UNE CHANSON

Technically speaking, I played and sang for my first Parisian audience last night in a crowded after hours bar in the 3rd arrondissement at 3AM. Upstairs in the corner was an upright piano. As two French boys made their way over to it, my own French Boy convinced me to play a song. I asked politely if they minded if I played a quick tune, they agreed and so I sat down and launched into one of my songs. It has been seven months since I played my last gig in NY and it felt like a crack rush to sing for an audience again. Put a crowd around me and a piano and I could stay there forever.

As I happily rocked late night Paris, the two French boys decided it was a good idea to try and make a duet out of my song and play the piano "with me", one encroaching on the left side of the piano and one on the right. Suddenly I found myself being beaten off the piano altogether. Oh no no no no NO, boys. Sorry, but I am NOT a team player when it comes to a hostile takeover of the instrument I am playing in the middle of one of my own songs. And super especially if you have no idea what the chords are and you are now making it sound like total crap. Soooo...using my sharpened Savate skills, I braced both arms, stuck out both elbows and played harder and harder across two octaves (BAM!), then three (KAPOW!), then four (SHAZAM!) and finally strong armed them both off completely....without missing a beat.
Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

After I finished I thanked them though they looked really annoyed with me as they sat down to play and sing "Georgia" (at least show me up with something French?) The crowd dispersed and the bouncer came to tell them they couldn't play any longer.
Sorry fellas, looks like curtain time for you.
Maybe next time....

On another note, it's male fashion week here in Paris which apparently means an infiltration of pouty pretty boys wearing sunglasses at night and carrying bouncy balls around while striking poses. Awwwwwww....

TAKE ME OUT

I wrote and recorded this song this past week. I was putting some books away and it just hit me, the piano was right there and it just kind of came out. Shot and edited by FB......

SIX MONTHS

OK, so I'm a crier. Nothing new there. My initial reaction to stress or anything out of the ordinary has been, and probably will always be a torrential downpour of tears. So no surprise then this morning as I woke up in tears upon realizing:

a. We are moving out of our apartment tomorrow
b. We have no rental van reserved
c. We have no keys to our new apartment
d. We have no bed or ANY furniture for that matter
e. We have 40+ boxes of I don't even know WHAT to move out of storage ourselves and up six flights of steps with no help because....
f. I have nothing and my life is over.

And so the spiral begins. For once I'd like to react to something and NOT immediately go to the worst case/life as I know it is ending scenario. Sigh. But no, there I was with FB this morning...freaking out....again. "WE HAVE TO LEAVE...NOW!! We HAVE...(short of breath)...TO GO GET A BED...RIGHT NOW!!" He was in a great mood this morning and just held my hand as I sobbed my way out the door and into the metro to find a bed. I'm pretty comfortable now openly weeping in public here. People just don't seem to stare at all and I never catch anyone giving me the secret look like they did in NYC when I would shed tears on the subway. So I sat quietly on the metro with my tissue, tears running, dab dab, blow nose, dab dab...
After crying my way out of the metro and down the street for a few blocks, FB's patience with his silently sobbing wife was clearly running out. So I naturally felt the sudden need to kick it up a notch or ten, and stopped in the middle of a crowded sidewalk to exclaim "YOU JUST DOOOON'T UNDERSTAAAAAAAND!"

FB gave me the look of "ohhhhhh kkkkkkk, here it comes..."

ME: "I....sob sob....am just sooo nervous....and (sob sob) I don't have anything here....no papers...(cry cry)...no bank account....no nothing....no furniture...(hyperventilate)....I can't even RENT MY OWN TRUUUUUCK...."
FB: "Baby. Is THAT what you want? A truck? I'll get you a semi truck, OK? I'm gonna drive you to our new apartment tomorrow in an 18 wheeler, OK? Just you and me. On the road, OK?"
ME: "Buuut...."
FB: "But what?"
ME: "Um...nothing."

And so we entered the futon store, one man and his disheveled, tear stained wife.
FB:"Bonjour. We need a bed. (pause) Right away."

