to say "MON DIEUX, why oh WHY hast thou forsaken me?" Be warned, my friend. If you touch this box, YOU WILL BE STRUCK DOWN BY GOD IN HEAVEN and this is EXACTLY how you are going to DIE. So get that Shakespearean speech out and do it with FEELING this time!

I found it yesterday on the train station platform as we waited for our train back to Paris. I found it particularly appropriate as we had just come from FB's parents house where, yet again, I attempted to set something on fire. How was I supposed to know that the U.S.A. 8-plug super-sized extra wide power strip would not be magically converted by the tiny adaptor I had but instead would make a large hissing sound, followed by a loud pop, a small flame and then permanently shoot the lights out of my in-laws living room? They happened to be in the living room while my dual attempt at self-electrocution/familial arson occurred. I managed to mutter a quiet "oh shiiiiiit" as they rushed over to inspect the damage. My remedial French could only muster a "I am sorry for fire. I don't know. I am sorry. Fire so bad."

Fortunately, they didn't care so much about the lighting situation or my "Chaka hungry" explanation and after opening a door to let the smoke smell out, the incident was left alone. I am grateful to have such understanding in-laws and as we left, I looked them in the eye very seriously and let them know in earnest..."A promise. The fire. The light. It is last time. I no make the fire in the light."

LES ALPES PART 2

LES ALPES PART 1

Ok ok ok ok, I can do this, I can do this. So what that my legs are shaking and I feel like vomiting? It's just a mountain. A really really big mountain. That looks like, way bigger when I stand on it. At least there aren't any bears. I think. OK. Three year olds are passing you. You have officially been passed by a class of preschoolers. So quit crying like a baby, you idiot. STOP IT. You CAN get down this mountain...without your pride and your self worth in shambles but maybe also with no broken bones. Stand up straight, stand up STRAIGHT! WATCH THE TREE! OK, ignore the guy that just yelled at you, what does he know anyway? He's been born with skis on like apparently everyone else in this stupid country. IS THAT A TUNNEL? WTF??? I'm gonna rip his face off when we get down this mountain for talking me into going to the top.

I'm not gonna die, I'm gonna live, I'm not gonna die, I'm gonna live...




Coming soon..."SLOPE COP"

UNSETTLED - DAY ????

There's nothing like a good police raid of your apartment to take whatever little sense of belonging you have and throw it out the window. And did I mention it was in French and I did not understand one single word? Fun times yesterday morning, fun times. More on that later.....(and we're fine, I'm just psychologically traumatized and my paranoia has reached disproportionate levels and I've developed an eye twitch and night terrors but whatever, it's all cool).

Hmmmmmm.....I'd say it's the perfect time to get out of town and THROW MYSELF DOWN A MOUNTAIN! Today we leave for Les Alps and YES, I found an outfit.
Tragically, it is not inappropriately tight.
Ironically, it has fake leather patches and looks like a police uniform.
(Hmmmm it seems I was psychically tuned in when I purchased it last week).

I'll be busy patrolling the slopes for the next week, video camera in hand but with no internet connect. Be back soon. And by the way, never answer your door.

xo

YO FRANCE - TU ME MANQUES?

Yo France...I'm back! Did you miss me?

Sure France, I missed you too but I spent 2 1/2 New York weeks of kicking ass really loudly and it RULED. I ate bagels, pizza and Mexican food every day, walked around slurping a ginormous coffee and most importantly, I finished my recording my album. FUN.

But now I return to you, France. I always come back, don't I? I had a good two week run of the mouth but hey, it's silent time again for this compadre, France. No problemo.

And I have to say France, you are looking GOOOOD. You are WAY prettier than New York and the pretty girls always win. So let's just have a second go at this, OK? I don't need to understand everything you say anyway, I'll just nod my head smiling and you keep looking all pretty and we'll do ok in the end, you and me.

My heart is here with you, France. I ain't goin' nowheres, baby.

WHAT IS THE PROBLEM?

