I've been a little absent, mainly because my life currently consists of baking and taking care of my mom who's recovering from some pretty intense surgery. She's fine, and actually she can pretty much take care of herself, but I'm around to do the heavy lifting, reaching, driving, etc. I'm still looking for a job, which obviously isn't going so well, seeing as how the economy's in the crapper and no one really wants to hire someone with a Master's in a language no one uses on this coast. Needless to say, my life is at an all-time boring high, so I was thinking maybe I'd just hold off on the blogging for a while, until something interesting happens, or until I can live with myself for indulging in the narcissistic trend of blabbing on and on about the banalities of my everyday life.
But before I go, can I just remind everyone to feel themselves up and take care of the twins? It's October, and you're supposed to be doing it year-round, but I doubt you all are, so I figured I'd do my part and remind you to get checked out, stay healthy and show cancer who's the fucking boss. Hint: it's not cancer. Just ask my mom.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Is it the weekend yet?
Living jobless in suburbia can get kind of tedious, which is why I'm grateful for my mom's season tickets to the Ahmanson. I don't go to the theater as much as I'd like to, since it's so expensive (see that last bit about being unemployed), but every time I go, it makes me really sad I can't do Summer Stock anymore, especially when the show's as high energy and fun as the one we saw.
So, you're going to laugh, or maybe hate me, but 9 to 5: The Musical was really good. It wasn't outstanding, and they'll definitely have to do a bit of fine-tuning before it starts its run on Broadway, but the music was upbeat, the leads were all fantastic (oddly enough, Allison Janney was the weakest), and the set design was actually pretty amazing. Not that I'm a theater critic or anything, but I just thought I'd throw it out there, in case you're looking for something fun to do with the girls in LA, or need to take your grandmother on a nice night out.
I'm sorry my life isn't more interesting, not just because it means I'm bored out of my mind, but also because it means I don't have anything to write about for whatever three people still read this. There's this girl I went to college with - she works at a big-time women's magazine now, lives in New York, goes gallivanting around all the time and writes two successful blogs, and I'm kind of jealous. Well, kind of is an understatement. Now, I know I'm in a crappy place when I'm envious of someone with an entry-level job. But we all have to start someplace, right? I mean, she's not Tina Fey or JK Rowling (which may or may not be a good thing, depending on your taste and idea of success), and neither am I, but I have no doubt that in 20 years, we'll both be speaking at Smith at some poetry center event on how to break into writing. All I have to do is, well... break into writing. So I guess I should get off my ass and get back to those unfinished projects, right? Dammit, I hate it when I give in to logic.
So, you're going to laugh, or maybe hate me, but 9 to 5: The Musical was really good. It wasn't outstanding, and they'll definitely have to do a bit of fine-tuning before it starts its run on Broadway, but the music was upbeat, the leads were all fantastic (oddly enough, Allison Janney was the weakest), and the set design was actually pretty amazing. Not that I'm a theater critic or anything, but I just thought I'd throw it out there, in case you're looking for something fun to do with the girls in LA, or need to take your grandmother on a nice night out.
I'm sorry my life isn't more interesting, not just because it means I'm bored out of my mind, but also because it means I don't have anything to write about for whatever three people still read this. There's this girl I went to college with - she works at a big-time women's magazine now, lives in New York, goes gallivanting around all the time and writes two successful blogs, and I'm kind of jealous. Well, kind of is an understatement. Now, I know I'm in a crappy place when I'm envious of someone with an entry-level job. But we all have to start someplace, right? I mean, she's not Tina Fey or JK Rowling (which may or may not be a good thing, depending on your taste and idea of success), and neither am I, but I have no doubt that in 20 years, we'll both be speaking at Smith at some poetry center event on how to break into writing. All I have to do is, well... break into writing. So I guess I should get off my ass and get back to those unfinished projects, right? Dammit, I hate it when I give in to logic.
Friday, September 5, 2008
The honeymoon is over.
I miss Paris. Like, a lot. I can't explain it, but I think I felt more at home there than I do here, a place which is, in fact, my home. Well, maybe that's not entirely true. Maybe I just miss speaking French all day and dealing with the psycho boulanger down the street, and waking up to Notre Dame and scooters speeding down rue Monge. Maybe I'm just extremely bored and have started using my time trying to devise ways to move back to Paris and avoid being a contributing member of society, including going to pastry school at none other than the queen of all culinary institutions, Le Cordon Bleu. Well, I was devising that plan, until I realized that a six-month diploma in pâtisserie would cost me the same as my entire Master's program at NYU, not including rent and expenses. Although I'm still thinking about it - maybe not this year, maybe not even next year, but if I ever want to fulfill one of my many, many dreams of opening a boulangerie in the States, I'm going to have to do it at some point anyways. Maybe after a few years of working for other people, saving some money and figuring some shit out, I'll know what I actually want to do, and I'll stop having anxiety attacks every night as I go to sleep because my future is unclear and completely unplanned. Until then, I'm just going to to keep tinkering in my kitchen and try to figure out how to make réligieuses.
On the Lindora front: man, does this shit suck. I decided three weeks into this "rapid, safe weight-loss" program that low-carb is not for me. Excuse me, but I bake. And I eat what I bake because I am, and want to continue to be, a good baker. And also, who really wants to go to a crappy clinic way out of the way of everything in their life, every day, to weigh in and get shot up with vitamins? Thank you, but no thank you. I let a nurse give me a booster shot once, and I ended up crying the whole afternoon, not from the pain, but from the disappointment that I'd actually let her talk me into it, that I'd let another human being inflict that pain on me, and that I'd paid for it. I was so upset with myself, I'd come to the conclusion that if I'd let her talk me into it, that meant that I really did need it, or at least that I wasn't capable of doing it on my own, and if there's one thing I don't need in life, it's you telling me what's best for my body, since obviously I know all and am infallible. I just didn't want to be at the point where I was relying on someone else to help me lose the weight, or worse yet, lose the weight for me. And that's when I decided I hated Lindora, I hated the way the nurses talked to me like I was five years old, I hated cutting entire food groups out of my diet, I hated being told how much to eat and when, I hated seeing every morning that I hadn't made any progress because I faltered and ate - gasp - one measly little chocolate chip cookie (ok, so maybe it was four), I hated going in and seeing everyone's before and after pictures on the board, wondering why I wasn't following in their footsteps and dropping three pounds a week, I hated hating myself because I wasn't dropping three pounds a week. Never in my life had I ever been so obsessed with my weight, or so upset about it. Sure, I was never really happy I was fat, but when was the last time I actually cried because of it? High school? Ok, sophomore year of college, I confess. The point is: why would I want to be a part of something that I don't want to do and that makes me feel like crap day after day? I'm young. I'm starting to be active again. And I'd rather be active all the time and eat what I want in moderation than walk and eat only from a list of foods that fit on half a sheet of paper. I'd rather not diet and watch what I eat than be obsessed with numbers - carbs, points, calories, whatever. (Ok, so calories are actually, in reality, important.) The only number that really counts is the one on the scale, and I don't want to be obsessed with that either. I just want it to be smaller. However long it takes to get smaller, I don't really care, though sooner is always better than later. I just want it to get there.
And that, my friends, is why I hate dieting.
P.S. If you see me in person, and have noticed that I've lost weight and would like to compliment me on it, don't. Seriously, don't. I don't want to know that "you look so good! Have you lost weight?" or worse, "you look like you've lost some weight!" Don't ask me about my diet, don't ask me how I'm feeling if it's related to my weight loss, don't tell me "good for you for working out with a trainer". I don't want to hear it. ANY of it. I'm doing it for me, and the only reason I blog about it is because it's an experience. When I'm done losing however much weight I want to lose, I'll let you know, and then you can congratulate me. But until then, I work out for me, I watch what I eat for me, I'm losing weight for me. Not for you, for me. It's my body, and I'll compliment myself if I want to.
P.P.S. Also, do NOT ask me how my diet's going. If we go out to eat, don't ask me if we can go to certain places, implying my diet being a cause for concern with the phrase "I don't know what you can eat." Like I said, I'm doing this for me, so it's my problem. I don't want to be treated differently, singled out, or treated like it's always Passover because I'm trying to lose weight. You know what I'm doing, and I know what I'm doing, and I'll figure out what to eat at restaurants, and everyone within a thirty-foot radius does not need to know that I'm dieting. Dammit, it's not your news to tell. It's like all other activities and conversation topics have ceased to exist since I started trying to lose weight. I'm sure people with fertility problems don't really like talking about that with everyone on a night out either.
Oh, that felt good.
On the Lindora front: man, does this shit suck. I decided three weeks into this "rapid, safe weight-loss" program that low-carb is not for me. Excuse me, but I bake. And I eat what I bake because I am, and want to continue to be, a good baker. And also, who really wants to go to a crappy clinic way out of the way of everything in their life, every day, to weigh in and get shot up with vitamins? Thank you, but no thank you. I let a nurse give me a booster shot once, and I ended up crying the whole afternoon, not from the pain, but from the disappointment that I'd actually let her talk me into it, that I'd let another human being inflict that pain on me, and that I'd paid for it. I was so upset with myself, I'd come to the conclusion that if I'd let her talk me into it, that meant that I really did need it, or at least that I wasn't capable of doing it on my own, and if there's one thing I don't need in life, it's you telling me what's best for my body, since obviously I know all and am infallible. I just didn't want to be at the point where I was relying on someone else to help me lose the weight, or worse yet, lose the weight for me. And that's when I decided I hated Lindora, I hated the way the nurses talked to me like I was five years old, I hated cutting entire food groups out of my diet, I hated being told how much to eat and when, I hated seeing every morning that I hadn't made any progress because I faltered and ate - gasp - one measly little chocolate chip cookie (ok, so maybe it was four), I hated going in and seeing everyone's before and after pictures on the board, wondering why I wasn't following in their footsteps and dropping three pounds a week, I hated hating myself because I wasn't dropping three pounds a week. Never in my life had I ever been so obsessed with my weight, or so upset about it. Sure, I was never really happy I was fat, but when was the last time I actually cried because of it? High school? Ok, sophomore year of college, I confess. The point is: why would I want to be a part of something that I don't want to do and that makes me feel like crap day after day? I'm young. I'm starting to be active again. And I'd rather be active all the time and eat what I want in moderation than walk and eat only from a list of foods that fit on half a sheet of paper. I'd rather not diet and watch what I eat than be obsessed with numbers - carbs, points, calories, whatever. (Ok, so calories are actually, in reality, important.) The only number that really counts is the one on the scale, and I don't want to be obsessed with that either. I just want it to be smaller. However long it takes to get smaller, I don't really care, though sooner is always better than later. I just want it to get there.
And that, my friends, is why I hate dieting.
P.S. If you see me in person, and have noticed that I've lost weight and would like to compliment me on it, don't. Seriously, don't. I don't want to know that "you look so good! Have you lost weight?" or worse, "you look like you've lost some weight!" Don't ask me about my diet, don't ask me how I'm feeling if it's related to my weight loss, don't tell me "good for you for working out with a trainer". I don't want to hear it. ANY of it. I'm doing it for me, and the only reason I blog about it is because it's an experience. When I'm done losing however much weight I want to lose, I'll let you know, and then you can congratulate me. But until then, I work out for me, I watch what I eat for me, I'm losing weight for me. Not for you, for me. It's my body, and I'll compliment myself if I want to.
P.P.S. Also, do NOT ask me how my diet's going. If we go out to eat, don't ask me if we can go to certain places, implying my diet being a cause for concern with the phrase "I don't know what you can eat." Like I said, I'm doing this for me, so it's my problem. I don't want to be treated differently, singled out, or treated like it's always Passover because I'm trying to lose weight. You know what I'm doing, and I know what I'm doing, and I'll figure out what to eat at restaurants, and everyone within a thirty-foot radius does not need to know that I'm dieting. Dammit, it's not your news to tell. It's like all other activities and conversation topics have ceased to exist since I started trying to lose weight. I'm sure people with fertility problems don't really like talking about that with everyone on a night out either.
Oh, that felt good.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
I think this blog is kind of dishonest, since I don't actually live in Paris anymore, and since I'm making a considerable effort to no longer be a fat American. I think I'll eventually start a new one, since new phases in life deserve new blogs, right? Well if that wasn't a 21st century sentence, I don't know what is.
Two things of import. Ok, three. First, I watched Molière and Bringing Up Baby, and they both made me so happy, even though one of them is kind of sad and the other one is ridiculous and classist and blah blah blah, all that stuff from the 40s. Second, I'm thinking of real estate as a career, but I was watching an episode of Scrubs yesterday and Kelso said that all the people not cut out to be doctors quit after a year and get their real estate license, so that kind of made me feel like a quitter who can't do anything right. Third, I've been working out with a trainer, and holy hell, my muscles do not like that. It's effective, though, and I think it's just what I need to get out of that summer boredom slump.
Lastly, this:
I do not wear glasses, nor do I paint (or have a condom dispenser belt - how cool would that be?- or a truth transmitter), but I like to think if I was a superhero fighting AIDS, this is what I'd look like. Go to GI Jonny to make your own and learn some facts we all know already (or definitely should) about HIV and AIDS.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some brownies to make.
Edit: I like this one better:
Two things of import. Ok, three. First, I watched Molière and Bringing Up Baby, and they both made me so happy, even though one of them is kind of sad and the other one is ridiculous and classist and blah blah blah, all that stuff from the 40s. Second, I'm thinking of real estate as a career, but I was watching an episode of Scrubs yesterday and Kelso said that all the people not cut out to be doctors quit after a year and get their real estate license, so that kind of made me feel like a quitter who can't do anything right. Third, I've been working out with a trainer, and holy hell, my muscles do not like that. It's effective, though, and I think it's just what I need to get out of that summer boredom slump.
Lastly, this:
I do not wear glasses, nor do I paint (or have a condom dispenser belt - how cool would that be?- or a truth transmitter), but I like to think if I was a superhero fighting AIDS, this is what I'd look like. Go to GI Jonny to make your own and learn some facts we all know already (or definitely should) about HIV and AIDS.And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some brownies to make.
Edit: I like this one better:
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Objective
Thesis is done. I need a job. Also, a life.
New goal: become independently wealthy by my 23rd birthday so I don't have to do bitch work for egocentric producers, publishers, or writers. This gives me precisely ten days to make my millions. Why am I still wasting time on the internet?