As we laid on various beds, I felt a sudden wave of calm and the tears magically stopped. I could just liiiiie here on this futon in this sunny store window foreeeeever because everything is suddenly...awesome. As we left the store with a receipt in hand and a delivery date all set up, I smiled and said, "Um...merci...I really love you...uh, sorry I flipped out...heh...heh.."

On my subway ride back, it hit me. Today is June 27th! I arrived in Paris six months ago today. It's been quite a ride and I thought about all the things I have accomplished since I got here...

I finished my album.
I made one French friend.
I learned how to do Savate and take out someone's knees and then head.
I can say "suck my dick" in French.
I wrote three new songs.
I learned how to snowboard.
And I fell madly in love with a new city.

Life is grand. Happy six month anniversary, Paris. I really do heart you.

WHAT did you just...?

I was walking down the street today in my own world when a man walking past me gave me the leary eyes and said "something something mon cigar". My first thought was, hmmm I am not smoking a cigar, why would he...maybe he meant cigarette...but I'm not smoking a cigarette either so...I was 20 meters past him when it hit me....ohhhh WAIT A MINUTE (as the anger started to boil)...
That guy just said SUCK MY DICK to me.
"Mon CIGAR", of COURSE!

Maybe it was the heat outside or the fact that I just had wasted 30 seconds of my life trying to translate what this guy had said to me...but I was SERIOUSLY enraged. I had just come from Savate class too so it took no time at all for me to wheel around, march right up behind him and yell "BOIS VOTRE CIGAR! TOUT SEUL!" (my bad French roughly translating to Drink Your Dick! All Alone!....it's all I could think of). Then I added a firm "AAAASSHOLE!" just to drive my point home. Before he had a chance to respond, I marched off in a huff. Some people on the sidewalk were laughing and said something else to me but I had already decided my "translate what the nice French people on the sidewalk say" game was OVER for the day and I just kept marching, thinking of a litany of curses I could have said in English.

Five minutes later I entered my neighborhood bakery. Every single person who works there is always really nice and smiley with me (I am there every single day) EXCEPT this one woman who messes up my order every single time and then acts like I killed her family when I correct her order. She is seemingly the only person in Paris who can't ever understand me, she rarely makes eye contact except to sneer at me and oftentimes she will not say the mandatory "Au Revoir" after I have already said it upon exiting the shop. So there she was, Miss Sunshine in all her glory and me, fresh off a badly executed French insult and still racking my brain trying to figure out how to say "suck".

I ordered two baguettes, she gave me one, I said no two please, she sneered, briskly took another baguette out and just dropped it clumsily on the counter, not even wrapping it for me. We've played this scenario out about 650 times since I moved here and frankly, it is getting a little old. As I paid today and said "merci" twice followed by "Au Revoir!" she was silent. I stopped in my tracks and thought, "You know what, Sneer Lady? NOT TODAY. NOT. TODAY. Because I have officially HAD IT." I turned back around and said "Au Revoir!" again.
(pause)
Still, nothing.
So I walked back up to the counter where she could not possibly miss me and gave my best stickily sweet "Au revoir!"
(pause)
Zero.
I clearly wasn't ever going to win this battle so I just said to her "Vous etes siiii gentille, merci beaucoup." (you are soooo nice, thanks a lot) before smiling, mumbling "asshole" under my breath and waltzing out the door.

Au revoir!!!! :)

PASSAGE GRODY.

I live very close to Passage Brady, a quaint passage of Indian restaurants that I've been meaning to try. After Savate class recently, I announced I was going to meet a friend at Passage Brady to have lunch. The local students asked me in unison if I liked to eat rats. At first I thought I misunderstood the translation. "Uh....rats? You mean Nan? I like Nan." But no, they informed me that if I was a lover of rats, I would REALLY REALLY LOVE Passage Brady. I decided to forego the lunch there and instead check it out later myself. That night I happen to pass by it after the restaurants were all closed and there, through the gates, I saw my personal version of hell. Rats, rats, and more rats. Young, old, little baby rats and giant gargantuan monster rats. I seemed to have interrupted their relay race from one restaurant to another. One big rat fiesta. All that was missing was the pinata.
I almost barfed.
Then I cried.
Then I ran home.
Thanks for terrorizing me, Rat Alley.
Eeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww.......