This is what I want. This. As a ski outfit. WHY DOES THIS NOT EXIST?? It is 2008. There is NO WAY that technology has not come up with this. As a ski outfit. For me.
There is no suitable ski outfit in New York City. I know this because I have been to every ski store, sports store, whoever the hell sells skiing clothes store in the ENTIRE city. And there was not one thing I would ever even CONSIDER throwing myself down a mountain in.
Not one.
So I stepped up my game.
I ordered some online to deliver on Monday. A friend sent me a link to a couple of snowboarding jumpsuits that are closer to what I want. I mean, they are still way too padded and everything but I ordered two sizes and two colors to see which looks cuter with a sparkly gold belt.
I guess I have to get a ski hat and gloves and lip gloss and whatever special socks or whatever things you have to wear under your ski outfit. Gave up on the light up goggles. Could wear a headlight but that'd just be lame. I feel this coming together...I got my nails done today and everything.

MOTORMOUTH

I have been running my mouth off at 120mph like a runaway pickup truck on a chase for two weeks straight now to anyone who will listen. I will HAPPILY listen to ANYTHING you want to talk about. ANYTHING. In as MUCH detail as possible, start from the beginning and use as many words as possible.
I am listening and understanding every word you say to me.
And after you are done speaking, I want to discuss every possible aspect and angle of what you just spoke to me about, in as much detail and using as many words as possible.
And when you wake up in the morning, I will be on your couch, wide awake and smiling since 6:43AM and I will say to you "Good morning!" and then we will talk FOR AN ENTIRE DAY WITHOUT STOPPING.
PAR-LEZ MOI.
JE SUIS LA.

Especially shopkeepers. It took me a few days to realize what I was doing. I am just working off all the internal fear I have in Paris when approaching a shopkeeper....my internal monologue usually reading something to affect of "for the love of God PLEEEEEEEASE DO NOT SPEAK TO ME...PLEASE OH PLEASE I will do anything, I will become ANYTHING if ONLY you will NEVER EVER NOT EVER SAY ONE SINGLE THING to me....DON'T LOOK AT ME, DON'T EVEN LOOK AT ME! DO...NOT..LOOK...AT....ME!!!....oh my god she is looking at me. SHE IS LOOKING AT ME. WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME???!#$! RUUUUNNNNNN!!!!!! etc etc etc."

VS.

This morning. Wandered into a bodega, spent 15 minutes leisurely looking at every bottle of juice available. Man walks by and bumps into me. I cheerily respond with an "Oops! Hiee! Excuse me!" with a smile. Saunter up to shopkeeper, place juice on counter with a huge sigh.

ME: Hi. I just LOOOVE blueberries.
SK: (half smile)
ME: Blueberries are my FAVORITE.
SK: Uh huh. (ringing up total)
ME: I think this juice is new. Like, I haven't seen this juice before I moved away. I used to live right down the street from here but now I live in France...
SK: $3.99.
ME: ..cause my husband is French and I decided to move there but I haven't tried any blueberries there yet. (handing him a $20) Sure is colder here!
SK: Uh huh. (handing change back)
(pause while I measure conversation potential, decide to drop it as the response has been lukewarm at best so far, will stop at bagel store on the way home as chances are better and there are always at least three people behind the counter)
ME: Well, it was nice talking to you! Have a great day and hey, stay warm! (said with my finger pointed at him and clicking noise made with tongue)
SK: Blank stare.

As I left the store, I thought to myself...stay warm? Since when have I EVER told ANYONE to "stay warm"? I think I am just panicking before I go back to retardation land on Monday. Gotta get all my well wishes in now.
NOTE TO SELF: Must get "stay warm" translated asap.

MOUNTAIN MAMA

TWO MONTHS AGO....

FB: "Wanna go skiing in the Alps for a week in March?"
ME: "hahahahahahahahahaha"
FB: "I'm serious. Do you want to go?"
ME: "The last time I was on skis I was 11 and it was on a small bump on the earth called Vernon Valley in Jersey. OF COURSE I'LL GO TO THE FRICKIN' ALPS!"

TODAY....

If you ever want to listen to the most annoying conversations of your life, hang out in a ski store where lots of loud rich people make stupid comments, like the woman who I could hear from across the store screaming to her husband "I DON'T KNOW WHICH LOOKS BETTAH AWN ME, THAH BROWN OR THAH BLACK!!?" to which he bellowed back "JUST BUY THEM BOTH!" (price tag on those $349 fyi, thanks for unsolicited advertisement for overt consumerism, Mr. & Mrs. Jerkoff).

I need a ski outfit. Fast. And in my naivete I thought it would be easy to find...all I want is something inappropriately tight in leopard print or fuscia where I could zip the front down after I effortlessly breeze down the bunny slope and whip out my chapstick. Oh and I want light up goggles too. What is so difficult about this???