New goal: become independently wealthy by my 23rd birthday so I don't have to do bitch work for egocentric producers, publishers, or writers. This gives me precisely ten days to make my millions. Why am I still wasting time on the internet?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Almost Done
Why I love Southern California:
Life is pretty good. I'm almost done with my mémoire - probably only about 15 more pages to go, depending on how much patience I have left for Tom Stoppard. I've been spending all my time in Starbucks, and I'm convinced I've drunk all of Huntington Beach's iced tea.
I've decided not to blog about this whole weight loss thing. I don't want to be one of those people that only talks about whatever diet she's on, and it always seems to me that people that do, do it in part because they're fishing for compliments. It's something I'm doing myself, for no one but me, and as such, I don't think I really want to share it with everyone else. Also, if truth be told, I really can't stand talking about it. So there. Unless something extraordinarily funny or amusing happens, expect not to hear about it. Actually, expect not to hear a lot for a while, until I can figure out what I want to do with this thing. I'm going through a moral dilemma of whether to keep it or not, because it's pretty much only about me now, and I'm not that interesting, really. And thanks to Facebook and Myspace, anyone who wants to know what I'm up to can find out there. But I'm sure something will happen in the near future that annoys me or that I find interesting, seeing as how I live in the freak show that is Orange County.
Until next time....
Life is pretty good. I'm almost done with my mémoire - probably only about 15 more pages to go, depending on how much patience I have left for Tom Stoppard. I've been spending all my time in Starbucks, and I'm convinced I've drunk all of Huntington Beach's iced tea.
I've decided not to blog about this whole weight loss thing. I don't want to be one of those people that only talks about whatever diet she's on, and it always seems to me that people that do, do it in part because they're fishing for compliments. It's something I'm doing myself, for no one but me, and as such, I don't think I really want to share it with everyone else. Also, if truth be told, I really can't stand talking about it. So there. Unless something extraordinarily funny or amusing happens, expect not to hear about it. Actually, expect not to hear a lot for a while, until I can figure out what I want to do with this thing. I'm going through a moral dilemma of whether to keep it or not, because it's pretty much only about me now, and I'm not that interesting, really. And thanks to Facebook and Myspace, anyone who wants to know what I'm up to can find out there. But I'm sure something will happen in the near future that annoys me or that I find interesting, seeing as how I live in the freak show that is Orange County.
Until next time....
Thursday, July 3, 2008
(soon to be not-) Fat American in...America
I can't be bothered to put my thoughts into complete, coherent paragraphs today, so here you go:
-Why is it that when you unsubscribe to an email list, they send you an email confirming it? The point is I don't want any more goddamn emails from your stupid site, so stop sending me shit confirming that I told you to stop sending me shit! Jesus!
-Mémoire writing is going slowly and very painfully. I am so done with this shit I cannot even begin to tell you. Basically, I am ready for it to be over and for my life to start again. Or just for it to start, period. I figure I'm about 20-25% done, and if I step it up tomorrow, I could be almost halfway done by the end of the week.
-I signed up for the same weight loss program my mom is doing, and I'm pretty terrified, for many many reasons. At some point there will be some sort of breakdown, and you'll probably hear all about it because I tend to overshare. And it will probably be hilarious because, oh holy God, the people at this clinic are CRAZY. (I got blood drawn today and I'm convinced the nurse doing it was a rookie, since she went through every step and explained every little thing to me, like I was a 10 year old child. "Now I'm going to invert these ten times and then I'll get your Band-Aid. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.)
-I've reached the point where I never want to move away from California ever ever again. It's been an unwavering 75 degrees and crystal clear since I got home, and it makes me almost sublimely happy not to have to keep all the windows open in the house while I shvitz myself to death after climbing a mountain of stairs. Sometimes you have to deal with douchebags and idiots, but it's a trade off, really.
-Public libraries are really....interesting places. Calm enough to do work in, but just sketchy enough to not want to let your kids run around by themselves.
-Why is it that when you unsubscribe to an email list, they send you an email confirming it? The point is I don't want any more goddamn emails from your stupid site, so stop sending me shit confirming that I told you to stop sending me shit! Jesus!
-Mémoire writing is going slowly and very painfully. I am so done with this shit I cannot even begin to tell you. Basically, I am ready for it to be over and for my life to start again. Or just for it to start, period. I figure I'm about 20-25% done, and if I step it up tomorrow, I could be almost halfway done by the end of the week.
-I signed up for the same weight loss program my mom is doing, and I'm pretty terrified, for many many reasons. At some point there will be some sort of breakdown, and you'll probably hear all about it because I tend to overshare. And it will probably be hilarious because, oh holy God, the people at this clinic are CRAZY. (I got blood drawn today and I'm convinced the nurse doing it was a rookie, since she went through every step and explained every little thing to me, like I was a 10 year old child. "Now I'm going to invert these ten times and then I'll get your Band-Aid. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.)
-I've reached the point where I never want to move away from California ever ever again. It's been an unwavering 75 degrees and crystal clear since I got home, and it makes me almost sublimely happy not to have to keep all the windows open in the house while I shvitz myself to death after climbing a mountain of stairs. Sometimes you have to deal with douchebags and idiots, but it's a trade off, really.
-Public libraries are really....interesting places. Calm enough to do work in, but just sketchy enough to not want to let your kids run around by themselves.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Fin de partie
Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to grace the internet with her presence. I'm finally back in California, and for the moment, I'm really happy to be home. I'm not looking forward to unpacking, considering there's a whole mess of stuff I left from when we moved in, but at least I have a big comfy bed and consistent internet and my friends and family close by. And Cocoa Pebbles. Now all I need to do is write that pesky mémoire and my career as a student will officially be over.
Oh yeah, Spain was amazing. A country that sleeps in late, eats its way through the day and makes it to the finals in Eurocup? Yes, please! I would post pictures, but I didn't take too many, and none of them are that amazing. Just some nice memories of a wonderful trip.
Leaving Paris was kind of sad, although I didn't cry like I thought I would. The last couple of days were hectic, trying to get everything packed and saying goodbye to everyone... Gérald gave me a book of Duras which I probably won't have time to read until August, but it was nice of him. When he comes out here I'll have to pretend like I've read the whole thing.
I'm not going to do a conclusion post, because I think they're sappy, trite and pretty unnecessary. I know how I feel about the last year, and if you've been reading, I think you probably do, too. As for the blog, I don't know what I'm going to do with it. This summer I'm planning on doing this weight loss program that my mom's had a lot of success with (100 lbs. worth of success - seriously, it's crazy, you should see her), and I can't decide whether to blog it or not. There have been (and are) so many weight loss blogs, some turned into books, I just feel like there's nothing left to be said about it. But considering the nature of this program and the fact that it'll be my first real effort in the last couple of years to actually lose weight, it might be interesting. Anyways, let me know what you think, and if there's an interest, I'll do it. It'll give me something to do besides reluctantly writing my mémoire, and it might be un-boring, especially to all you skinny types who've never had to deal with any of this shit. You'll learn, and I'll get some free therapy out of it. It's a win-win situation all around.
For now I'm going to try to get over my jetlag. I've been waking up at 6 every morning and going to bed at 10, and it's starting to feel like senior year of high school again. (By the way, I just went through my senior yearbook and realized just how unpopular and awkward I was.) But I may be teaching this year, so maybe I should just keep with it. We'll see. Au revoir for the moment. Keep checking back to see if my life in Orange County is as (un)interesting as my life in Paris (hint: it won't be).
Oh yeah, Spain was amazing. A country that sleeps in late, eats its way through the day and makes it to the finals in Eurocup? Yes, please! I would post pictures, but I didn't take too many, and none of them are that amazing. Just some nice memories of a wonderful trip.
Leaving Paris was kind of sad, although I didn't cry like I thought I would. The last couple of days were hectic, trying to get everything packed and saying goodbye to everyone... Gérald gave me a book of Duras which I probably won't have time to read until August, but it was nice of him. When he comes out here I'll have to pretend like I've read the whole thing.
I'm not going to do a conclusion post, because I think they're sappy, trite and pretty unnecessary. I know how I feel about the last year, and if you've been reading, I think you probably do, too. As for the blog, I don't know what I'm going to do with it. This summer I'm planning on doing this weight loss program that my mom's had a lot of success with (100 lbs. worth of success - seriously, it's crazy, you should see her), and I can't decide whether to blog it or not. There have been (and are) so many weight loss blogs, some turned into books, I just feel like there's nothing left to be said about it. But considering the nature of this program and the fact that it'll be my first real effort in the last couple of years to actually lose weight, it might be interesting. Anyways, let me know what you think, and if there's an interest, I'll do it. It'll give me something to do besides reluctantly writing my mémoire, and it might be un-boring, especially to all you skinny types who've never had to deal with any of this shit. You'll learn, and I'll get some free therapy out of it. It's a win-win situation all around.
For now I'm going to try to get over my jetlag. I've been waking up at 6 every morning and going to bed at 10, and it's starting to feel like senior year of high school again. (By the way, I just went through my senior yearbook and realized just how unpopular and awkward I was.) But I may be teaching this year, so maybe I should just keep with it. We'll see. Au revoir for the moment. Keep checking back to see if my life in Orange County is as (un)interesting as my life in Paris (hint: it won't be).
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Unsolicited advice
I forgot to post this a few days ago when it happened, but I'd just like to draw your attention to two incidents that took place on Monday that I think sum up why part of me hates this country.
Incident #1. While waiting for the bus with a friend, a little old lady beckoned me closer so she could tell me something. I thought she was going to ask me when the bus was coming. The conversation went a little something like this:
Little Old Lady: You're very pretty.
Me (uneasy, thinking, aw crap, I know where this is going): Thanks.
Little Old Lady: But you have to lose weight! (called it) Do you know why? You have to lose weight for your health. I have a niece, she's fat too. But she has four children, and after she had them, she just let herself go. When I was young, I worked in a big apartment building, cleaning. I would go up and down the stairs, carrying big piles of linens, and I would be so busy, I would forget to eat! And when you eat, you have to eat the right foods, and not too much.
My friend, out of the corner of her mouth, in English: Do you want to move?
Little Old Lady, to my friend: Now, you should be listening to me, too. (Back to me) But really, you can't go through life fat, you need to eat right and work, and--
Then the bus came. Oh, man. I don't even know where to start. I don't know what's worse, the fact that she thinks it's acceptable to lecture a complete stranger on her weight - I know, she's an old lady, and old ladies can pretty much do whatever they want because, really, who's going to yell at an old lady? (I was this close, though. If the bus hadn't have come, I might have let loose.) - or the fact that she opened with the "you have such a pretty face" line. It's the second time it's happened to me here. The first was by - get this - a wino at the bus stop in the 17th with rotting teeth and permanently purple lips. I couldn't understand everything she was saying - something about rice, maybe? But the male wino sitting next to her told her to shut up, so I gave him 80 cents as a thank you on behalf of humanity and all those with even the least bit of social grace. Ladies, listen. If I want your opinion on something - anything, but especially on my weight (which, let's face it, is NEVER going to happen - I'm never going to go up to you, whom I've never met before in my life, and ask you, "excuse me, do you think I'm pretty? And what about this whole central region? What do you think of that? How would you suggest I get rid of it so men will like me and I can finally fulfill the dream of every sane woman of finding the perfect man who will love the newly-reduced me and give me beautiful babies and a house in the country so I can finally, once and for all, be a happy, well-rounded-but-not-actually-round, loved human being?), I will ask you. Don't just assume that because I'm fat I don't know how to fix it, or that I'm ignorant of my situation and need you to remind me once again of my rotund status, or that I'm not happy! Jesus Christ, lady. I am happy. Well, I was happy, right up until you had to go and piss on my day by telling me I had a pretty face. At least the senile woman on the first floor thinks I'm pretty - all of me. Probably so much so she'd chop me up and feed me to her cat, but still. She likes me just the way I am, so there.
Also, I call bullshit on anyone that "forgets" to eat. You don't forget to eat like you forget where you put your keys, or like you forget to run to the bank. It just doesn't happen like that, I'm sorry. Even I've been so busy that I made the conscious decision not to eat because I had too much shit to do and not enough time, despite the very noticeable growling coming from my stomach, but never in my life have I ever just forgotten to nourish myself. Bull. Shit.
Incident #2. After my friend's thesis defense, we went out for lunch at a café down the street. It was so nice outside, so we grabbed a table under an umbrella. Then the waiter proceeds to take away the umbrella, even though we strategically sat there so we wouldn't get skin cancer but could still enjoy the nice weather, without even asking us. Then - oh man - then he asks if he can move the tables over a little to give the people next to us more room. Fine with us, so he picks up the table with a carafe and two full glasses of water on it, and CRASH. Nothing breaks, but there is water all over our table, me, and my expensive leather bag. Does he apologize? No. He says something, then, ça arrive, but never do the words "sorry" or "excuse me" come out of his mouth. Then he yells at one of my friends for trying to go up to pay him, since he's taking forever to come back. Well, I'm glad we don't feel obligated to tip. And I'm glad that in two weeks I'll be back in a country where - even if it is artificial - people have the decency to at least be pleasant for the sake of not sending people into a rage over a spilled glass of water and a forcibly removed umbrella.
My mom gets in tonight, and we're leaving on Friday for about a week and a half (Madrid, Barcelona, Avignon), so I probably won't be posting until I get back. But expect some pretty pictures when I triumphantly return to the blogging universe. A bientôt!
Incident #1. While waiting for the bus with a friend, a little old lady beckoned me closer so she could tell me something. I thought she was going to ask me when the bus was coming. The conversation went a little something like this:
Little Old Lady: You're very pretty.
Me (uneasy, thinking, aw crap, I know where this is going): Thanks.
Little Old Lady: But you have to lose weight! (called it) Do you know why? You have to lose weight for your health. I have a niece, she's fat too. But she has four children, and after she had them, she just let herself go. When I was young, I worked in a big apartment building, cleaning. I would go up and down the stairs, carrying big piles of linens, and I would be so busy, I would forget to eat! And when you eat, you have to eat the right foods, and not too much.
My friend, out of the corner of her mouth, in English: Do you want to move?