HI MY NAME IS DANA

And I work from my home alone in Paris, France. I like unicorns, rainbows and long walks alone by myself, with no one else. I enjoy talking to myself, writing songs, fucking up the French language and doing shows for pretend stuffed animal audiences in my living room. This is from my hit one woman show called "DEAD EYES ALONE TIME".

It's a tragicomedy monologue song medley that frankly, brought the house down in tears and applause.

As I was writing tonight's hit show (titled "For The Love Of God Can Anyone HEAR Me?!"), I looked out the window and saw this image which lasted all of 45 seconds but enough time for me to get the picture. I'm gonna print it out and use it in Act II of the show tonight for the "Silent Thunderdogs Night" section. It's REALLY gonna help further the narrative and I know my audience is just going to love love LOVE IT.

Gotta run, have to go to hair and makeup now. Call time is in 30 minutes.

SO SAD TO BE YOU

"So...what exactly do you DO all day?" is a question I am frequently asked.

This is what I do. I spend my days gorging on cheese and sucking down canned Rosé and Chardonnay from juice boxes on sunny days in Jardin du Luxembourg.

Sometimes I have lots of powerful internal revelations.
Like....I can BEEEEE somebody.
Or...That cloud is AMAAAZING.
And...I LOOOOVE juice.

Yeah yeah, I took a day away from my press lists and contact spreadsheets to live up the Barbie Dream Life Musician Vacation Fantasy.

Then I went home and ate a whole chicken.

It ruled.

THE ARRIVAL

My finished album arrives to me in Paris today.
And now, after a six month wait...it is truly GO TIME! (punch punch).
My "Paris Launch" excel spreadsheets are completed, my new army is in place and my big beautiful album in the palm of my hand today.
Nothing in this world beats the feeling of finishing something big.
I made this.
:)
And here I come......

BUTTERFLIES

Up, down, up, down.

UP = Yesterday, I spent an hour with a French friend speaking mostly in French. Came home in a frenzy of confidence, did air punches around the room and made mental note that I might be ready for the golden chalice of comprehension, see a French film sans subtitles. Yeah, NO PROBLEM! (punch punch)

DOWN = Today, I had the following conversation with the chicken guy in French...

CG: "Where do you come from?"
ME: "Very well, thank you! And you?"
CG: "No, WHERE do you come from?"
ME: "Ohhhhh! I live near the train station."
CG: "NOOOO. WHEEEERE DO YOOOOOOU (points to me) COOOOOME FROOOOOOM?"
ME: "Um (getting flustered)...I....I...arrived in January?"
CG: "NO!!!! You are ENGLISH or AMEEEEERICANNN???"
ME: "Oh my God. Yes. I mean, no, I mean, wait....ok ok, I'm from New York. (verge of tears and suddenly blurted out) and I don't know why I talk like this."

I am leaving in a few minutes to go spend the weekend in the country with a French family. FB is not coming with me. It's the first time I will spend two days without my safety crutch. I naturally decided to pack every French book I own along with 1500 flashcards and 58 French podcasts. You just never know.

French french french french....here I come.....but hey, at least they already know where I come from.

Rock.

OPEN LETTER TO H&M

Dear H&M Store in Paris,

Thanks for being here for me on my very first birthday spent in Paris. Remember those times I yelled and cursed at you in NYC for only selling clothes for short people who have no ass? Or the times I sat in the corner of your dressing rooms crying my eyes out because I couldn't get your stupid dresses over my hips and I burst the ass out of your pants when I tried them on and had to call my friend crying to talk me down? Well, I didn't REALLY mean it when I called you a no good horror house of badly made clothes for midget fashion lickers. Actuuuually...I DID mean it...but whatever, you were HERE for me this week. I thought long and hard about what I wanted for my birthday and in the end, all I wanted was a small piece of familiarity. Forget the shops where I'd be force to say "um do you have size USA 10 1/2 shoes?" or "uh...how do you say...does this come in A LOT BIGGER?" No. I chose YOU. I knew when I walked through your doors, I was going to be sold some disappointment and a side of "not the right cut" frustration. But you know what? I didn't care. Because I know you. I spent over an hour in the dressing room pretending I was both short and pretending the too short cut of your shirts didn't make me look like Asbury Park, NJ '87.
I didn't even cry.