STORE #1:
SALESLADY: Can I help you?
ME: Yeah. I don't know JACK about skiing but apparently I am going to the Alps in two weeks and I need a super hot outfit. Do you have anything more sparkly or like, WAY tighter than what's out here?
SALESLADY: No. Not really.
ME: Why is everything BROWN?
SALESLADY: (brightening) Yes, brown is VERY IN this season.
ME: I guess if you want to look like a turd rolling down a mountain. Weird.

STORE #2:
I find a one piece white snowboarding jumpsuit. I try it on and now I look like a pilot for Antarctica Air. Or an astronaut. But not a hot astronaut. Why does everyone need so much ROOM in ski clothes? I just want to look HOT. Upon exiting the dressing room:

SALESLADY: How did it fit?
ME: Really bad.
SALESLADY: Oh, I thought for SURE you would look like a a million bucks in that!
ME: Well, I looked like $1.89...
SALESLADY: That CAN'T be true.
ME: ...in a Hazmat suit.
SALESLADY: (blank stare)
ME: I'm gonna go to decontamination now, thanks anyway.

I'm running out of time here....one more store to go to tomorrow and then I might have to pull the big guns out and hike it to Jersey. They MUST have inappropriately tight leopard print there!

WHO'S THE FOX?

My mother has passed on many things to me in my life...namely....
1. All her disco dresses
2. Her cackly laugh
3. Her "I can drill a hole in your head and set you on FIRE" stare
4. Fantastic hair genes and general FOXiness

Have been in New York for a few days now and spent one night with my Mom. After showing her the above picture of me in her dress, she then found the above pictures of her taken at the same age.

Yes, I know our hair is a genetic wonder of the world (said while flipping hair back dramatically). Thanks, Mom!

LATER.

Tomorrow morning I leave for NYC for two weeks to finish recording the vocals on my album. Was just informed that the title I was planning on using (Walk It Off) is the title of the new Breeders album.
Great.
Thanks Breeders.
Why you have to rip my goods?

Yesterday was my last day of French class until April when I return from mixing/mastering in London. It was sunny outside and French Interrogator was in rare form today. I just rolled my eyes the whole class as she berated and said stuff I don't understand anyway. All I could think was, "um, aren't we supposed to be having a pizza party or something?"
Whatever, lady.
I'm OUTTA here!

Stay sweet,

Dana
(I'll be posting sporadically for the next two weeks...)

CHEDDAR MAKES THE WORLD GO 'ROUND - DAY 49

My favorite shop in Paris and my most favorite store I have ever been in my life EVER - past, present and probably future is La Grande Epicerie. I know I know I KNOW, it's the "expensive/bougiiiieeeee" place to shop but every time I walk through those doors, I have the hyperventilation of a 5 year old entering Chuck E. Cheese. Despite my rudimentary cooking skills, food has always been my favorite thing/past-time/obsession in the world. I could and have spent hours in the grocery store, looking at every jar, inspecting every label, every pretty picture, imagining what's inside every package. I go at least once a week now and spend about two hours inspecting the goods and stocking up on foreign labeled goods. Just slap an "old timey" label on something and I am the idiot/sucker spending 11 euro on some butter cookies. But they are filled with REAL BUTTER. And a picture of A REAL OLD TIMEY girl with BRAIDS on the label. And it's EUROPEAN too which means it's like, WAY REALER.

The one thing in my life that I have mourned since moving to Paris though is the death of yellow cheddar. I don't know if you know personally the magic and the glory of yellow cheddar, but it can make anything taste a billion trillion zillion times better. I have heaped and melted yellow cheddar on just about every dish you can think of and it's absence has been a real blow to my innermost soul. I mean, a tuna melt with brie? Ew. A hot dog covered in roquefort? Gross.

The other day I was meandering my way through La Grande Epicerie when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the old familiar fake orange color. My heart skipped a beat and before I could convince myself it was only an apparition....there it was. Right in front of me....
YELLOW CHEDDAR COCKTAIL BITES.
THE REAL DEAL.
JACKPOT!
"OH MY GOD!" (hyperventilating) I exclaimed and actually teared up as I hugged the little container and promised to love it more than anyone could ever love it EVER.