Little Old Lady, to my friend: Now, you should be listening to me, too. (Back to me) But really, you can't go through life fat, you need to eat right and work, and--
Then the bus came. Oh, man. I don't even know where to start. I don't know what's worse, the fact that she thinks it's acceptable to lecture a complete stranger on her weight - I know, she's an old lady, and old ladies can pretty much do whatever they want because, really, who's going to yell at an old lady? (I was this close, though. If the bus hadn't have come, I might have let loose.) - or the fact that she opened with the "you have such a pretty face" line. It's the second time it's happened to me here. The first was by - get this - a wino at the bus stop in the 17th with rotting teeth and permanently purple lips. I couldn't understand everything she was saying - something about rice, maybe? But the male wino sitting next to her told her to shut up, so I gave him 80 cents as a thank you on behalf of humanity and all those with even the least bit of social grace. Ladies, listen. If I want your opinion on something - anything, but especially on my weight (which, let's face it, is NEVER going to happen - I'm never going to go up to you, whom I've never met before in my life, and ask you, "excuse me, do you think I'm pretty? And what about this whole central region? What do you think of that? How would you suggest I get rid of it so men will like me and I can finally fulfill the dream of every sane woman of finding the perfect man who will love the newly-reduced me and give me beautiful babies and a house in the country so I can finally, once and for all, be a happy, well-rounded-but-not-actually-round, loved human being?), I will ask you. Don't just assume that because I'm fat I don't know how to fix it, or that I'm ignorant of my situation and need you to remind me once again of my rotund status, or that I'm not happy! Jesus Christ, lady. I am happy. Well, I was happy, right up until you had to go and piss on my day by telling me I had a pretty face. At least the senile woman on the first floor thinks I'm pretty - all of me. Probably so much so she'd chop me up and feed me to her cat, but still. She likes me just the way I am, so there.
Also, I call bullshit on anyone that "forgets" to eat. You don't forget to eat like you forget where you put your keys, or like you forget to run to the bank. It just doesn't happen like that, I'm sorry. Even I've been so busy that I made the conscious decision not to eat because I had too much shit to do and not enough time, despite the very noticeable growling coming from my stomach, but never in my life have I ever just forgotten to nourish myself. Bull. Shit.
Incident #2. After my friend's thesis defense, we went out for lunch at a café down the street. It was so nice outside, so we grabbed a table under an umbrella. Then the waiter proceeds to take away the umbrella, even though we strategically sat there so we wouldn't get skin cancer but could still enjoy the nice weather, without even asking us. Then - oh man - then he asks if he can move the tables over a little to give the people next to us more room. Fine with us, so he picks up the table with a carafe and two full glasses of water on it, and CRASH. Nothing breaks, but there is water all over our table, me, and my expensive leather bag. Does he apologize? No. He says something, then, ça arrive, but never do the words "sorry" or "excuse me" come out of his mouth. Then he yells at one of my friends for trying to go up to pay him, since he's taking forever to come back. Well, I'm glad we don't feel obligated to tip. And I'm glad that in two weeks I'll be back in a country where - even if it is artificial - people have the decency to at least be pleasant for the sake of not sending people into a rage over a spilled glass of water and a forcibly removed umbrella.
My mom gets in tonight, and we're leaving on Friday for about a week and a half (Madrid, Barcelona, Avignon), so I probably won't be posting until I get back. But expect some pretty pictures when I triumphantly return to the blogging universe. A bientôt!
Sunday, June 8, 2008
I'd be Pun Girl and fight crime with witty wordplay... and alluring alliteration.
The countdown is at 17 days now. I never thought I'd say this, but I kind of can't wait to get home. I can't wait to spend time with my family and my friends (especially my best friend, whom I absolutely cannot go any longer without seeing), settle down into my comfy bed that doesn't hurt my back when I get out of it, wake up to the sounds of neighborhood kids riding their bikes down the street instead of sirens and scooters and, most importantly, never have to deal with guys grabbing my ass or whistling at me in the metro. Of course I'll miss the city, the mode de vie here, the bread, the fashion, the history, the art, the eye candy. Of course I'm not done forever. I'm just done for now. Yeah.
I've been looking at jobs for when I come home, and I've got to say, as much as you may think my degrees are worth, they're really not going to get me that far on my quest to be a contributing member of society. Considering I don't really want to do anything with French (sorry, parents) or art history (sorry, professor Felton), I'm going to have a pretty hard time getting my feet on the ground. I'm hoping to get into this writing program at NBC with a mock episode of The Office I'm writing with my friend (seriously, it's going to be one of the funniest episodes ever written), and I may do an episode of How I Met Your Mother and maybe Scrubs too. But that's not a job. It's a class two nights a week starting in September or October, and it's a really selective application process. I applied to be someone's assistant at a production company I interned at, but I'm not really that interested in being someone's bitch for however long it takes me to get where I want to be, wherever that is. I'm thinking of applying to be some writer/producer's assistant, but that's the same problem. Maybe I'll just go around begging for work. Or I'll just write some Katherine Heigl drivel that'll do well at the box office and sell my soul, which should give me enough to live off of for at least a year or so. Because, you know, I can just do that. Like that. (Please, you know whoever wrote 27 Dresses did that while working out and reading a romance novel. Come on.)
But the important part is that I'll be home in 17 days, and all this aspiring writer crap will be a lot easier to take care of from there (and also once I finish my mémoire, I'll be able to spend more time on the actual writing part, which is kind of important, or so I've heard). Man, I've come a long way from wanting to be a Spanish teacher.*
*A short list of all the things I've ever wanted to be in life, in chronological order: cartoonist (age 5), lawyer, doctor, Spanish teacher, architect, entertainment lawyer, talent agent, booking agent, art history professor, museum curator, French professor, producer, playwright, translator, superhero, Tina Fey.
I've been looking at jobs for when I come home, and I've got to say, as much as you may think my degrees are worth, they're really not going to get me that far on my quest to be a contributing member of society. Considering I don't really want to do anything with French (sorry, parents) or art history (sorry, professor Felton), I'm going to have a pretty hard time getting my feet on the ground. I'm hoping to get into this writing program at NBC with a mock episode of The Office I'm writing with my friend (seriously, it's going to be one of the funniest episodes ever written), and I may do an episode of How I Met Your Mother and maybe Scrubs too. But that's not a job. It's a class two nights a week starting in September or October, and it's a really selective application process. I applied to be someone's assistant at a production company I interned at, but I'm not really that interested in being someone's bitch for however long it takes me to get where I want to be, wherever that is. I'm thinking of applying to be some writer/producer's assistant, but that's the same problem. Maybe I'll just go around begging for work. Or I'll just write some Katherine Heigl drivel that'll do well at the box office and sell my soul, which should give me enough to live off of for at least a year or so. Because, you know, I can just do that. Like that. (Please, you know whoever wrote 27 Dresses did that while working out and reading a romance novel. Come on.)
But the important part is that I'll be home in 17 days, and all this aspiring writer crap will be a lot easier to take care of from there (and also once I finish my mémoire, I'll be able to spend more time on the actual writing part, which is kind of important, or so I've heard). Man, I've come a long way from wanting to be a Spanish teacher.*
*A short list of all the things I've ever wanted to be in life, in chronological order: cartoonist (age 5), lawyer, doctor, Spanish teacher, architect, entertainment lawyer, talent agent, booking agent, art history professor, museum curator, French professor, producer, playwright, translator, superhero, Tina Fey.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Great minds think alike
Sentence from my Sex and the City review on SASSY, posted yesterday, but finished the day before: "And by us, I mean the cosmo-sipping, Manolo-coveting, sex-talking – or wannabe-sex-talking – fans."
Sentence from Joe Hottie's Dating Blog on Cosmo.com in a post about SATC, posted yesterday: "it's those Manolo-loving, Cosmo-drinking gals from Sex and the City who have female hearts around the country aflutter."
I'm just saying.
Also, I found out today that Gérald will be in LA in August for a week, so I'm happy that I'll have at least one interaction in French over the summer. Also also, the play is almost done, and he's sending it off next week for approval. I'm so excited!
That's pretty much all I have to say. I need to do some writing, not just my thesis, but some of my own writing, because things are bouncing around in my head and they take up so much room and sometimes they won't let me do anything else (like sleep, concentrate on other things, etc.) until I type them out. I want to have something completed by my birthday so I don't feel like a total slacker.
Sentence from Joe Hottie's Dating Blog on Cosmo.com in a post about SATC, posted yesterday: "it's those Manolo-loving, Cosmo-drinking gals from Sex and the City who have female hearts around the country aflutter."
I'm just saying.
Also, I found out today that Gérald will be in LA in August for a week, so I'm happy that I'll have at least one interaction in French over the summer. Also also, the play is almost done, and he's sending it off next week for approval. I'm so excited!
That's pretty much all I have to say. I need to do some writing, not just my thesis, but some of my own writing, because things are bouncing around in my head and they take up so much room and sometimes they won't let me do anything else (like sleep, concentrate on other things, etc.) until I type them out. I want to have something completed by my birthday so I don't feel like a total slacker.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
I'll be sorry later, I know
I realize this blog has become a lot less observational and lot more personal, and I guess I'm sorry for that? Sorry for indulging in my narcissistic tendencies to talk about the trivial events of my uninteresting life instead of making the same gross generalizations about French culture as people (including me) have been making in the last few years to try to get to the bottom of this whole cultural divide thing. I guess it's because I've spent so much time here, I've gotten used to things, or at least I don't notice as much as I used to anymore, or maybe I do, but it's not that interesting to me anymore, so I don't bother writing about it. Or maybe it's because I find the guy in the shady nightclub on a boat who flashed me the international sign for pussy while dancing three inches away from my face far more interesting than French women's ability to walk around all day in four-inch stilettos.
True story, by the way. The club was totally louche. I'm trying to bring that word into the American-English vernacular, in case you were wondering. It means something like sketchy, but also sleazy and shady. It's like an amalgam of the three - it gets the job done in a third of the time with twice the effect. I don't know how that proportion works, but just go with it. So anyways, this club. It was louche. Way louche. First of all, it's on a boat on the Seine, which is admittedly awesome, but then when you get inside and realize how hot and crowded it is, you start worrying that this is going to be the next "club disaster", like that fire a few years ago, and that tomorrow morning there will be stories about how this boat-club on the Seine sank in a fiery alcoholic blaze, leaving no drunken survivors. Thankfully, my nightmare was not realized. But I only spent an hour there, and then had to get out of the sweaty heap of twenty-year olds as I'd been elbowed one too many times in the back of the head by the couple having sex up against a pole behind me, and was ready to throw someone overboard. On the night bus home (i.e. back to a friend's place), the guy next to me fell asleep or passed out on my shoulder and my friend nearly fell out of her seat while sleeping. All in all, the night was somewhat of a failure.
Sunday night was the last pub quiz, and we won. Well, we tied, but we still got a bottle of shitty wine that no one drank. It's not the wine that matters, it's the glory. And oh, how sweet it is. I also got to meet a new Frenchie named Julien (it's fate, I tell you - or some really horrible joke the universe is playing on me), and re-meet another one I met once in September, whom I had a huge crush on but later found out was engaged. Ah well. Yesterday we played Mario Kart all afternoon and I finished a review of Sex and the City for SASSY, which is not my best work, but I tried my best. It's been a while since I've written a real review for anything, and I'm a little rusty. Plus, I loved the movie, but it was, in reality, not that great, so that was hard to negotiate.
You know that scene in Say Anything... where they're all at dinner, and the adults ask Lloyd what he wants to do for a living, and he says "I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that." ? That's kind of my mantra right now. I know I've never had any interest in buying or selling ANYTHING, but that whole mindset kind of sums up how I feel about getting a job in the fall. So if you've got any tips on how to be independently wealthy, feel free to pass 'em along.
I'm going to try to be productive for a change. If not today, then tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then definitely Thursday. If I haven't written ten pages by Friday, please chastise me harshly.
True story, by the way. The club was totally louche. I'm trying to bring that word into the American-English vernacular, in case you were wondering. It means something like sketchy, but also sleazy and shady. It's like an amalgam of the three - it gets the job done in a third of the time with twice the effect. I don't know how that proportion works, but just go with it. So anyways, this club. It was louche. Way louche. First of all, it's on a boat on the Seine, which is admittedly awesome, but then when you get inside and realize how hot and crowded it is, you start worrying that this is going to be the next "club disaster", like that fire a few years ago, and that tomorrow morning there will be stories about how this boat-club on the Seine sank in a fiery alcoholic blaze, leaving no drunken survivors. Thankfully, my nightmare was not realized. But I only spent an hour there, and then had to get out of the sweaty heap of twenty-year olds as I'd been elbowed one too many times in the back of the head by the couple having sex up against a pole behind me, and was ready to throw someone overboard. On the night bus home (i.e. back to a friend's place), the guy next to me fell asleep or passed out on my shoulder and my friend nearly fell out of her seat while sleeping. All in all, the night was somewhat of a failure.
Sunday night was the last pub quiz, and we won. Well, we tied, but we still got a bottle of shitty wine that no one drank. It's not the wine that matters, it's the glory. And oh, how sweet it is. I also got to meet a new Frenchie named Julien (it's fate, I tell you - or some really horrible joke the universe is playing on me), and re-meet another one I met once in September, whom I had a huge crush on but later found out was engaged. Ah well. Yesterday we played Mario Kart all afternoon and I finished a review of Sex and the City for SASSY, which is not my best work, but I tried my best. It's been a while since I've written a real review for anything, and I'm a little rusty. Plus, I loved the movie, but it was, in reality, not that great, so that was hard to negotiate.
You know that scene in Say Anything... where they're all at dinner, and the adults ask Lloyd what he wants to do for a living, and he says "I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that." ? That's kind of my mantra right now. I know I've never had any interest in buying or selling ANYTHING, but that whole mindset kind of sums up how I feel about getting a job in the fall. So if you've got any tips on how to be independently wealthy, feel free to pass 'em along.