Instead, I walked around Paris smiling all day in your 2 euro bug eye sunglasses and 1 euro plastic piece of crap bracelets. So thank you, H&M. Thanks for selling me your cheap dates who will fall apart and leave me in a month. Because in the end, you gave me a really good birthday. :)

xo Dana

CE QUE TU DIS II: BAUDELAIRE

Part II of the Ce Que Tu Dis film series. Though I try my very best and I have no problems actually speaking it, I study all the time and listen sooooo hard, my French comprehension is still somewhat.....um, lacking. Shot in the countryside and inspired by the beauty of a warm spring day, I tried to invoke the spirit of Baudelaire to spin the poem into my head....

COME A LITTLE CLOSER, GARCON

This is a tip for all you single ladies in Paris who are looking for a way to pick up super cute French boys. It's very simple. Wear fitted black workout gear (skull on shirt optional but helpful) and carry a pair of boxing gloves around with you.
That's it.
That's ALL it takes.
Your hair can be a total mess, you can be sweating profusely and you can have no make up on too but if you have the gloves, you are GOLDEN.

I know this because I received my boxing gloves this week at savate. Today I decided to take them home with me over the weekend but I forgot to bring a bag to carry them in. So out the door I whisked, skipping down the stairs. Sweaty and disheveled, my little purse over one shoulder and my boxing gloves in the other. Two cute boys were on their way up the stairs so I smiled brightly while chirping a "pardon!" They eyed the gloves, eyed me, smiled and backed up against the wall "Ohhh, pardonnez MOI" said one as he gave me the ole' flirty eyes. I decided this would be a great opportunity to pretend I was in a Cover Girl ad so I winked and gave my best drawn out "Meeeeeerci" as I breezily slung my gloves over my shoulder, danced my way down the stairs and looked back with a wispy "Au Revoir!".

Giggling my way down the sidewalk, I decided to really test this theory out. I purposely pranced my way up the street, carrying my gloves as conspicuously as possible.
Are you talking to ME Monsieur?
Or the SKULL?
Or my GIANT boxing gloves?
Come a little closer garcon...and you might SERIOUSLY regret it.
Wink.

Ladies, I am telling you. THIS WORKS. If you want to meet men, CARRY BOXING GLOVES EVERYWHERE. The chicken guy started asking me flirty questions about the class, then the two guys in line behind me joined the conversation. The fruit guy made a comment, along with the post office guy followed by the grocery store clerk. This is in addition to the countless smiles and stares along the way. Something about a girl with boxing gloves just REALLY intrigues the manfolk. I am totally happy with my most perfect French Boy at home but today left me with a smile on my face because it's nice to know sometimes....oui, I still got the goods. ;)

ALL THIS CAN BE YOURS...AND MORE!

It's HERE!
May and June!
BEST times to visit the major sites of Paris!
Come one, come all! Stand in line for hours for the opportunity to be pushed through famous sites such as Monet's garden with jovial and decibel breaking tourists including my personal favorite...SCHOOL GROUPS!
Looking for really loud and unsolicited running commentaries on art? We've got EVERYTHING you could want.....AND MORE!!!
Are you stuck at the Museé Orsay silently pondering...Hmmm, I wonder what that sculpture IS?
Well, Jean from Rhode Island has your answer:
"BOB, LOOK! IT'S A SNAKE BITING HER HAAAND!"
Thanks, Jean!
Never again will you be lonely.
May and June in beautiful Paris, France.
Half the world is here.
Come join the fun!

DISCLAIMER: I am actually happy to see that most tourists do not in fact, go off the beaten path here and it is easy to find alternative and interesting sites in May/June without the crowds. You just have to look. :)

SAVATE, A LOVE STORY - 5 MONTHS IN PARIS

I NEVER feel like going to my Savate class. Unless I am in an extreme state of agitation/anger and want to break things and put my fist through stuff, like a FACE. Then I can't WAIT. But ever since I quit my day job, became a hippie and moved to France to be a musician and cook real good, I am unfortunately no longer in a borderline rage most of the time.