In the privacy of my own home for the past week, I have been adding my little precious cocktail cheddars to every single meal. Did you know that yogurt tastes awesome with cheddar? How about a salad? Did someone say a CHEDDAR salad? Hmm, this steak tastes great. WITH CHEDDAR! Today I made the most delicious creation ever known to humankind and maybe even the martian world too.....

CHEDDAR SMOTHERED QUAIL EGGS


I don't care what anyone says, especially food snobs. This was, by far, the most delicious meal I ever made and I savored every last bite, crying with joy by myself in my kitchen watching French soap operas.
With cheddar.

CE QUE TU DIS

This is the first installment in a series of short films we are making entitled "CE QUE TU DIS". Inspired by my prowess in French class and my general language domination skills, it explores the uncharted territories of the great language divide.
Enjoy.
More to come....

INTERVENTION

I am happy to report there's been a food intervention in my kitchen. Before the flames were able to engulf ALL who enter, my friend Corey showed up in France with a mission to teach this girl some cooking skills. We went exploring to some random neighborhoods and much to our delight, stumbled upon Chinatown and all the Asian markets. Corey spent a month in Thailand last year and got an amazing recipe for Tom Kha Gai soup from a family she stayed with so we gathered all the ingredients, came back to my incendiary kitchen where I stuck a video camera in her face and made her explain the whole thing from A to Z. Visual guides are KEY. When FB got home, I could see the look of relief in his eyes. It's called hope.

The next day we picked up a blank art book and Corey spent the next two days cutting out pictures from magazines, pasting and coloring to make me THIS.....
MY VERY OWN COOKBOOK. There's a new rule in my apartment. If you come to visit me, you have to write a recipe in my cookbook along with a visual demonstration of some sort.

And in return, I'll teach you how to look trés francaise.....merci, Corey....xoxo...bon voyage.

PIANO HANDS - DAY 45

Somewhere across the ocean or on a boat in the the middle of the ocean are my beloved accordions along with all my music gear, floating their way over to me from New York. Sometimes I think about them and try to imagine where they might be, if they are cold and if they miss being played by me. Instead, I have been playing an inordinate amount of piano lately as there is a grand piano in our apartment. I have not had a real piano in 15 years as my apartments were always too small to accommodate one. The ability to sit at this piano and stare out the window while playing for hours on end has been the best gift I have received in a long, long time. Actually, maybe EVER. While I work on finishing my album in these next two months, I am learning some random obscure songs to add to my ever-growing set list and I am also brushing up on my classical repertoire.

I have been given the gift of TIME and I plan on savoring every last moment of it. Slowly letting the manic New York way I spent my life escape me and falling gratefully into the circle of Parisian time instead....lala.....merci....

I feel something waking up in me as I wrap my head around the concept of focusing only on what I love and what I am the best at...music. I am not stealing time from someone else's day, I am not trying to live two lives being exhausted after a 12 hour day at a corporate job and starting my creative life on a fixed schedule from 10PM-12AM. I don't have a boss to answer to or work email to constantly check anymore. I have had a "job " since I was 12 years old and pioneered my first company, Babysitter's Inc. (ever the capitalist, I made t-shirts, took out an ad in the local newsletter and acted as the booker for my "girls").

All this freedom is new to me and I still fight the guilty feeling, as though it will be taken away from me any moment....but it won't because now that I have it, I am going to make it stick. I'll just make some t-shirts and a newsletter, get some new girls to work for me and make this last forever.

RODIN + JETLAG

I am a firm believer in impulsive behavior. My friend Corey decided on Monday night she would fly to Paris on Tuesday to come see me. ROCK. She arrived Wednesday morning after a no-sleep flight and we decided to go the Rodin Museum. It has always been my absolutely favorite museum in Paris and after wandering through the amazing old house surrounded by incredible sculpture everywhere, I had one thing to say....HOT.
His sculptures are so incredibly erotic and beautiful, it took all my will power not to reach out and touch every single one.
Corey, on the other hand, had a slightly different reaction.....

OPPOSITE DAY - DAY 41

Some people move to Paris, take up smoking and learn how to cook amazing meals. I, on the other hand, moved to Paris, quit smoking and promptly became the worst cook on the face of the planet. This is what I accidentally made for breakfast today.

It's supposed to be toast.
Sigh.

Yes, just another day in my delicious kitchen adding yet another dish to my ever growing list of fiery disasters. I'm getting really tired of the mad dash to the kitchen window to let the smoke out but whatever. I never said I was a good housewife. Time to find out where the Chinese take-out is.