I'm going to try to be productive for a change. If not today, then tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, then definitely Thursday. If I haven't written ten pages by Friday, please chastise me harshly.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
T - 4 weeks
I think my relationship with Special K has reached a new level of intimacy. It's like Special K knows what I'm thinking. And also like it knows what's best for me. Like today, when I went to pour myself a bowl from a brand new box, and it only gave me a few little chocolate shavings because it knew I only had whole milk, and if it could have talked, it probably would have said, "Allison, you don't need extra chocolate shavings. I'm saving them for when you get some skim and afford the extra calories." It also tends to give me fewer chocolate shavings when I eat it for dinner. I know I should be ashamed of eating cereal for dinner, but come the fuck on. Who hasn't, at some point, and especially in the stressful stages of their academic career, forgone the home-cooked meal and instead grabbed the box of Frosted Mini Wheats off the top of the microwave?
My brother left this morning, and now my apartment can finally get back to a state of normalcy and cleanliness. I just don't understand how it's possible for me to take a shower without getting water on every surface in my bathroom (not to mention hair and fuzz, gross), but as soon as I have houseguests, especially boys, it's like a typhoon hit my apartment. Although, they did clean up before they left, so that was at least good. We also got out to Epernay a couple of days ago and toured a couple of champagne houses, which was awesome. I drank four glasses of champagne in one afternoon and flirted with the bartender and learned some stuff. Also, now I really want to buy a château and a vineyard and make wine. But, you know, 22 year-olds don't really do that sort of thing, so I guess I'll just stick with finding a real job for the moment and work my way up to oenological enthusiast.
Other than that, I've been spending my time procrastinating. Like, crazy procrastinating. Today, I did laundry and went food shopping and dropped something off at school, but that wasn't enough. So I counted all the coins sitting around my apartment. And washed them. Well, some of the really gross ones that started oxidizing and whatnot. For future reference, a mixture of vinegar, water and lemon juice works wonders on really old crusty coins. Also, I had almost 8 euros of spare change! Amazing!
I'm rich!
My brother left this morning, and now my apartment can finally get back to a state of normalcy and cleanliness. I just don't understand how it's possible for me to take a shower without getting water on every surface in my bathroom (not to mention hair and fuzz, gross), but as soon as I have houseguests, especially boys, it's like a typhoon hit my apartment. Although, they did clean up before they left, so that was at least good. We also got out to Epernay a couple of days ago and toured a couple of champagne houses, which was awesome. I drank four glasses of champagne in one afternoon and flirted with the bartender and learned some stuff. Also, now I really want to buy a château and a vineyard and make wine. But, you know, 22 year-olds don't really do that sort of thing, so I guess I'll just stick with finding a real job for the moment and work my way up to oenological enthusiast.
Other than that, I've been spending my time procrastinating. Like, crazy procrastinating. Today, I did laundry and went food shopping and dropped something off at school, but that wasn't enough. So I counted all the coins sitting around my apartment. And washed them. Well, some of the really gross ones that started oxidizing and whatnot. For future reference, a mixture of vinegar, water and lemon juice works wonders on really old crusty coins. Also, I had almost 8 euros of spare change! Amazing!
I'm rich!
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Lazy Sunday
Well, it's been a completely unproductive few days. My brother and his friend got in on Thursday night, and between going out and sleeping in and cleaning up after said going out and sleeping in, there hasn't been much time to actually work. I'm hoping to finish some reading today and maybe write a page or two, but I'd much rather go bum around Paris for the day with my bro. Anyways, talking about academia kind of makes me want to ralph, so I'm just going to skip over that (and considering that I'm pretty much done with school anyways, there's no reason to in the first place). Instead, I think I'll talk about how I finished an entire bottle of wine on the Pont des Arts and split a dart at the Highlander while Stephanie kicked my ass by literally 220 points.
Um, I guess that's the story. We met up with some friends on the bridge on Friday night for a picnic and public drinking, and at first I thought we had way too much food and wine, but I was soon proved wrong, as the group sprawled out and we proceeded to finish every last crumb of fresh baguette and every last drop of our 4 euro bottles of wine. And yes, I did drink an entire bottle of wine by myself. I have no idea how I did it without throwing up, but oh man, was I impressed with myself. It was probably the drunkest I've been since my first foray into alcohol consumption in Scotland in 2004, but without the falling down and spending the next day crouched down by the toilet waiting for that last tequila sunrise to wreak its revenge. I think there's something different about bridge drinking that takes away the possibility of getting sick or having a hangover. It's just such a nice experience, sitting on the bridge with literally hundreds of other people, enjoying some cheese and bread and meats, sipping (or gulping) your two buck chuck (or four buck chuck), enjoying the sunset as you watch the colors on the Ile de la Cité change from vibrant to subdued, trying to snap pictures that will look good on Facebook while trying to deal with aforementioned setting sun, handing out crackers to winos, waving and yelling at tour boats passing underneath, accidentally spilling wine on some of them, savoring the frequent cool breezes as you realize you're sitting at the center of the world in between the Louvre and the Académie française and nothing else matters.
And then you try to stand up.
And then you try to maneuver through the crowds so you can make it off the bridge and into the next bar where drinks are twice as expensive as that entire bottle of wine you just drank, and where people seem to make it their job to keep you from getting where you need to go. But then, of course, there are those once in a lifetime occurrences, like splitting a dart right next to the bullseye while Right Said Fred plays in the background, or thinking you lost your brother to some black back alley only to find him giving himself lung cancer outside in his drunken stupor, that make putting up with crowded bars and overpriced drinks and alcoholic tools all worth it.*
And that's when you realize you have two whole months to finish your mémoire, and who really needs to get it done rightthissecond anyways?
*Don't worry, we made him stop and throw the rest out. Doctors should have better reason than that, right?
Um, I guess that's the story. We met up with some friends on the bridge on Friday night for a picnic and public drinking, and at first I thought we had way too much food and wine, but I was soon proved wrong, as the group sprawled out and we proceeded to finish every last crumb of fresh baguette and every last drop of our 4 euro bottles of wine. And yes, I did drink an entire bottle of wine by myself. I have no idea how I did it without throwing up, but oh man, was I impressed with myself. It was probably the drunkest I've been since my first foray into alcohol consumption in Scotland in 2004, but without the falling down and spending the next day crouched down by the toilet waiting for that last tequila sunrise to wreak its revenge. I think there's something different about bridge drinking that takes away the possibility of getting sick or having a hangover. It's just such a nice experience, sitting on the bridge with literally hundreds of other people, enjoying some cheese and bread and meats, sipping (or gulping) your two buck chuck (or four buck chuck), enjoying the sunset as you watch the colors on the Ile de la Cité change from vibrant to subdued, trying to snap pictures that will look good on Facebook while trying to deal with aforementioned setting sun, handing out crackers to winos, waving and yelling at tour boats passing underneath, accidentally spilling wine on some of them, savoring the frequent cool breezes as you realize you're sitting at the center of the world in between the Louvre and the Académie française and nothing else matters.
And then you try to stand up.
And then you try to maneuver through the crowds so you can make it off the bridge and into the next bar where drinks are twice as expensive as that entire bottle of wine you just drank, and where people seem to make it their job to keep you from getting where you need to go. But then, of course, there are those once in a lifetime occurrences, like splitting a dart right next to the bullseye while Right Said Fred plays in the background, or thinking you lost your brother to some black back alley only to find him giving himself lung cancer outside in his drunken stupor, that make putting up with crowded bars and overpriced drinks and alcoholic tools all worth it.*
And that's when you realize you have two whole months to finish your mémoire, and who really needs to get it done rightthissecond anyways?
*Don't worry, we made him stop and throw the rest out. Doctors should have better reason than that, right?
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Snakes. I hate snakes.
I guess it's fair to say that since I had such high hopes - nay, expectations - for the fourth Indiana Jones movie, I was bound to be disappointed. It was a great action movie, I'll give it that much, but... where was the dialogue? Where was the witty repartee during fight sequences? Where were the comically-placed punches and unexpected kicks? Ok, a couple of scenes made the cut. But... that plot? I won't give anything away, but seriously, George Lucas. That's the best you could come up with? I know you have to find something sort of supernatural, but really? Did you have to take it that far? All in all, it was an entertaining movie, but I guess I just wanted more from what will probably be Harrison Ford's last starring role as Indiana Jones.
Also, one last thing - ok, two: first, I heart Karen Allen. Second, did you have to make Shia Laboeuf or however you spell his name look so damn greasy? I mean, I know he's a sleazeball and all, but come on now. Ok, one more thing. Casting Cate Blanchett as the villain - GENIUS. But the next time you make an Indy movie, can you make the lead a little bit more... Indy-like? And the movie a little bit more... good? I know Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade good is asking a little much, but I'm just saying - next time you may want to - dare I say it? (and yes, I do, because it's exactly the kind of joke 1957 Indy would say) - crack the whip a little harder on your writers.
Also, one last thing - ok, two: first, I heart Karen Allen. Second, did you have to make Shia Laboeuf or however you spell his name look so damn greasy? I mean, I know he's a sleazeball and all, but come on now. Ok, one more thing. Casting Cate Blanchett as the villain - GENIUS. But the next time you make an Indy movie, can you make the lead a little bit more... Indy-like? And the movie a little bit more... good? I know Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade good is asking a little much, but I'm just saying - next time you may want to - dare I say it? (and yes, I do, because it's exactly the kind of joke 1957 Indy would say) - crack the whip a little harder on your writers.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Spent
Well, that's over with.
The last few days I've been killing myself trying to get ready for my thesis presentation and finish up a few last minute academic things, like my last research paper EVER (which I got an A- on and am very happy about). I was the first to present my thesis, which was incredibly intimidating, but someone has to be first, and it might as well have been me. I actually think it was better this way, because I didn't have the opportunity to get freaked out by anyone else's presentation, constantly comparing it to mine, which I would inevitably deem inferior to everything ever written or presented in the history of NYU. But the truth is, I rocked it. I rocked it hard. I'm really happy with my grade, and everyone on the jury thought it was a great presentation - very interesting, well-organized, and delivered well. So basically, in conclusion, I rock. Hard.
Last week was crazy, apart from working myself up about this thesis thing, but because of the other work I had to do, the library strike, and various other annoyances that come with the luxury of living in Paris. However, we did finally do a reading with real actors of the play we're translating, which was definitely the highlight of my week. (Sorry, I still can't tell you what it is for confidentiality reasons, but if you ask me in person, I'll probably tell you.) It was a group of actors Gérald is working with on this show, and they were all extremely nice and forgiving of my inefficiency at reading lines in French. Additionally, a couple of them were quite attractive, hence the highlight of my week. One was named Aymeric, who was probably the most adorable-attractive person I've ever met. You can tell he was an irresistibly cute kid, and lucky for everyone he kept those pouty lips. Then there was Julien, who was actually pretty American-looking, which is funny because he started paradoxical conversation about how the domination of American English in the world is actually going to lead to its demise. Alright, so maybe not the brightest tool in the shed, but great eye candy and a deep, sexy French voice, and I've always wanted to date a Julien, so what more can you ask for?
My brother and a friend are coming in on Thursday for their first stop on their Grand Tour, which is very exciting! My apartment currently looks like a tornado hit it, as per usual, but I'm working on it. Slowly but surely it will once again resemble a habitable space.
Ok, so I just hit a wall and can't write any more. I'm so burnt out from all this academia and worrying about all this academia... I should get some rest. Or at least relax just a bit with some trashy TV.
P.S. Who's excited for the new Indiana Jones? I think I actually want to see it more than Sex and the City. Sacrilege, I know.
The last few days I've been killing myself trying to get ready for my thesis presentation and finish up a few last minute academic things, like my last research paper EVER (which I got an A- on and am very happy about). I was the first to present my thesis, which was incredibly intimidating, but someone has to be first, and it might as well have been me. I actually think it was better this way, because I didn't have the opportunity to get freaked out by anyone else's presentation, constantly comparing it to mine, which I would inevitably deem inferior to everything ever written or presented in the history of NYU. But the truth is, I rocked it. I rocked it hard. I'm really happy with my grade, and everyone on the jury thought it was a great presentation - very interesting, well-organized, and delivered well. So basically, in conclusion, I rock. Hard.
Last week was crazy, apart from working myself up about this thesis thing, but because of the other work I had to do, the library strike, and various other annoyances that come with the luxury of living in Paris. However, we did finally do a reading with real actors of the play we're translating, which was definitely the highlight of my week. (Sorry, I still can't tell you what it is for confidentiality reasons, but if you ask me in person, I'll probably tell you.) It was a group of actors Gérald is working with on this show, and they were all extremely nice and forgiving of my inefficiency at reading lines in French. Additionally, a couple of them were quite attractive, hence the highlight of my week. One was named Aymeric, who was probably the most adorable-attractive person I've ever met. You can tell he was an irresistibly cute kid, and lucky for everyone he kept those pouty lips. Then there was Julien, who was actually pretty American-looking, which is funny because he started paradoxical conversation about how the domination of American English in the world is actually going to lead to its demise. Alright, so maybe not the brightest tool in the shed, but great eye candy and a deep, sexy French voice, and I've always wanted to date a Julien, so what more can you ask for?
My brother and a friend are coming in on Thursday for their first stop on their Grand Tour, which is very exciting! My apartment currently looks like a tornado hit it, as per usual, but I'm working on it. Slowly but surely it will once again resemble a habitable space.
Ok, so I just hit a wall and can't write any more. I'm so burnt out from all this academia and worrying about all this academia... I should get some rest. Or at least relax just a bit with some trashy TV.
P.S. Who's excited for the new Indiana Jones? I think I actually want to see it more than Sex and the City. Sacrilege, I know.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
We are the world
I'll write a real post tomorrow when I'm done in front of the firing squad, but for now, for those of you who speak french, enjoy this:
Europe as seen by the French:
For those of you who don't speak French, here's the translation (they're all pretty much pejorative):
Maison = Home
Faineants = Lazy
Poilues = Hairy
Lents = Slow
Voleurs = Thieves
Terroristes = take a guess
Fachos = Facists
Teubé = Stupid
Toxicos = Drug Addicts
Alcoolos = Alcoholics
Roux = Redheads
On s'en fout = We don't care about them
Bonasses = Softies
Putes = Whores
Mafia and Vodka = self-explanatory
Accordeonistes = Accordion players
PD = homos
Offensive, and I'm not really sure to whom, but funny.