This reluctancy to just GO....it makes no sense whatsoever because I am in LOVE with my Savate school and thoroughly enjoy every moment of training there. I'm not sure if it's just my usual hyperventilating "oh my god, I am walking out my front door into FRAAANCE" nerve flare-ups but every morning I think of about 250 reasons why I should NOT go to class. My stomach hurts, I'm tired...I deserve a break.. you know, I need to reLAX more and anyway I have to go grocery shopping...I should write more...being a shut-in is like, WAY more fun...I can always go tomorrow...I don't have a clean shirt...I just can't deal today...I'd rather play piano...it's better if I just sit and eat some more...I need to watch the finale of Top Chef...I HAVE to vacuum the rug for the 1600th time......blah blah BLAH. Nothing new really, I never once felt like going to Kung Fu in New York either. My mind just seems to fight my body. Oh well.

Eh, just walk it off and go. I have never once regretted it and every time have walked out of class feeling like I can truly conquer the world. Today I strolled my way to class where I am now getting used the routine. Usually four to six guy students (some young, some old) my teacher and me. Almost same exact warm up and I am starting to understand "kjdghkjhgfjdh on your back dkcuieurtb sndkjbjkrfgfjk vertical legs djvoixufrenbfnjd reverse direction coivurbngjkd....it's like little poppies in white noise that get through somehow. Each one leaves me with a small smile of understanding and one step closer to communicating. I feel rusty parts of my brain pushing to work and naturally string some order together from the jumble of sounds that are backwards and unfamiliar. I talk very little and just listen which is so beyond the norm for me. To be in a group of people and NOT speak is just, well...unSPEAKABLE! ARGH!

Occasionally, I know they are talking about me. I know enough French now to understand the subjects of conversations (well, most of the time...whatevs). I heard "anglais" mentioned several times. Most surprising to me (but not really) is how you can tell so much from a persons physical actions. I just smile and give my look that I have perfected here. "I'm smiling at you in my knowing way and you are not too sure if I understood but I am looking at you so you just don't REALLY know how much I understand...maybe I understand nothing.....but maybe not ;) The fact I am forced to not rely on any language communication but instead read purely physical actions has taught me to shut up and just SEE someone. Somehow I think this is a skill that will serve me well here.

Today in warm up my teacher asked me if I was staying past the warm up to do the fight class. There are a few women who come just for the thirty minute warm up but don't stay for the actual Savate class. This is incomprehensible to me so it came as a surprise when he asked me if I was tired and not staying. Suddenly understanding the question, I blurted out "MOI?! FATIGUE? JAMAIS!!" (NEVER!) Then I burst into my larger than life laughter at the absurdness of my outburst. He smiled and seemed taken aback and a few of the guys in class looked at me funny. Not being able to stop, I added "J'ADORE DES COUP DES PIEDS!". I had WANTED to say "I love to kick things!" but instead it came out as "I ADORE SOME KICKS!" which made me laugh even HARDER because I suddenly got a third eye view of myself as the silent foreign girl who only speaks to yell out to a group of people that I do, indeed, love me some kicks. And now I am also in the corner hysterically laughing at my own joke.

My teacher is excellent and precise. The last two classes I have dropped the nerves and just gone for it kicking. He works with me solo and as I figure out the new kicks and nail some golden bullseyes, he smiles and says my progress is fast. Today I learned an over the head fake-out followed by a side thrust kick. As my leg sailed above my head and followed up with a BAM!! Chassé THAT!!, I smiled wide and full. My teacher patted me on the back and said in French "you worked hard this week", as I grinned. Then he totally surprised me by saying in perfect English "It's good."

Yeah, just walk it off and GO.
France is yours.