RETURN OF THE NINJA

I'd been waiting for this moment since I arrived in Paris....maybe even for my whole life. I was starting to think it would never come. But I waited. Quietly, patiently, diligently and with the unspoken confidence that eventually....it would come.
And come to pass it DID. Yesterday the opportunity presented itself in more glory than I could have EVER hoped for.
I compared myself to Bruce Lee in the same sentence.
In French.
In conversation.
To a group of strangers.

Kung Fu Dana is BACK!
SHAZAAAAAM!

PLACE: French class
CHARACTERS:
Beaten down American girl, 30s, with Ninja roots, angry, alone, nowhere to go but UP, looking for any opportunity to pounce.
French Interrogator, woman, 50s, with balls of steel and a mouth to match
15 foreign witnesses

I have gotten used to things changing at the drop of the hat here due to the great language divide. I'll feel like the queen of the world one moment but it doesn't take much to send me reeling down in a fit of confusion. I call it the retardation roller coaster and I never know when the next giant hill is coming. Sometimes I understand a lot of what my French Interrogator (aka teacher) says, other times I come up blank and just give the vacant stare look right through her. Based on her reaction to me, I'm pretty good at the "special place" open mouthed stare. She usually calls me the American fish in an aquarium then.

So yesterday I was swimming along in a particularly low wave of understanding when the class subject turned to sports. We had to go around the room and say what sport was common in our country of origin. And it clicked. I couldn't WAIT until it was my turn...yes yes yes, Italy and football, NEXT, England and rugby, OK OK, NEXT, Australia, India, Spain, GOT IT...NEXT.....finally my turn comes and French Interrogator seizes the opportunity to make a very sarcastic statement about Americans and their "own" football.

MY TIME HAS COME.

I look her square in the eye and say loudly and confidently "Oui...mais non pour moi. Je joue LE KUNG FU. Je pratique LE KUNG FU. Je suis comme BRUCE LEE."
BAM! REVERSE HEADLOCK! HA!
"Tu connais Bruce Lee?" (You know Bruce Lee?) I innocently demand, driving my point home and turning the interrogation around. French Interrogator rolls her eyes but I read a shred of fear in them. I know what fear looks like, I happen to be a master of it. I decide to throw her another curve ball and further prove my point.
"J'aime donner un coup de pied.....BEAUCOUP." (I like to kick.....a LOT)

Game over, France.
Two points NEW YORK.

She leaves me alone for the rest of class and though I still don't understand what she says, I sit there with my victory smile for this one small battle won. After class the Italian guy in my class leans over and asks "ees thees Kung Fu thing true?"
"YUP" I say. And with that, I close my books and waltz out the door.

IT'S NINJA TIME.

Superboule

I have never, not once EVER in my entire life voluntarily watched a football game. It has never interested me in the slightest and though my entire family is full of REAL fans (my Dad happens to be king of the NY Giants tailgaiting), watching a game has always elicited a giant "this is sooooo booooooooring...whateeeeeeeeever" sigh from me.

I have no idea what happened to me last night, but apparently I channeled some kind of ancestry and watched the Superbowl at 12AM here, complete with French commentary (try THAT on for weird sometime). Maybe moving to Paris has made me nostalgic for anything "New York" but last night, I heatedly turned into a real, die hard NY Giants fan. Complete with a tear in my eye for the national anthem and outbursts like "BABE, I'm trying to watch the GAME HERE!" and "JESUS CHRIST PEOPLE! PICK UP THE BALL!!"

Maybe there's hope for me yet, Dad. I am a GIANT NEW YORKER after all. You can get me the beer tumbler for my birthday, ok?

DEVASTATION RAINS HARD - DAY 35

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.
I LEFT MY HOODIE AT THE BAR.

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:
NO.

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, ".....my......hoooooodie.....cry cry cry....I....lost...my 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 hoodie....my 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.

ENTER DEPRESSION......

8AM THIS MORNING
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."

R.I.P. HOODIE

AFTERWORD
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.

WEATHER SONG - DAY 34

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.

QRAZY WIZARD

"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!
Duh.
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.

IT BUUUUUUUURNS!!!!

The light....my eyes....hurts....can't see....mama..is 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.

JE SUIS LIBRE

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.