Also, this one, France from the Parisian perspective:
Translation:
Maison = Home
Pauvres = Poor people
Alcooliques = Alcoholics
Nid de connards = Nest of assholes/bastards/jackasses
Putes & Voleurs = Whores and thieves
Dépressifs = Depressed people
On s'en branle = We don't give a fuck
And lastly, to be fair, the world seen by Americans (my favorite is the last one; note the conspicuous absence of Africa):
Europe as seen by the French:
For those of you who don't speak French, here's the translation (they're all pretty much pejorative):
Maison = Home
Faineants = Lazy
Poilues = Hairy
Lents = Slow
Voleurs = Thieves
Terroristes = take a guess
Fachos = Facists
Teubé = Stupid
Toxicos = Drug Addicts
Alcoolos = Alcoholics
Roux = Redheads
On s'en fout = We don't care about them
Bonasses = Softies
Putes = Whores
Mafia and Vodka = self-explanatory
Accordeonistes = Accordion players
PD = homos
Offensive, and I'm not really sure to whom, but funny.
Also, this one, France from the Parisian perspective:
Translation:
Maison = Home
Pauvres = Poor people
Alcooliques = Alcoholics
Nid de connards = Nest of assholes/bastards/jackasses
Putes & Voleurs = Whores and thieves
Dépressifs = Depressed people
On s'en branle = We don't give a fuck
And lastly, to be fair, the world seen by Americans (my favorite is the last one; note the conspicuous absence of Africa):
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Paris hates me.
Paris hates me.
Let me take you through the succession of events that brought me to that conclusion:
This morning, I was on top of my shit. I had a plan. I woke up early, got ready, got my stuff together, and headed to the library at the actual time I had intended. I got there an hour early and plopped myself down near the front of the line, feeling content that I would only have to wait at most an additional fifteen minutes past the normal opening time of the library to get in. And then, at about 11:40, a couple of women who work at the library came out with stacks of fliers and started distributing them to people waiting in line. The top of it read (in French) "Strike on May 15 to defend civil service", followed by an almost page-long explanation of why some of the staff would be on strike today. A little later, a man came out and said they still hadn't decided whether there would actually be a strike or not, but the decision would be made in the next fifteen to twenty minutes. Lo and behold, at about ten after twelve, a man inside the library came up to the glass door and held up a piece of paper with the word GREVE written on it, underlined. He did it with the same gravitas and regretful expression on his face as a little journalist gopher would when coming out of a courthouse to announce the verdict of a high-profile murder case to the anxious masses outside. Also, he made that throat-slitting gesture, and someone behind him kept making X's with his arms. It kind of reminded me of the universal disappointment after O.J. was declared a free man.
You have got to be kidding me. On a personal level, it pisses me off because I was counting on this day to finish up some research for my thesis presentation on Monday, and I really do need the WHOLE weekend to work on it. I don't have time this weekend to waste standing in line to get into the library just so I can read books I can't take home. On a less selfish level, would it have killed them to make this decision ahead of time? And maybe put it on their website? And then maybe they should add "whenever we don't feel like working" to their list of days they're closed.
Also, who thinks libraries shouldn't be allowed to strike, especially during finals? Because, really, that's just cruel, not to mention an exacerbation to the problem of poorly-educated, failing students. Seriously, France, step up your game! I'm all for liberal politics and people being rightfully compensated, but if you're going to do shit like this, the least you could do is give students a break for being unprepared in class. How can they be prepared if you close the library on them?
So, after everyone dispersed, I headed to the bus stop and thought I'd go to my café, do a little reading with a crème, then go home to finish up some other work. But the bus never came. And it was raining, in 80% humidity. And I didn't have my umbrella because I thought I would be spending the day INSIDE THE LIBRARY. So I walked to my metro, resigned to eating lunch at home and finally getting through my last academic paper ever (which I have still yet to finish). So I, of course, had to blog about it first, as it's impossible for me to get any work done without a considerable amount of procrastination beforehand.
Voilà, c'est tout. Back to the grindstone. Ugh.
EDIT, 12:20 am : Who SHUTS DOWN THEIR DATABASE AT NIGHT when someone needs it to get biographical information they need to finish their paper?! Fuck you, BPI. Fuck you and the sadistic bastards managing you. You all suck. Next time I go in there, I'm dog-earing all the books I use. Take that, civil servants!
Let me take you through the succession of events that brought me to that conclusion:
This morning, I was on top of my shit. I had a plan. I woke up early, got ready, got my stuff together, and headed to the library at the actual time I had intended. I got there an hour early and plopped myself down near the front of the line, feeling content that I would only have to wait at most an additional fifteen minutes past the normal opening time of the library to get in. And then, at about 11:40, a couple of women who work at the library came out with stacks of fliers and started distributing them to people waiting in line. The top of it read (in French) "Strike on May 15 to defend civil service", followed by an almost page-long explanation of why some of the staff would be on strike today. A little later, a man came out and said they still hadn't decided whether there would actually be a strike or not, but the decision would be made in the next fifteen to twenty minutes. Lo and behold, at about ten after twelve, a man inside the library came up to the glass door and held up a piece of paper with the word GREVE written on it, underlined. He did it with the same gravitas and regretful expression on his face as a little journalist gopher would when coming out of a courthouse to announce the verdict of a high-profile murder case to the anxious masses outside. Also, he made that throat-slitting gesture, and someone behind him kept making X's with his arms. It kind of reminded me of the universal disappointment after O.J. was declared a free man.
You have got to be kidding me. On a personal level, it pisses me off because I was counting on this day to finish up some research for my thesis presentation on Monday, and I really do need the WHOLE weekend to work on it. I don't have time this weekend to waste standing in line to get into the library just so I can read books I can't take home. On a less selfish level, would it have killed them to make this decision ahead of time? And maybe put it on their website? And then maybe they should add "whenever we don't feel like working" to their list of days they're closed.
Also, who thinks libraries shouldn't be allowed to strike, especially during finals? Because, really, that's just cruel, not to mention an exacerbation to the problem of poorly-educated, failing students. Seriously, France, step up your game! I'm all for liberal politics and people being rightfully compensated, but if you're going to do shit like this, the least you could do is give students a break for being unprepared in class. How can they be prepared if you close the library on them?
So, after everyone dispersed, I headed to the bus stop and thought I'd go to my café, do a little reading with a crème, then go home to finish up some other work. But the bus never came. And it was raining, in 80% humidity. And I didn't have my umbrella because I thought I would be spending the day INSIDE THE LIBRARY. So I walked to my metro, resigned to eating lunch at home and finally getting through my last academic paper ever (which I have still yet to finish). So I, of course, had to blog about it first, as it's impossible for me to get any work done without a considerable amount of procrastination beforehand.
Voilà, c'est tout. Back to the grindstone. Ugh.
EDIT, 12:20 am : Who SHUTS DOWN THEIR DATABASE AT NIGHT when someone needs it to get biographical information they need to finish their paper?! Fuck you, BPI. Fuck you and the sadistic bastards managing you. You all suck. Next time I go in there, I'm dog-earing all the books I use. Take that, civil servants!
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Making a list
Things that have pissed me off in the last week:
-Unbearably hot weather sometimes mixed with a healthy dose of humidity.
-My ability to just miss every form of public transportation and have to walk home in aforementioned shit weather.
-The cadence of our translation professor's voice that basically makes it sound like he's always saying "God, you idiots, why don't you ever get it right?"
-This same professor's self-important habit of canceling class with a minute's (or no) notice, or switching the final to next week without telling anyone.
-Allowing myself to pay 4.40 for a diet Pepsi in a café by the Luxembourg gardens.
-People throwing a hissy fit and nearly reenacting the storming of the Bastille in one of my classes at Paris III because half of them failed the midterm.
-The fact that half of them failed the midterm and then bitched about it, after not showing up to class or doing the work.
-The fact that the professor could fail half the class and did, the fact that even if you show up to class and write four pages like she asks, you don't automatically pass.
-My neighbors deciding to feng shui their apartment at 2:30 in the morning when I have class at 10.
-Cutting into a delicious looking strawberry to find a family of maggots living large on the inside. (Large in every sense.)
-The fact that now I can no longer bring myself to buy strawberries even though they are one of my top five favorite fruits.
Things that have made me happy/things to be happy about:
-Talking to my mom and grandma on Sunday.
-Delicious fruit tart today at lunch.
-Getting the highest grade in the class on that midterm half the class failed.
-My neighbor's apartment being too hot for him to walk around clothed.
-This is quite possibly my last week of academia ever.
-My brother and his friend are coming to visit in a week!!
-I finally figured out how to use my convection oven and have been making cookies nonstop (yes, they are break 'n' bake cookies, since I don't have ANY baking equipment in my kitchen).
-Coming home to friends and family (and In-n-Out) in a matter of weeks.
Things I'm currently freaking out about:
-Thesis defense on Monday at 10 and I haven't started working on it.
-I still don't know what I'm going to do with my life, blah blah blah.
-Re-staining a patch of my kitchen counter I inadvertently sanded down with the rough side of a sponge. (Will coffee work? That's my current plan of attack.)
Things are much more comprehensible in list form, don't you think?
-Unbearably hot weather sometimes mixed with a healthy dose of humidity.
-My ability to just miss every form of public transportation and have to walk home in aforementioned shit weather.
-The cadence of our translation professor's voice that basically makes it sound like he's always saying "God, you idiots, why don't you ever get it right?"
-This same professor's self-important habit of canceling class with a minute's (or no) notice, or switching the final to next week without telling anyone.
-Allowing myself to pay 4.40 for a diet Pepsi in a café by the Luxembourg gardens.
-People throwing a hissy fit and nearly reenacting the storming of the Bastille in one of my classes at Paris III because half of them failed the midterm.
-The fact that half of them failed the midterm and then bitched about it, after not showing up to class or doing the work.
-The fact that the professor could fail half the class and did, the fact that even if you show up to class and write four pages like she asks, you don't automatically pass.
-My neighbors deciding to feng shui their apartment at 2:30 in the morning when I have class at 10.
-Cutting into a delicious looking strawberry to find a family of maggots living large on the inside. (Large in every sense.)
-The fact that now I can no longer bring myself to buy strawberries even though they are one of my top five favorite fruits.
Things that have made me happy/things to be happy about:
-Talking to my mom and grandma on Sunday.
-Delicious fruit tart today at lunch.
-Getting the highest grade in the class on that midterm half the class failed.
-My neighbor's apartment being too hot for him to walk around clothed.
-This is quite possibly my last week of academia ever.
-My brother and his friend are coming to visit in a week!!
-I finally figured out how to use my convection oven and have been making cookies nonstop (yes, they are break 'n' bake cookies, since I don't have ANY baking equipment in my kitchen).
-Coming home to friends and family (and In-n-Out) in a matter of weeks.
Things I'm currently freaking out about:
-Thesis defense on Monday at 10 and I haven't started working on it.
-I still don't know what I'm going to do with my life, blah blah blah.
-Re-staining a patch of my kitchen counter I inadvertently sanded down with the rough side of a sponge. (Will coffee work? That's my current plan of attack.)
Things are much more comprehensible in list form, don't you think?
Friday, May 9, 2008
And we're off!
As I was leaving the movie theater at 9:30 tonight after seeing Iron Man, I thought two things: 1)man, I can't believe it's only dusk, and 2)damn, John Favreau, way to make an action flick. And a kid-friendly action flick, at that. I mean, aside from the explosions and guns that are pretty much (and sadly) obligatory in any movie that wants to make money, there wasn't much I'd need to keep from a kid over a reasonable age. I know Sam Raimi is like a comic-book-turned-movie god, but he could seriously take a few pointers from John Favreau. Like, less is more. Or, write a good script. Or, cast real actors (four Oscar nominees, anyone?) I mean, really, man. Take Jeff Bridges, for example. I could watch Jeff Bridges just sit in a chair for two hours. I bet he could act the shit out of that. Anyways, needless to say, I liked the movie. And if Iron Man is any indication of the kind of stuff we can expect this summer (which I hope to God it is), we are in for one hell of a blockbuster season. Indy, Batman, Sex and the City (which I'm becoming less and less enamored with), the Hulk (I hear Tony Stark makes an appearance, which is awesome)... so many movies! So much potential for generic, over-acted crap. Let's hope the other directors can pull it off as seemingly effortlessly as John Favreau.
Just one last thing, and it's half complaint, half John Favreau exaltation. Could you have at least played the song once?! Just once, in the whole movie, even for the credits. You started, but we didn't even get to hear the whole thing. However, I must commend you on not playing it the first time we see Tony Stark in the suit, stomping his way through the - ok, I won't spoil it. It would have been an awesome shot, but everyone would have expected it.
So, in conclusion, please go see the movie and support people who actually know what they're doing.
Tomorrow I'm off to Giverny with Smith to try to get some work done. Maybe the change from the sterile white walls that surround me in my apartment will somehow make me more productive. Because, really, if I don't finish this paper soon, I'm going to seriously go batshit crazy.
Also, my mom just said "love you muchly." I love my mom.
Just one last thing, and it's half complaint, half John Favreau exaltation. Could you have at least played the song once?! Just once, in the whole movie, even for the credits. You started, but we didn't even get to hear the whole thing. However, I must commend you on not playing it the first time we see Tony Stark in the suit, stomping his way through the - ok, I won't spoil it. It would have been an awesome shot, but everyone would have expected it.
So, in conclusion, please go see the movie and support people who actually know what they're doing.
Tomorrow I'm off to Giverny with Smith to try to get some work done. Maybe the change from the sterile white walls that surround me in my apartment will somehow make me more productive. Because, really, if I don't finish this paper soon, I'm going to seriously go batshit crazy.
Also, my mom just said "love you muchly." I love my mom.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
In lieu of actually being productive
I don't particularly feel like toiling into the wee hours of the morning working on shit I don't really care about, so here are some things I find chuckle-worthy instead! I particularly love this one, which I found going through random blogs. I love the face at the end - it's like he's traumatized, but he doesn't know why.
Also, this: (my favorite part is the guy rolling on the grass)
And this one, which I'm too uneducated to be able to embed.
I think this summer I might find some crash course in computer science. Or the Internet. Do they have those?
Also, this: (my favorite part is the guy rolling on the grass)
See more funny videos at CollegeHumor
And this one, which I'm too uneducated to be able to embed.
I think this summer I might find some crash course in computer science. Or the Internet. Do they have those?
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Procrastination? What's that?