OVERBOARD & EXCESS

I usually cook my meals at home but yesterday I ate out twice in one day. Naturally jumping at any opportunity for extreme excess and overboard behavior, I thought it'd be a GREAT idea to REALLY go for the French cuisine thing and eat the following:

6 oysters
1 steak tartare (HUGE)
1 plate of fries (LARGE)
1 creme brulée (MASSIVE)
3 glasses of wine
2 beers (HUMONGOUS, as in tumblers)
1 bowl of moules frites a la moutarde (GIANT amounts of mussels with mustard and yes, MORE fries)
1 chocolate bar

This is also better known as..HOW TO MAKE YOURSELF FEEL LIKE YOU WILL DIE. I had an alcoholic seafood and raw meat revolution in my guts this morning that has flattened me like roadkill. Between the hot and cold sweats, I have managed to peel myself out of the bathroom and my bed long enough to warn any other moronic IDIOT who decides that shoveling THIS amount of raw beef and cream into their mouths and mixing it with some shit eating larva from the ocean/large quantities of alchohol...

BACK AWAY from the plate.
It's a BAD DECISION.
MORE does NOT = better.
MORE = SICKER.
MORE = DUMBER.
MORE = MORE SUFFERING, YOU DUMBASS.

I'd give my left arm for some Premium brand saltines.
Do they even HAVE saltines here?
PLAIN ones with no butter or pork?
Sigh.

I DUNNO

YOU: "What is that?" (point to Notre Dame)
ME: "I dunno."
YOU: "What's that huge building?" (point to Louvre)
ME: "I dunno."
YOU "What's that monument?" (point to Bastille)
ME: "Dunno."
YOU: "So uh, what DO you know about Paris?"
ME: (silence)

I have had variations of this conversation with just about every visiting house guest since I got here five months ago. People show up here with various levels of expectations. Thankfully, in the "know your city's history" department, it's been on the low side. It's not that I don't care. I do. Just not right now. I am sure I'll get into the "fun facts" mode soon but for now, I am fine with big, broad strokes..

"What's that?"
(reading giant ECOLE sign) "Uh, an old school."
"Who goes there?"
"I dunno. People."
(silence) "Wow, you're an amazing tour guide." (cue rolling eyes)

I walked through Notre Dame yesterday for the sixth time in 3 months. I have yet to actually read any of the signs inside or bother to look at any guide book about its history. I could tell you how much the candles cost though and what days they do confessions. Mostly I just look at the pretty lights and play "guess the tourists' country of origin" with myself as the crowds pack by.

Yes, I should probably brush up on some basic knowledge of when the Eiffel Tower was built and how long the Louvre is but really, for now, I am content to wander the streets and discover the present Paris, the one who painted her face for me and intoxicates me with her smells, her looks and her sounds. There's plenty of time for her baggage later. Just let me enjoy a pretty face for a moment.

SHARKS AND DONUTS

Last night, great strides were made in France/USA relations as two American Girls cooked and served "Le Diner Etrange" to a roomful of French people (..and one Chilean:). My friend and talented chef, Jessica, showed up with not one, but two dishes that crazily fit perfectly with the two I had made. As the living room lit up with French, I had to laugh as it was not planned at ALL, but it looked like the Americans were cooking for French this evening.
Game time.
We got serious.
"What do you think about the jello shots? Dessert or apertif?"
"Apertif for sure."
"How about mint on top of each one?"
"Awesome."
"And some strawberry fans."
"Awesome."
"And a cherry sprig."
"Totally."
"OK, IT'S GO TIME!"
AND VOILA. "Mesdames et monsieurs..Le Diner Etrange commence."
JELLO SHOTS APERTIF. Yyyyeah, that's right. I got a roomful of French to suck these babies down like candy. I finally figured out how to use the sheet gelatin yesterday, whipped up some homemade lemonade, mixed with vodka, popped in the fridge, garnished with some fresh mint and POW. A jello shot that the French can hang with...all it needed was a pair of heels and a Lacroix dress. Next course was a deliciously hot chili that Jessica made. She used espresso and it had this warm spicy chocolatey taste. We snickered in the kitchen as the people commented on the "spiciness".
Man up, pardners. That's how WE roll, heh heh.