DAY 28 - OH WHO ARE THE PEOPLE IN YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD?

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.

LE SOLEIL! LA SOLEIL!

I had to rub my eyes this morning in disbelief...could it be? Is it really?
YES IT IS.
A SUNRISE.
AN ACTUAL SUN.
RISING.

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.

DAY 26 - THE SMACKDOWN

"OH LO LO LO" ..... BAM! SMACK DOWN
"OH NON NON NON" .... BAM! HEADLOCK
"AIE AIE AIE".... BAM! ARMBAR

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).
YES!
My self confidence actually goes up two notches when she says that.
"YYYYEAH LADY, DAT'S RIGHT....I SPEAK STUREEEEET! POW!"

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

INTERNATIONAL JETSETTER - DAY 24

"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.

TRACY FLICK RIDES THE SHORT BUS

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.
I AM OVERACHIEVER, OK? SO I TRIED TO OUTDO EVERYONE. SO WHAT? AT LEAST I HAVE GOALS. WHATEVER.

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.
Done.
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."

OH THE HORROR

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.

TRACY FLICK DOES PARIS

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.

NEXT!

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.
BEEP BEEP, CLICK CLICK, BEEP BEEP.
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.

BURN IT DOWN - DAY 22

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

DELICIOUS PASTA SAUCE TAKE 2

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.

STRAIGHT LINES - DAY 21

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. :)

BUSTED - DAY 19

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.

"HMPF JESHMDNFJSD SOMETHING SOMETHING GHGMJSDH L'ORANGE SJDHFMG SOMETHING FHGFKDJG??????"

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.

CUISINE UN-FRANCAISE - DAY 18

PASTA WITH TOMATO CINNAMON NUTMEG SAUCE AND SWISS CHEESE

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.

MMMMMMMMM.....DELISH!

DAY 17 - WTF, PARIS!?

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, 'hmmm...is 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?
Seriously.
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.

YOU'RE SO COOL - DAY 15

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.

Word.

I'm a strong and powerful kid.

LE PLAN - DAY 12

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.
:)

ES TU REPOSEE? - DAY 10

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.

I'M GOIN' TO PARIS PEE WEE! - DAY 9

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.

THE MELTDOWN - DAY 8

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.
Enough.

NEW YEAR'S EVE - DAY 6

The chateau is hoppin’ with friends, friends’ kids, family, French, English, some Spanish, a dog and FB’s mother cooking up a storm. His father has made rabbit paté from a hare he ran off the road a few days before. Apparently he has a habit of accidentally running down hares and turning them into roadkill paté. He has also made an astounding fois gras that my own liver will remember for the next two weeks.
There is a local chef down the road who will be roasting a suckling pig for our dinner.

Night falls and a group of us head out to make the trek to the next town to see the pig being roasted. I decided that since the thought of walking through the pitch black to see a pig on a spit terrifies me, I must go immediately. We set off down the road into the darkness, my hand clutching the flashlight and hoping there are no Viking ghosts. Wait, were there ever actually Vikings in France? My American public school history education seems to be getting more questionable by the moment. Just concentrate on your ruined Jay-Z Roc-a-Fella sneakers covered in manure making one step at a time. Somehow on dark walks through the night, I always end up walking alone between two groups. “Always”…. as in the two times in my life I have trekked through the pitch black, one being the previous night and the other being the current one. The first group sprints ahead and the group behind me lags, leaving me alone in the darkness. I decide not to turn my flashlight on and face the fear. I think of Newark and other tough places I have never walked through but because I am from New Jersey I can claim them as my roots.

I walk by a herd of cows, which in the dark I couldn’t see and which make loud grunting noises as I go by, releasing the terror flood within me. I am suddenly convinced it is a pack of wolves and Camden and Newark aside, I am their next meal. My breath stops, the tears come and I fumble for the flashlight. As I shine my feeble light into the field, I see that in darkness, even cows look menacing. EVIL, EVIL COWS! I run to catch up to the first group. We make it to the town and I realize I am very good at looking cool while silently vomiting inside. This is a skill that will come in handy time and time again.