There's something about the way Paris smells in nice weather that just makes me happy. It's some mixture of freshly baked bread, various flowers, goodness, puppies, and sex (masking the usual urine/dog poop/diesel/alcohol concoction, which also includes bread and sex, but sex somehow becomes more pungent in the summer. I think I'll stop this hyperbole now.). Unfortunately, nice weather does not make me want to do work, even though when I got back from Scotland, I was going to get up early and go to the library and write that paper and clean my apartment and make real food because it's nice outside and that puts me in a good mood. End result: I'm supposed to turn in a paper tomorrow (no official due date given), but I'll be lucky if I get it in by the end of the week because a)it's the last two weeks of classes and every professor is giving us assignments, b)it's summer in Paris, c)I have memoir shit to do, and d)my life is currently in large part consumed by translating Tom Stoppard, which is fun, but it's been about 7 months now, and I'm kind of ready for it to be done. Although there's supposed to be a reading of it with real actors in a couple of weeks, and I'm really looking forward to that. We also got to work outside today for a few hours, sitting on picnic chairs on the grassy knoll on avenue Foch, which was a really welcome change from the sometimes dungeon-like obscurity of the director's ground floor apartment. And I got a free lunch, which was, as always, awesome. I could be a billionaire, and I'd still be pleased when someone offered to buy lunch - cheap or just cheerfully grateful?
I'm coming back to the States in less than two months, and after I finish my thesis, I'm going to start some serious job searching, but, um, I kind of don't want to work. Especially not for the corporate monster (ugh, I can't believe I just said that. ok, I can.) or some company where I'll be photocopying and answering phones all day. After watching a bunch of Jake and Amir videos, I'm pretty sure collegehumor.com would be the most amazing place to work, but I'm also pretty sure they're like a secret society and I'd have to drink raw eggs and brand myself and possibly perform sexual acts to secure a desk. So, please give me some ideas and I'll think about them, and maybe the person that comes up with the best one will win a free meal and get to experience that aforementioned cheerful gratefulness/cheapness.* And if you can actually land me some super-cool, highly-coveted job, I might just throw in dessert and a movie.** Something extra if it pays really really well.***
*Dinner at the following places: McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King, or any other respectable establishment with a dollar menu. In-n-out not excluded because it is awesome.
**Dessert must be some form of chocolate and movie can NOT star Dane Cook, Kevin James, Jessica Simpson, Eddie Murphy, or Carrot Top (so, no midnight showings of Chairman of the Board, ok?), OR be about a group of high school students out to lose their virginity while camping in some creepy cabin in the secluded forests of one of the Carolinas.
***TBD. T really BD if we're talking six figures.
Now back to that paper on caricatures. Funny, it feels like I've written this paper five times already, and I still don't think I know anything about the subject. Ah, academia.
I'm coming back to the States in less than two months, and after I finish my thesis, I'm going to start some serious job searching, but, um, I kind of don't want to work. Especially not for the corporate monster (ugh, I can't believe I just said that. ok, I can.) or some company where I'll be photocopying and answering phones all day. After watching a bunch of Jake and Amir videos, I'm pretty sure collegehumor.com would be the most amazing place to work, but I'm also pretty sure they're like a secret society and I'd have to drink raw eggs and brand myself and possibly perform sexual acts to secure a desk. So, please give me some ideas and I'll think about them, and maybe the person that comes up with the best one will win a free meal and get to experience that aforementioned cheerful gratefulness/cheapness.* And if you can actually land me some super-cool, highly-coveted job, I might just throw in dessert and a movie.** Something extra if it pays really really well.***
*Dinner at the following places: McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King, or any other respectable establishment with a dollar menu. In-n-out not excluded because it is awesome.
**Dessert must be some form of chocolate and movie can NOT star Dane Cook, Kevin James, Jessica Simpson, Eddie Murphy, or Carrot Top (so, no midnight showings of Chairman of the Board, ok?), OR be about a group of high school students out to lose their virginity while camping in some creepy cabin in the secluded forests of one of the Carolinas.
***TBD. T really BD if we're talking six figures.
Now back to that paper on caricatures. Funny, it feels like I've written this paper five times already, and I still don't think I know anything about the subject. Ah, academia.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Potential Oscar Material
SCENE:
EXT. POMPIDOU CENTER, APPROXIMATELY 11:40 A.M.
A hoard of students waits impatiently in line to get into the library. Above, perched atop one of the many huge, blue PVC pipes, stands a row of pigeons, standing at attention. In swoops PIGEON PATTON, who lands in front of them, on the pipe just above them, and starts pacing.
PIGEON PATTON: Alright birds, this is the moment you've been waiting for, preparing for. I know some of you may be nervous, and while that may be normal, I will not have it in my squad! You're pigeons, God damn it! Be proud of your disease infested heritage! Stand up straight, puff out your chest like you just saw the hottest piece of pigeon ass in all of Paris! Good. Now, let's get to it. The plan is a sneak attack. Polly, what's the target's status?
POLLY: They haven't spotted our positions yet.
PIGEON PATTON: Well, they will get some education in about 10 seconds when they get a dose of our artillery fire. Now, I'm going to need my best birds today, and every one of you needs to be on your tip-talons. There can be no mistakes! If anyone fucks this up, I'll club your foot, do you hear me?! You'll be left to roam derelict garden houses and chain boulangerie garbage. You all ate your breakfast this morning, I take it?
PIGEONS: Sir, yes, sir!
PIGEON PATTON: Good, that's what I like to hear. Sam, what did you stuff down that beak of yours?
SAM: Some moldy blueberries, sir.
PIGEON PATTON: Excellent. Fred?
FRED: I found an open diaper, sir.
PIGEON PATTON: Fine morning fare, indeed.
A smaller pigeon with "special" coloring and some mohawk feathers starts jumping up and down, flapping a wing to get PIGEON PATTON's attention.
PIGEON PATTON: What IS it, Pip?
PIP (stuttering): Sir, I-I-I-I-I I'd like to help today. I found some month-old chevre earlier and I think I could be of service.
PIGEON PATTON: Well, show me what you've got.
PIP brings his wings in close and, after some effort, squeaks out a fart. PIGEON PATTON sniffs out the stench. The other pigeons start hacking.
PIGEON PATTON: You magnificent bastard! That is absolutely putrid, Pip. You can be my sharpshooter today. Now, birds, get in position! Joe, tell me what you see.
JOE (looking down): Well, there's a group of happy looking kids talking and smoking, and -- THERE! THERE! There's a girl in a black jacket with a white shirt and freshly-washed hair!
PIGEON PATTON: Excellent! A week's croissant crumbs ration bonus for the pigeon who gets the jacket. And two weeks if it lands in the hair.
JOE: What about the girl with white pants?
POLLY: Idiot, do you have any idea how hard it is to hit pants from this angle? It's not even worth trying.
PIGEON PATTON: Polly's right, Joe. Better keep to their heads and shoulders. We're looking for mass casualties here. Ready, pigeons?
PIGEONS: Yes, sir!
PIGEON PATTON: Take your positions!
The pigeons turn around and stick their asses out over the pipe.
PIGEON PATTON: Ready. Aim.
They all carefully look behind them. PIP is very intent on hitting his target.
PIGEON PATTON: FIRE!!
Simultaneously, they all let their ammunition drop onto the unsuspecting crowd. SPLAT.
Pause.
STUDENTS: Is it on me, is it on me? Oh, good. Thank God. Christ, what's that smell?
They look around and stop at ALLISON.
ALLISON: Fuck. Me.
PIP: I got her, I got her! The hair AND the jacket!! Suck it, Polly!
END SCENE.
EXT. POMPIDOU CENTER, APPROXIMATELY 11:40 A.M.
A hoard of students waits impatiently in line to get into the library. Above, perched atop one of the many huge, blue PVC pipes, stands a row of pigeons, standing at attention. In swoops PIGEON PATTON, who lands in front of them, on the pipe just above them, and starts pacing.
PIGEON PATTON: Alright birds, this is the moment you've been waiting for, preparing for. I know some of you may be nervous, and while that may be normal, I will not have it in my squad! You're pigeons, God damn it! Be proud of your disease infested heritage! Stand up straight, puff out your chest like you just saw the hottest piece of pigeon ass in all of Paris! Good. Now, let's get to it. The plan is a sneak attack. Polly, what's the target's status?
POLLY: They haven't spotted our positions yet.
PIGEON PATTON: Well, they will get some education in about 10 seconds when they get a dose of our artillery fire. Now, I'm going to need my best birds today, and every one of you needs to be on your tip-talons. There can be no mistakes! If anyone fucks this up, I'll club your foot, do you hear me?! You'll be left to roam derelict garden houses and chain boulangerie garbage. You all ate your breakfast this morning, I take it?
PIGEONS: Sir, yes, sir!
PIGEON PATTON: Good, that's what I like to hear. Sam, what did you stuff down that beak of yours?
SAM: Some moldy blueberries, sir.
PIGEON PATTON: Excellent. Fred?
FRED: I found an open diaper, sir.
PIGEON PATTON: Fine morning fare, indeed.
A smaller pigeon with "special" coloring and some mohawk feathers starts jumping up and down, flapping a wing to get PIGEON PATTON's attention.
PIGEON PATTON: What IS it, Pip?
PIP (stuttering): Sir, I-I-I-I-I I'd like to help today. I found some month-old chevre earlier and I think I could be of service.
PIGEON PATTON: Well, show me what you've got.
PIP brings his wings in close and, after some effort, squeaks out a fart. PIGEON PATTON sniffs out the stench. The other pigeons start hacking.
PIGEON PATTON: You magnificent bastard! That is absolutely putrid, Pip. You can be my sharpshooter today. Now, birds, get in position! Joe, tell me what you see.
JOE (looking down): Well, there's a group of happy looking kids talking and smoking, and -- THERE! THERE! There's a girl in a black jacket with a white shirt and freshly-washed hair!
PIGEON PATTON: Excellent! A week's croissant crumbs ration bonus for the pigeon who gets the jacket. And two weeks if it lands in the hair.
JOE: What about the girl with white pants?
POLLY: Idiot, do you have any idea how hard it is to hit pants from this angle? It's not even worth trying.
PIGEON PATTON: Polly's right, Joe. Better keep to their heads and shoulders. We're looking for mass casualties here. Ready, pigeons?
PIGEONS: Yes, sir!
PIGEON PATTON: Take your positions!
The pigeons turn around and stick their asses out over the pipe.
PIGEON PATTON: Ready. Aim.
They all carefully look behind them. PIP is very intent on hitting his target.
PIGEON PATTON: FIRE!!
Simultaneously, they all let their ammunition drop onto the unsuspecting crowd. SPLAT.
Pause.
STUDENTS: Is it on me, is it on me? Oh, good. Thank God. Christ, what's that smell?
They look around and stop at ALLISON.
ALLISON: Fuck. Me.
PIP: I got her, I got her! The hair AND the jacket!! Suck it, Polly!
END SCENE.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
JeansQuest
Edinburgh was a nice vacation from stressful, bustling Paris life, as I expected it would be, even though I seriously freaked out on the plane ride back. There are pictures up on facebook if you care to look, and if not, here is one of my favorites:
I got up this morning to go to Pompidou, since I'm ten pages short of finishing my ten-page paper due sometime in the next two weeks, but the line was way too long, and I figured it would be more efficient to take care of some other things rather than wait in line for two hours only to not find the book I was looking for or to do two hours of work and get bored. Of course, today wasn't a prime example of efficiency for me, but I did manage to go grocery shopping, which really needed to be done.
I do have a lot of philosophical-y thoughts going through my head, but I don't think I could manage to make any sense of them, or at least make them make sense to you right now, so I'm just going to skip over those and bitch about not being able to find jeans that fit me. Call me size-ist, but you skinny people can just ignore this because you don't have this problem, ever - not in Paris, and certainly not in the States. I don't even really have this problem when I'm in the US. Yeah, my selection is not as vast as normal-sized people when I go shopping, but there are specialty stores that carry things that fit me (Torrid for the younger crowd, Lane Bryant for the more mature ones, or for work clothes, and Old Navy goes up to size 20? 22?) that I don't have to go to the eighth circle of hell to find. Department stores also have big-girl departments (with the exception of the really snotty ones, which in some cases really blows, if you're looking for a dress for a black-tie occasion), but those can be a bit pricey, especially when what you really need are some decent jeans because you wear holes in the thighs every few months or so. Clearly, I can't be dropping $120 or more on a new pair of jeans every few months, so I usually end up buying jeans from places like Torrid because a)they're relatively cheap, b)they fit me really well, and c)they don't make me look like a soccer mom. But Torrid doesn't exist here, and neither does Old Navy. So far, the only stores I've come across have been for old ladies or too expensive or both.
This, as you've probably figured out, is a problem. It's a big problem. It's an increasingly big problem. It increases in size as the holes in my jeans do, and considering only one of the FIVE pairs of jeans I have here doesn't have holes in the thigh/crotch region (and these are dressy jeans, at that), it's moved up the scale to a HUGE fucking problem. Granted, I live in jeans here. I wear pretty much nothing else, unless the occasion calls for something other than denim, so it figures that eventually I would wear all of my jeans out (and really, I was only off on my jeans ration by about 9 weeks). But now that I actually have no more jeans to wear, I find myself becoming frustrated, frantic, and of course, depressed that I can't find pants! Come on! I've already ironed on patches on two pairs, but they look ridiculous since the fabrics don't match, and it's not like I wasn't already self-conscious enough about my clothes in this city.
So, today, after deciding to not put up with the usual library bullshit, I headed to H&M, where they have a tiny plus-size section called BiB (Big is Beautiful). The clothes they have there usually make me feel like a second-class citizen because, really, would it be that hard to make the same thing that the normal people buy in a larger size? Bigger people don't automatically all have a thing for poorly-constructed tops and flowy bottoms. Some of us, probably most, actually want to look like everyone else, instead of feeling like we don't deserve "normal clothes" or can't have them. And last I checked, we've never had a meeting where we all got together and decided, yes, please do make us stand out as fashion pariahs in bland t-shirts and high-waisted jeans. Like I said, we get enough crap from people already. Anyways, back to my quest for jeans. Obviously, H&M had nothing. They had loads of jeans in the size below me, which is the last normal size, but nothing my size that didn't feel like it could be used for a parachute or hammock. I caught the bus and headed to the shopping center at Place d'Italie, knowing there was a plus-size store there. After that proved futile, and after half an hour of scrutinizing every store's goods from outside the windows, I thought it would be best to just see what I could find online and drown my sorrows in a café crème and some Stoppard.