My main dish was the watermelon/feta/olive/mint salad with grilled shark. It turned out way more awesome than I EVER thought it would. The pairing of salty and sweet was perfection. And last but not least, Jessica brought the house down with an AMAZING dessert....A shot of spicy hot chocolate, a homemade donut that was the right amount of chewy on the inside, lightly dusted with flavored salt and served up with some berries. I LOVED seeing people's faces over the course of the night as dish after dish of "strange" and delicious food pairings were brought out. The compliments were plentiful and it was really a fun time had by all.
Jello shots, chili, shark and donuts....American girls rule.
;)

LE DINER ETRANGE (THE STRANGE DINNER)

A few weeks ago I asked FB what he wanted for his birthday and he said nothing but a nice dinner. Of course I had to turn it into something much bigger and more complicated than that so the idea morphed into what will be the first of many Le Diner Etrange. We are having a mix of people over tonight and the only rule is that you must bring a strange dish or a strange ingredient which will then be attempted to cook into a dish. "Strange" is totally subjective here. A friend of mine suggested a watermelon/feta salad with some grilled swordfish in it. I went to the fish market today and asked for swordfish, he didn't have any but suggested Requin. "Uh.....oui, d'accord!" Sounds great! I got home and looked it up. Requin is shark. Uh...ok. I will now be serving watermelon/feta/olive/shark salad. LE DINER ETRANGE!
My opening cocktails are supposed to be red and blue jello shots. Why? Duh....F-R-A-N-C-E is red and blue, U-S-A...ALSO red and blue. See the connection here? In actuality, I think it's because I selfishly just want to see French people suck down a jello shot at a Parisian dinner party, that's pretty much all there is to it.

I ran into a problem though. I cannot find Jello anywhere in this city. I even tried to find just plain gelatin. At my local market, if I ask for something, it is usually followed by a question of how I will be serving the item. As the French grocer asked, I choked down a laugh, cleared my throat and slowly tried in French to explain what a jello shot is as though I was explaining a delicacy. The perplexed look on his face told me it was never going to happen. How exactly do you describe a jello shot accurately? "Oui pardon, vous avez plain gelatin? I need to mix it with hard alchohol and some juice, freeze it and then suck it out of a syringe...or just some tupperware will do."
The French will be receiving a touch of REAL New Jersey CLASS tonight.....

ME CAN HAZ CHEEZEBURGERZ

Been a rough couple of days. Am in waiting mode while my album is shipped off to be pressed. I hate waiting. Waiting is unkind, cruel and should be banned from my life forever. Free moments to me are free moments to get bored and to really delve into the true enjoyment of being a broke, illegal alien who still can't understand a word anyone says. The French language took this opportunity to abandon me completely this past weekend. It sensed my fragility, waved a cruel goodbye and proceeded to build a brick wall around my fried brain refusing to let anything in or out. There is only one thing that can make me feel better in times like these...CHEESBURGERS. Last night FB worked late and as I rifled through my bag, I realized I had not one centime. Zero, nada. No cheeseburger. OK OK OK OK, DO NOT panic. Just wait until FB gets home, it's cool, it's cool. Tap, tap, tap..the time rolled by like a drunk snail while I sat and fumed...8PM, 9PM, 10PM....oh my god, oh my god.....