There are two pigs kissing on a stake, in one end, out the other over an open fire. The chef slowly spins them, their skin turning a golden pinkish brown and I am mesmerized and also grateful that I am not a vegetarian. I think briefly of their short life and how awful the word “dead suckling pig” is before I decide that smoking another cigarette instead and looking cool would be a better idea as my imagination has already gone to “dead suckling babies”. I shake it off and on our walk back through the night, I feel a little lost in a foreign world and suddenly I want my Mom more than ever. I kiss 2007 goodbye and wonder what 2008 will bring my way. And least I can say and the……et le……et le….et le…..et la…..et la…..eh eh eh

YOUR HIGHNESS - DAY 5

Our bed is small and has an ornamented frame. I lay in bed an extra two hours, my feet touching the bottom frame and my head propped against the back. I close my eyes and pretend I am both short and I am the Queen of France. I hear the cows outside mooing and a bell ringing and I decree the farmer shall be rewarded for such a fine bounty. I will give him four virgins and a flock of geese. Oh when oh when will those blasted servants come with my morning coffee? My eyes are watering and I am overcome by another sneezing fit. I wonder if the Queen of France was allergic to wool blankets too? I suddenly realize I cannot name one single Queen of France except for myself. NOTE TO SELF: Must wikipedia “Queen Of France” asap.
FB comes in and asks when I plan on getting up as it’s 2PM.

LIL' BIT COUNTRY - DAY 3

Three English speaking friends come into town and we are off for a week to Burgundy for New Year’s Eve where 18 of FB’s friends will be joining his family there for a celebration. My mind is happy with the familiarity of English. I suddenly realize that it might be a little more difficult to learn French in just two weeks as originally planned. NOTE TO SELF: maybe should have taken some French classes before leaving as “immersion” technique seems to only give me a serious headache and make me want a cigarette. Recognizing the words “the” and “and” is not giving me a good enough sense of what the conversations are about and I see no end in sight.

We drive up to the chateau and I am in awe that this 15th century house actually belongs to FB’s family. This definitely beats a week at the Jersey shore. The fog is heavy and I feel like I’m in a medieval play. I enter the main room through heavy wooden doors whose small frames don’t fit my tall Germanic roots and I am dumbstruck. Am I in a movie? I fight the urge to mutter “Dost though taketh thy dinner is this hereth chamber of fancyeth ornaments?” in my worst English accent and instead just stare at the 19th century wild boar’s head hanging from the wall next to the armor and the deer’s antlers. This DEFINITELY beats the Jersey shore. I am shown to our room at the top of some windy stairs through more doors. ‘Man, these people really loved doors’, I think to myself but then I realize it is my central heating, idiot American self speaking and I decide I actually am as retarded as I think.

WHY I SMELL LIKE HORSESHIT - DAY 2

Today I went with FB to visit his horses for the first time. He failed to warn me that we were going to mudfields to carouse with two huge dogs that looked like Cujo twin killing machines who immediately jumped at me and destroyed my $250 "cutest hoodie ever from an overpriced Park Slope boutique" with mud while also rendering my ONLY pair of sneakers I brought completely useless as I sunk six inches into the brown quicksand. FB wore his wedding shoes, by the way, which now resemble an adobe.

The woman who takes care of his horses is cool but speaks no English and I failed to mention that I am actually REALLY afraid of horses so I stood silently by while he brought one in from the field and just pretended to the everyone that I was not, in fact, about to run for cover from fear of getting kicked in the head by the beasts who DEFINITELY smelled fear on me. I tried to stay out of the way while they cleaned the horses in the barn. She boards lots of horses there so people were coming and going, all of whom I tried to avoid.

I quickly realized that trying to avoid French people for fear of someone actually speaking to me in French is pretty useless at this point. Still, I insisted on sitting alone in the freezing cold, off to the side, pretending to go over my "flashcards" (which I now carry in my pocket). The boyfriend of the horse boarder finally saw me and came over to say in perfect English "you know, you can come inside if you want, it's freezing out here and it's dark now" to which I breezily responded "oh really? I hadn't noticed".

I'm totally pretending to be cool. Fake it til you make it. Off to wash my stank ass ruined city clothes.