Cut to a few hours later, when I'm sitting in front of my computer, flabbergasted that it'll take four to six weeks to get a pair of jeans from two different stores online. Seriously? I just don't know what to do. I see bigger girls around all the time, and they're not naked. WHERE ARE THEY HIDING ALL THE FAT GIRL CLOTHES?! I mean, aside from the crap they sell by Châtelet. I think I'm actually going to have to resort to having my mom send me stuff so I don't look like some crazy lady with patches all over her crotch.
That's my rant for the day. I'm going to watch some horrible French television instead of making progress on my paper because I'm such a dedicated student. Dammit, is it August yet?
I got up this morning to go to Pompidou, since I'm ten pages short of finishing my ten-page paper due sometime in the next two weeks, but the line was way too long, and I figured it would be more efficient to take care of some other things rather than wait in line for two hours only to not find the book I was looking for or to do two hours of work and get bored. Of course, today wasn't a prime example of efficiency for me, but I did manage to go grocery shopping, which really needed to be done.
I do have a lot of philosophical-y thoughts going through my head, but I don't think I could manage to make any sense of them, or at least make them make sense to you right now, so I'm just going to skip over those and bitch about not being able to find jeans that fit me. Call me size-ist, but you skinny people can just ignore this because you don't have this problem, ever - not in Paris, and certainly not in the States. I don't even really have this problem when I'm in the US. Yeah, my selection is not as vast as normal-sized people when I go shopping, but there are specialty stores that carry things that fit me (Torrid for the younger crowd, Lane Bryant for the more mature ones, or for work clothes, and Old Navy goes up to size 20? 22?) that I don't have to go to the eighth circle of hell to find. Department stores also have big-girl departments (with the exception of the really snotty ones, which in some cases really blows, if you're looking for a dress for a black-tie occasion), but those can be a bit pricey, especially when what you really need are some decent jeans because you wear holes in the thighs every few months or so. Clearly, I can't be dropping $120 or more on a new pair of jeans every few months, so I usually end up buying jeans from places like Torrid because a)they're relatively cheap, b)they fit me really well, and c)they don't make me look like a soccer mom. But Torrid doesn't exist here, and neither does Old Navy. So far, the only stores I've come across have been for old ladies or too expensive or both.
This, as you've probably figured out, is a problem. It's a big problem. It's an increasingly big problem. It increases in size as the holes in my jeans do, and considering only one of the FIVE pairs of jeans I have here doesn't have holes in the thigh/crotch region (and these are dressy jeans, at that), it's moved up the scale to a HUGE fucking problem. Granted, I live in jeans here. I wear pretty much nothing else, unless the occasion calls for something other than denim, so it figures that eventually I would wear all of my jeans out (and really, I was only off on my jeans ration by about 9 weeks). But now that I actually have no more jeans to wear, I find myself becoming frustrated, frantic, and of course, depressed that I can't find pants! Come on! I've already ironed on patches on two pairs, but they look ridiculous since the fabrics don't match, and it's not like I wasn't already self-conscious enough about my clothes in this city.
So, today, after deciding to not put up with the usual library bullshit, I headed to H&M, where they have a tiny plus-size section called BiB (Big is Beautiful). The clothes they have there usually make me feel like a second-class citizen because, really, would it be that hard to make the same thing that the normal people buy in a larger size? Bigger people don't automatically all have a thing for poorly-constructed tops and flowy bottoms. Some of us, probably most, actually want to look like everyone else, instead of feeling like we don't deserve "normal clothes" or can't have them. And last I checked, we've never had a meeting where we all got together and decided, yes, please do make us stand out as fashion pariahs in bland t-shirts and high-waisted jeans. Like I said, we get enough crap from people already. Anyways, back to my quest for jeans. Obviously, H&M had nothing. They had loads of jeans in the size below me, which is the last normal size, but nothing my size that didn't feel like it could be used for a parachute or hammock. I caught the bus and headed to the shopping center at Place d'Italie, knowing there was a plus-size store there. After that proved futile, and after half an hour of scrutinizing every store's goods from outside the windows, I thought it would be best to just see what I could find online and drown my sorrows in a café crème and some Stoppard.
Cut to a few hours later, when I'm sitting in front of my computer, flabbergasted that it'll take four to six weeks to get a pair of jeans from two different stores online. Seriously? I just don't know what to do. I see bigger girls around all the time, and they're not naked. WHERE ARE THEY HIDING ALL THE FAT GIRL CLOTHES?! I mean, aside from the crap they sell by Châtelet. I think I'm actually going to have to resort to having my mom send me stuff so I don't look like some crazy lady with patches all over her crotch.
That's my rant for the day. I'm going to watch some horrible French television instead of making progress on my paper because I'm such a dedicated student. Dammit, is it August yet?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
After hours at the zoo
I don't have much to say. I'm officially on break, but I'm bitter that I have to spend most of it working and that when I go visit my friend in Scotland, I'm going to feel guilty for not working even more. C'est la vie. In the meantime, please enjoy this Orangina commercial, which I thought they retired in the fall, but now I'm extremely happy they've resurrected it because it's one of my favorite commercials of all time. You can't really get creepier than anthropomorphic, sexualized animals, but it's pretty damn mesmerizing.
(english version)
(english version)
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Gefilte fish is the reason why everyone thinks we're weird.
For those of you who don't know, Passover is a pretty major holiday. I tend to think it's the second most important, after Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur, since it was that whole exodus out of Egypt thing that led to the Ten Commandments, which are kind of like the foundation of Judeo-Christianity. (I'm pretty sure I just made that word up. No matter.) Anyways, this year, the first night of Passover happened to fall on a Saturday night, and the first day of spring break (woo!), which was cool since I would be able to go to a seder (even though I didn't the first night) without worrying about having to get up to go to school or translation meetings in the morning. But the first night of Passover being a Saturday is actually quite problematic. You see, Shabbat starts on Friday night, which means that every week, Jewish stores close early on Friday and don't open again until Sunday; on Passover, you're not supposed to work the first two and last two days of Passover. So, this week, stores closed early on Friday and wouldn't open again until Monday or Tuesday morning. What does this all mean? A huge clusterfuck in the Marais on Friday, hoards of people trying to prepare for Shabbat AND Passover at the same time, stocking up on hametz-free goods like they were getting ready for nuclear winter and needed to clog up their systems waiting for the fallout to dissipate because they wouldn't have access to a decent bathroom. There were lines out of the butcher shops half an hour long, and don't even get me started on the Finkelsteins'. The yellow Finkelstein's is always crazy, so Friday was like giving out Brad Pitt's sperm or something (definitely not kosher for Passover), and the blue Finkelstein's was about the same as any Friday morning. The crowds were, of course, exacerbated by the veritable walls of matzo boxes outside the stores, inside the stores, being delivered to the stores, etc. If there had been any sort of attack, we all would have been fine, surrounded by kilo after kilo of hardened paste. I'm sure it would provide more than ample shock cushioning.
Passover is also a very social holiday. It's kind of like our Christmas. I know, we have Channukah, but Channukah doesn't really count because it's kind of a bullshit holiday, as fun as it is. Don't get me wrong - there's substance to it, and I don't want to belittle it, but as importance of holidays in the Jewish faith goes, and their correlation to families sitting down to scrumptious three-hour long dinners, you can't really beat Passover. It means something AND there's brisket. And popovers. God, do I miss popovers. Anyways... What I'm trying to say is that Passover is the time when families get together and play catch up. My family sees each other about once a day, so it doesn't really apply to us, but I get the feeling that after Channukah, Passover is one of the only other times whole families get together and are Jewish - I mean, actively Jewish. Because even if you rush through a 20-minute seder to get to that delicious, joyous feast, you're still actively participating. And with Channukah - who are we kidding? - the only reason anyone really comes is to get presents. With Passover, there are no presents! Ok, well there's the getting money for finding the afikomen (or even just looking), which was always my favorite part as a kid, but still... I'm rambling. The point I'm trying to make is that Passover is a cool holiday and social in its very nature. And that kids will go wherever the free shit is. Always.
So that whole thing was just to preface the story about the seder I went to tonight, which isn't much of a story at all, really. I was expecting it to be more fun, or for there to be more people our age, but it was just a whole bunch of French-American families from the bilingual congregation. Actually, I didn't know what to expect, because I'd never been to one of these communal seder things before, and I didn't know how conservative the congregation was. But I knew I should wear a dress, or at least a skirt or a nice pair of pants. So, I decided this was as good a time as any to finally shave my legs so I could wear my footless tights - it is spring, after all. (Before you go all "eww" on me, let me briefly explain: you can barely turn around in my shower, so shaving my legs is a HUGE pain in the ass, and usually a pain in my back as I tend to hit the water knob on my way back up. Consequentially, I kind of turned into Chewbacca below the knee area [alright, to be fair, that IS gross] and was saving my leg shaving for a special occasion that merited such effort. Shut up, I know there are a lot of you out there that do that, too.) ANYWAYS. I ended up not wearing the tights - ok, this is getting boring. Interesting people at the seder: very few. There was a French guy there with his wife and their daughter, and he was fun. He kept joking about the food (which was pretty bad and totally tasteless), saying he'd try it first and if he was still breathing in five minutes, it was safe to eat. There was a younger girl who was thinking about going to Smith, so of course I went off on how great it was. The rabbi's French accent was pretty much incomprehensible. You know how we make fun of people that can't speak French by saying everything in French without making any effort whatsoever? Yeah, it was like that. How can you LIVE IN FRANCE and have such a shitty accent? Seriously. Most of the seder was pretty chaotic, with little kids running around and people trying to find their places in the prayer books - the rabbi skipping sections did not help. It was an experience, one that I'm glad I had, but that I don't ever need to have again.
Even so, it was nice to feel like part of a community again, even though I felt like a horrible Jew because I couldn't follow along with most of the seder. I blame the haggadah - it was not the Maxwell House edition and therefore I had no idea what was going on. Yes, I only do Passover with the best of materials - prayer books made by instant coffee companies.
In other news, I'm still thinking about things I need to apologize for, and while I can't think of any funny, trivial things that probably didn't cause any real damage, I've got some others that I'd like to get off my proverbial chest.
1. A certain Smithie, you know who you are - My being a bitch to you last year for no real reason? Well, that was just... bitchy. And I'm sorry. You didn't do anything to deserve it, and I should have been more mature about the whole thing and not averted my eyes in the hall, and the fact that you STILL let me borrow your car after the way I treated you just proves even more that you didn't deserve it. I'm glad we didn't leave on horrible terms, but it could have been better had I not been such a big douche.
2. Brother - I am still SO sorry about that scar on your arm. I don't know what could have made me think a cigar box would fit over your head, and every time I think about it I feel really bad and get a little knot in my stomach, and I don't think I've ever really properly apologized for it. I mean, I was, like, seven, and I didn't disfigure your face or anything, but there's a little white line on your arm where no hair grows and it's my fault. I'm sorry and I love you. And I promise never to try to trap you in a cigar box ever again.
It's finally spring break, and where am I going tomorrow? To the library. Oh grad school, how I love thee.
Passover is also a very social holiday. It's kind of like our Christmas. I know, we have Channukah, but Channukah doesn't really count because it's kind of a bullshit holiday, as fun as it is. Don't get me wrong - there's substance to it, and I don't want to belittle it, but as importance of holidays in the Jewish faith goes, and their correlation to families sitting down to scrumptious three-hour long dinners, you can't really beat Passover. It means something AND there's brisket. And popovers. God, do I miss popovers. Anyways... What I'm trying to say is that Passover is the time when families get together and play catch up. My family sees each other about once a day, so it doesn't really apply to us, but I get the feeling that after Channukah, Passover is one of the only other times whole families get together and are Jewish - I mean, actively Jewish. Because even if you rush through a 20-minute seder to get to that delicious, joyous feast, you're still actively participating. And with Channukah - who are we kidding? - the only reason anyone really comes is to get presents. With Passover, there are no presents! Ok, well there's the getting money for finding the afikomen (or even just looking), which was always my favorite part as a kid, but still... I'm rambling. The point I'm trying to make is that Passover is a cool holiday and social in its very nature. And that kids will go wherever the free shit is. Always.
So that whole thing was just to preface the story about the seder I went to tonight, which isn't much of a story at all, really. I was expecting it to be more fun, or for there to be more people our age, but it was just a whole bunch of French-American families from the bilingual congregation. Actually, I didn't know what to expect, because I'd never been to one of these communal seder things before, and I didn't know how conservative the congregation was. But I knew I should wear a dress, or at least a skirt or a nice pair of pants. So, I decided this was as good a time as any to finally shave my legs so I could wear my footless tights - it is spring, after all. (Before you go all "eww" on me, let me briefly explain: you can barely turn around in my shower, so shaving my legs is a HUGE pain in the ass, and usually a pain in my back as I tend to hit the water knob on my way back up. Consequentially, I kind of turned into Chewbacca below the knee area [alright, to be fair, that IS gross] and was saving my leg shaving for a special occasion that merited such effort. Shut up, I know there are a lot of you out there that do that, too.) ANYWAYS. I ended up not wearing the tights - ok, this is getting boring. Interesting people at the seder: very few. There was a French guy there with his wife and their daughter, and he was fun. He kept joking about the food (which was pretty bad and totally tasteless), saying he'd try it first and if he was still breathing in five minutes, it was safe to eat. There was a younger girl who was thinking about going to Smith, so of course I went off on how great it was. The rabbi's French accent was pretty much incomprehensible. You know how we make fun of people that can't speak French by saying everything in French without making any effort whatsoever? Yeah, it was like that. How can you LIVE IN FRANCE and have such a shitty accent? Seriously. Most of the seder was pretty chaotic, with little kids running around and people trying to find their places in the prayer books - the rabbi skipping sections did not help. It was an experience, one that I'm glad I had, but that I don't ever need to have again.