10:55PM
FB enters to find me pacing the living room, hair a mess, makeup stained eyes and the look of insanity.
FB: (smiling) "I'm hoooome!"
DB: (manic) "I need a cheeseburger. NOW. See the place across the street (points to Quick Burger)? It's open still. It's 10:55 and will probably close in 5 minutes. If you love me at all, you will take me to get a cheeseburger. YOU need to order. I'm not dealing with French anymore today. I'm DONE. Finis. Game OVER. I want you to order me the biggest cheeseburger they have and a LARGE fries and a diet coke, DIET coke, ok? And you have to ask for extra ketchup, OK? Got it? EXTRA ketchup, don't forget. OK let's roll!!!" (run to get bag)
FB: (sits down) "I was thinking on my walk home about the hard time you were having the past few days and...
DB: "Why are you sitting down????! I NEED A CHEESEBURGER RIGHT THIS SECOND."
FB: "OK sure, just chill out, we can get a cheeseburger in a second but I wanted to tell you some important things I was thinking about.."
DB: "If it doesn't involve meat with cheese between a bun, I don't want to hear it right now."
FB: "But we can sit for five minutes and I would love to tell you this thing that would make you feel good..."
DB: "YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. If we are not at that counter, the one I can see right there out the window, THAT counter that may close in THREE MINUTES, I WILL DIE. I will curl up in a ball and DIE HERE. I NEED A CHEESEBURGER. NOW."
FB: "OK, hang on for one sec and just let me say this ONE thing."
DB: (hyperventilating) "Just give me the money!"
FB: "Baby if you're hungry, I could cook you dinner right now, would you like that? That would make you feel better I bet!"
DB: "I DON'T WANT ANYTHING HERE!! I WANT PROCESSED BEEF AND FAKE CHEESE! (tears welling) Please, please for the love of God, pleeeeeease take me to get a cheeseburger, I am beeeeegging you..."

10 minutes later. I am happily dancing back home across the street, tearing into GIANT bag in hand containing GIANT cheesburgers.

FB: (looks at me) "Seriously. Is THAT all it took?"
DB: (smiling widely) "Yup."
FB: "Wow...maybe I want you to be more complicated than you actually are."
DB: (chomp chomp) "Yup. Love ya!"

p.s. It did the job but Quick Burger is TOTALLY inferior to McDonald's especially in the fries and ketchup department...just in case you were wondering.

ILLEGAL SALAD - DAY 136

BEAUTIFUL, SUNNY, SPRING PARISIAN DAY
10:00AM - FB leaves for work

10:02AM - Stare off into space

10:28AM - Get productive, get productive, look at my list, my list, yes my cherished LIST, must add to list of things to do. Let's see...get evicted...check. Eliminate all personal sources of income. Check. Become illegal alien. Done. Wow, I'm super efficient.

10:35AM - Stare into space some more and twist hair around while remembering that I used to have a real TV Executive day job. I used to answer my phone like all, businesslike and stuff. I don't even have a phone anymore. I had a phone but I lost it in London and it doesn't matter because no one calls me anyway. What do I need a phone for? I don't even know how to dial anymore. Stupid phones. Who needs a phone anyway?

10:36AM - My hair is so dry, it's disgusting how absolutely DRY my hair is. What is wrong with it? My hair has NEVER felt this dry. Especially when I twist it up here like this or maybe I should leave it down. No, I'll put it back up and that way I can't feel how dry it is. Oh but now it itches, maybe I'll....

10:38AM - Dump half a bottle of olive oil on hair, drop bottle and cover bathroom in oil.

10:39AM - Add to list Clean Up Oil Spill

10:49AM - Check.

11:00AM - Lunchtime. Yeah at 11AM, whatever. Stand at kitchen counter and shovel a pound of leftover pasta into face.

11:15AM - Sit down at piano.

11:16AM - Ok, good, good, sit down and write something. Get out of your head. Stop thinking about everything. Just play and write. Work it out, work it out.
"Maaaaan I wish someone would taaaaalk to me...." No no no. That's bad.
"Sure would be niiiice if I understooood what you saaaaaaay..." Horrible. Next.
"I smell like an illeeegal saaaalaaaaad...."

11:26AM - OK just forget it, I give up.

11:35AM - Surf the net doing "research".

12PM - Lunchtime again. Shovel more pasta into face.

1:00PM.....
OK, ENOUGH. Put the baguette DOWN, go wash the bottle of olive oil out of your hair you moron, take off that crappy shirt and PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. Put on a skirt and some heels and for Christ's sake, put some makeup on. Yes yes, poor you. So sad for you to live in Paris and how awful it must be to go wander around the city on a bright spring day. My heart burns with sympathy for you and I might drown in my own tears. Cut the Flowers In The Attic act and just get the hell out of the apartment, OK?
ENOUGH.

Where's my tiny, tiny violin?
"Oh blaaaaackness of niiight, why'd you have to maaaake me live in Paaaaaaaris...."