Je Suis La

A hurricane of goodbyes
Tears creeping out of every corner
Pulling the stakes up and out
Stickier than syrup on my bitten fingers
Lift me up and over
Too much is too much is too much
Roll into the other side
Launch into silence
Sounds like music
A new window onto old songs
Be quiet and dream of corners
Where everything is soft and fluid

GOING GOING GONE - DAY 1

An Air India flight (whose food RULES by the way), tear stains on my face, the image of my mother's crying face emblazoned on my conscience. My father's voice as he called right before the plane took off, cracking with emotion and telling me he is proud. FB's father sweeping us up from the airport to do a whirlwind drive through Paris...falling into my seat at a crowded restaurant and causing a stir followed by my bright red face, a visit to the fois gras shop, the sights and new smells, sounds making my already dizzy mind spin like a top. The apartment....a piano overlooking a crowded Parisian street, I don't care about the rest. The piano greets me and begs me to play.....not yet.....whisked off to FB's parent’s place and now I sit alone in a foreign house in a foreign land while they go shopping to feed me. Off to another new place tomorrow....Burgundy......everything is a blur. Talked to Mom on the phone whose voice cracked with emotion and sent me creeping outside to let my own tears out.......lonely, tired, sad, anxious, excited.......the new chapter begins.......

October 1st means.....

Two years since I started Kung Fu Dana and met French boy.
Two more months until I move to France.
Two windows I had to close tonight because I got cold.

Summer is officially over.
Yikes.....

Paris premonition

Last night I dreamed that my husband took me to a French island off the coast of Normandy (and no, it was not England). It was warm and beautiful and everyone had cocktails with umbrellas in them. We had to buy stamps so I confidently marched up to the post office desk (cocktail in hand) and requested stamps fearlessly and fluently.
"C'est possible que j'ai le postage?" (translated roughly from retard French..It is possible that I have the postage?) I said alluuuuuuuringly...all the right words magically spilling from my suddenly fluent tongue. And in the glorious world of my dream where I am fluent in French and tropical islands exist off the coast of Normandy, the jovial postal worker replied "OUI! BIEN SUR!" and proceeded to jump across the desk to give me a hug along with my stamps. My husband immediately did the old school/over-exaggerated movie laugh and was so impressed with me that for the rest of the dream he spoke to me only in French. I didn't have the heart to tell him in my dream that the "magical fluency" apparently did not extend to actually understanding French. So we walked along the beach hand in hand, sipping cocktails and marveling at the waves as I listened to the music of his French sending me even further into dreamland.

It was nice for just a moment to drop the panic of moving to Paris and let the joy in. If only for a moment in my dream.
Today I woke up smiling.

Mon mari

J'aime mon mari if you were curious.
He rules and just told me stories about the beautiful French Alps to make me feel better about uprooting my life and he promised me I won't be the quiet girl cause everyone likes to talk to me, even if I don't understand what they are saying.
And then he smiled at me and kissed me and suddenly the world was a little brighter and a baguette and some cheese sounded better than Spaghetti-Os.
Hm.

Realite

Four cups of coffee, restless sleep, stomache ache for two days, head spinning, overwhelmed and freaked out.

I bought a non-refundable, no exchange, no change one way ticket to Paris. And it hit me like a ton of bricks to the face. I am moving December 26th at 9:10PM via Air India. Carry me away from my home, family and friends amidst saris and curry. Note to self: bring a sandwich for the plane. Curry might not be a good idea that day.

I cleaned everything in my apartment and put it all at right angles. Order is good. Impending change...change is bad change is bad, no, no change is good change is good....breathe....just because you went to a dinner party with French friends last night and understood nothing doesn't mean that you will understand nothing in France. Um, actually, yes it does. Ok, ok, ok, ok....breeeeeeeathe. So it will take you a while to learn an entire language. Maybe years. Maybe a lifetime! I'm from New Jersey, how can I possibly learn an entire language? What if I'm suddenly the QUIET girl, the girl that doesn't speak because she can't communicate. My mouth has been going since I was born, now I will be silenced? That girl in the corner no one talks to whose husband works all day while she slowly goes insane in a one room apartment with a bitchy French cat who can't stand her cause she renamed her Snowball and tried to hug her while she fell apart crying cause she missed her friends and instead got a claw to the face. The hungry girl in the corner who hasn't eaten in three days cause she's too scared to try and order a sandwich again cause the guy behind the counter was mean.

But I'm not afraid. Yes I am. Today I am afraid. So I'll feel afraid right now and then let it go cause maybe tomorrow I will wake up and feel like my bad ass self again. The wonderfully charming musician who loves people and loves to throw a party. The self confident artist who is curious about the world. Not the freaked out Jersey girl who just wants her Mom to make her a Spaghetti-Os sandwich on Wonder Bread and call it a day.

Breathe.