Even so, it was nice to feel like part of a community again, even though I felt like a horrible Jew because I couldn't follow along with most of the seder. I blame the haggadah - it was not the Maxwell House edition and therefore I had no idea what was going on. Yes, I only do Passover with the best of materials - prayer books made by instant coffee companies.
In other news, I'm still thinking about things I need to apologize for, and while I can't think of any funny, trivial things that probably didn't cause any real damage, I've got some others that I'd like to get off my proverbial chest.
1. A certain Smithie, you know who you are - My being a bitch to you last year for no real reason? Well, that was just... bitchy. And I'm sorry. You didn't do anything to deserve it, and I should have been more mature about the whole thing and not averted my eyes in the hall, and the fact that you STILL let me borrow your car after the way I treated you just proves even more that you didn't deserve it. I'm glad we didn't leave on horrible terms, but it could have been better had I not been such a big douche.
2. Brother - I am still SO sorry about that scar on your arm. I don't know what could have made me think a cigar box would fit over your head, and every time I think about it I feel really bad and get a little knot in my stomach, and I don't think I've ever really properly apologized for it. I mean, I was, like, seven, and I didn't disfigure your face or anything, but there's a little white line on your arm where no hair grows and it's my fault. I'm sorry and I love you. And I promise never to try to trap you in a cigar box ever again.
It's finally spring break, and where am I going tomorrow? To the library. Oh grad school, how I love thee.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
A few months late, but still...
I don't really have anything important to say. School is sucking my lifeblood, Paris is springy, and so on and so forth. The ability of French academia to piss me off is an eternal mystery to me, but I've figured out that profs just don't care about the students. They yell at them and few are helpful, and not one is warm and welcoming. Oh, and they also randomly don't show up for class, without posting a note or sending out an email (oh, but since there's no collective email system for French universities, that would be too hard to do in the first place, so nevermind that). Anyways, this morning, when our professor committed this heinous crime against studentity, my friend and I bitched about it while enjoying giant crèmes in a café down the street. Crèmes are really one of the best things ever. Between that and air conditioning, I'm not really sure which one wins. We meant to get work done while waiting for our ass-raping of a translation exam at 2, but of course that didn't happen. Instead, we reminisced about TV shows and fights with friends, particularly one incident in which a friendship ended because of movie-going arrangements. And it got me thinking about things...
Well, I'm always thinking about things, but it reminded me of all the times I was not only a bitch (stop laughing, I know that's a lot), but a bitch for no reason. Or a horrible person for no reason. Or just those times when I should have kept my mouth shut or should have not done something I unfortunately did. And I really feel bad about all those little things. People may or may not have forgotten them by now, and the offended probably don't read this, but for them, and for everyone I've unfairly been a bitch to, please accept my apologies.
1. Cortney (even though there's no possible way she'll see this): I'm sorry for screwing up the "Secret buddies/sisters" game senior year of field hockey. I like to attribute it to my awkward phase, but I've since learned that it wasn't really so much a phase as my actual, permanent personality.
2. Ally: I'm sorry for being a heinous bitch all the time and starting shit when I shouldn't have. And I'm sorry for not being better with keeping in touch. And I'm really sorry for that one time I said that thing you specifically asked me not to, and during that huge "conflict resolution" type-thing, saying something else just as stupid. I think we were all a little on edge about stuff, but I really didn't mean any harm, and I'm sorry.
3. Nina: I'm sorry for taking the flower you caught at Medieval Times at my 11th birthday party and telling you my dog ate it (which, for those of you not involved, is a totally legitimate explanation for a missing flower). And I'm sorry for not mentioning that at all for the past twelve years. It's not a big deal, but I've felt horrible about it this whole time. You were so happy when you got that flower, and I had to be a selfish brat and take it.
4. Katherine: I am SO sorry about that ridiculous thing I wrote a couple of years ago when we were on JYA. I don't even know why I wrote it, but I think I was just looking for something to bitch about, and that coffee date happened to be the last thing that happened before I got home. I've also felt really horrible about this since it happened, because you are a cool girl and didn't deserve that kind of trash-talk, and I really do think that we could have been better friends had I not been so self-centered and gossiping. Also, I really envy your ability to wear dresses with belts (all asking-for-forgiveness aside, it's true).
It would have been convenient to post that at the beginning of the year, or wait until it becomes a step to recovery - let's hope it never comes to that - but I just wanted to get it off my chest now. I think it's going to be a rough summer, and I think I'd like to get a head start on letting go of some of my baggage. Figuratively, of course, because gym memberships here are 600 euros a year and there's no way I can fight the boulangerie temptation. There are some things you just can't ask a girl to do.
Now for some randomness: I really want this or this, and how cool would you be if you went walking amongst intelligentsia wearing this? (pictures below)
Pretty cool, huh? Nerdy, of course, but cool. If you didn't know what it actually was, you'd just think it was pretty, shiny, design-y jewelry. Because, well, that's what it is. Anyways, I'll just add it to my list of materialistic things I'd like but cannot have. Ugh. On the bright side, I think I found some place to go study that isn't the library or the café down the street with the ornery waitstaff! I'll elaborate later, as I should probably go visit before I confirm that hypothesis. That's all for now, folks. Back to the grindstone.
(TOTAL sidenote: I have no fucking idea what's going on upstairs, but it is either World War III or a massive orgy involving sqweegees. Also, I just heard my neighbor orgasm. Not the one upstairs; the one next door. Seriously, I'm starting to think I live in a brothel.)
Well, I'm always thinking about things, but it reminded me of all the times I was not only a bitch (stop laughing, I know that's a lot), but a bitch for no reason. Or a horrible person for no reason. Or just those times when I should have kept my mouth shut or should have not done something I unfortunately did. And I really feel bad about all those little things. People may or may not have forgotten them by now, and the offended probably don't read this, but for them, and for everyone I've unfairly been a bitch to, please accept my apologies.
1. Cortney (even though there's no possible way she'll see this): I'm sorry for screwing up the "Secret buddies/sisters" game senior year of field hockey. I like to attribute it to my awkward phase, but I've since learned that it wasn't really so much a phase as my actual, permanent personality.
2. Ally: I'm sorry for being a heinous bitch all the time and starting shit when I shouldn't have. And I'm sorry for not being better with keeping in touch. And I'm really sorry for that one time I said that thing you specifically asked me not to, and during that huge "conflict resolution" type-thing, saying something else just as stupid. I think we were all a little on edge about stuff, but I really didn't mean any harm, and I'm sorry.
3. Nina: I'm sorry for taking the flower you caught at Medieval Times at my 11th birthday party and telling you my dog ate it (which, for those of you not involved, is a totally legitimate explanation for a missing flower). And I'm sorry for not mentioning that at all for the past twelve years. It's not a big deal, but I've felt horrible about it this whole time. You were so happy when you got that flower, and I had to be a selfish brat and take it.
4. Katherine: I am SO sorry about that ridiculous thing I wrote a couple of years ago when we were on JYA. I don't even know why I wrote it, but I think I was just looking for something to bitch about, and that coffee date happened to be the last thing that happened before I got home. I've also felt really horrible about this since it happened, because you are a cool girl and didn't deserve that kind of trash-talk, and I really do think that we could have been better friends had I not been so self-centered and gossiping. Also, I really envy your ability to wear dresses with belts (all asking-for-forgiveness aside, it's true).
It would have been convenient to post that at the beginning of the year, or wait until it becomes a step to recovery - let's hope it never comes to that - but I just wanted to get it off my chest now. I think it's going to be a rough summer, and I think I'd like to get a head start on letting go of some of my baggage. Figuratively, of course, because gym memberships here are 600 euros a year and there's no way I can fight the boulangerie temptation. There are some things you just can't ask a girl to do.
Now for some randomness: I really want this or this, and how cool would you be if you went walking amongst intelligentsia wearing this? (pictures below)
Pretty cool, huh? Nerdy, of course, but cool. If you didn't know what it actually was, you'd just think it was pretty, shiny, design-y jewelry. Because, well, that's what it is. Anyways, I'll just add it to my list of materialistic things I'd like but cannot have. Ugh. On the bright side, I think I found some place to go study that isn't the library or the café down the street with the ornery waitstaff! I'll elaborate later, as I should probably go visit before I confirm that hypothesis. That's all for now, folks. Back to the grindstone.
(TOTAL sidenote: I have no fucking idea what's going on upstairs, but it is either World War III or a massive orgy involving sqweegees. Also, I just heard my neighbor orgasm. Not the one upstairs; the one next door. Seriously, I'm starting to think I live in a brothel.)
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Indecent exposure
Oh, where do I start? So many non-event things in one day, I can barely deal with it. But first, I forgot to add this last movie poster on the post about bad translations, and I really don't know how I could have forgotten it - it's the best one!
The word "maxi" doesn't really translate perfectly. It refers to something big, as in, bigger than normal. I guess you should say huge, or mega - maybe mega. Mega Dad. Honestly, France? I'm not going to bother bitching about this one, but I will, however, bitch about how now I'm going to forever associate sanitary pads with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. (Sidenote: who else thinks it was an awful idea to try to add The Rock's real name back into the mix? Good, I'm glad we agree.)
So, I went to the library today (BPI or Pompidou, as we incorrectly call it). I got up, I was in a good mood - I was going to the library and was going to be productive and a good student and redeem myself! I went to go catch the bus, and when I got on the bus, my good spirits quickly faded, as the driver was apparently drunk or spastic or some other adjective that explains his shitty driving. And there was traffic. I was already running a little late - if you don't get to the library before it opens, you could wait in line for literally an hour before you get in. That is, if you get in. Pompidou opens at 12 on weekdays. Yeah, don't even get me started on the library's crap hours. Anyways, I was originally planning on getting there around 11:30, but that obviously didn't happen. At around 12:05, I rounded the corner of the building to find a line already a block long. It's ok, I said to myself, I'm just going to put on my ipod and wait. All will be well. No reason to get upset. And it was fine, except for all the smoke emanating from my future cancer-patient-peers. Half an hour later (see what I mean?), I got into Pompidou and made a B-line for my books, and then I sat down at an empty table and tried to take advantage of the emptiness and quiet to get some serious work done. Gradually people filed in, and soon there wasn't a free seat in the house. I think about half an hour after I sat down, a guy sat down on my left, and I didn't really notice it at first, but he had one little book and a half-used pad of graph paper out holding the book open, but no pen. Or briefcase or bag or backpack. And then I noticed out of the corner of my eye what looked like his hand down his pants, making repetitive motions. Are you fucking kidding me? You know, I've been reading about all the public masturbation going on in the States, because Perez Hilton is pretty obsessed with it, but I mean, COME ON. Ok, bad choice of words. And he just sat there, for about two hours, taking his hand in and out of his pants, glaring at me occasionally, getting up two or three times to do God knows what God knows where, and then he just left. He never turned the page of his book or took any notes, and of course I was too weirded out to actually look at him - oh, and there's that whole making eye contact with a strange man equals making a sexual invite thing. And judging by the current circumstances, I didn't think I needed to throw gas on the fire.
I took a lunch break around 4, stuffing down a sandwich and some tomato-basil chips. Now, I know what you're thinking, and I used to think it too. Tomato-basil? CHIPS? I used to scoff and make weird faces at the concept, but actually, they are not that bad. Not that bad at all. Actually, I was thinking about stopping on the way home to get some, but then my senses thought better of it. After a quick trip to the bathroom, where you have to take the toilet paper before you go into the stall (still can't figure that one out), I continued my work next to the recently-seated normal guy doing calculus problems. I thought I was very productive. I worked the entire time, didn't procrastinate, never even sent a single text message. And somehow I only managed to read forty pages. What? Forty pages? Five hours of work and only forty pages? How is that possible? I did get information, but I'm not sure it's enough to finish the work I have for tomorrow and that mini presentation we have to give on Monday. Ah well. It's not like this'll be the first time I'll have had to bullshit my way through something.
On my way home I picked up some bread from my favorite boulangerie in my neighborhood. It'd been a while since I'd gone there since I rarely come home that way anymore, and I was starting to forget how good that bread is, especially when you get it fresh from the oven and melt some butter on it. Mmmm, heaven. It was warm today, not hot enough to melt the butter, but warm enough. It was a nice end to a very awkward day.
The word "maxi" doesn't really translate perfectly. It refers to something big, as in, bigger than normal. I guess you should say huge, or mega - maybe mega. Mega Dad. Honestly, France? I'm not going to bother bitching about this one, but I will, however, bitch about how now I'm going to forever associate sanitary pads with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson. (Sidenote: who else thinks it was an awful idea to try to add The Rock's real name back into the mix? Good, I'm glad we agree.)
So, I went to the library today (BPI or Pompidou, as we incorrectly call it). I got up, I was in a good mood - I was going to the library and was going to be productive and a good student and redeem myself! I went to go catch the bus, and when I got on the bus, my good spirits quickly faded, as the driver was apparently drunk or spastic or some other adjective that explains his shitty driving. And there was traffic. I was already running a little late - if you don't get to the library before it opens, you could wait in line for literally an hour before you get in. That is, if you get in. Pompidou opens at 12 on weekdays. Yeah, don't even get me started on the library's crap hours. Anyways, I was originally planning on getting there around 11:30, but that obviously didn't happen. At around 12:05, I rounded the corner of the building to find a line already a block long. It's ok, I said to myself, I'm just going to put on my ipod and wait. All will be well. No reason to get upset. And it was fine, except for all the smoke emanating from my future cancer-patient-peers. Half an hour later (see what I mean?), I got into Pompidou and made a B-line for my books, and then I sat down at an empty table and tried to take advantage of the emptiness and quiet to get some serious work done. Gradually people filed in, and soon there wasn't a free seat in the house. I think about half an hour after I sat down, a guy sat down on my left, and I didn't really notice it at first, but he had one little book and a half-used pad of graph paper out holding the book open, but no pen. Or briefcase or bag or backpack. And then I noticed out of the corner of my eye what looked like his hand down his pants, making repetitive motions. Are you fucking kidding me? You know, I've been reading about all the public masturbation going on in the States, because Perez Hilton is pretty obsessed with it, but I mean, COME ON. Ok, bad choice of words. And he just sat there, for about two hours, taking his hand in and out of his pants, glaring at me occasionally, getting up two or three times to do God knows what God knows where, and then he just left. He never turned the page of his book or took any notes, and of course I was too weirded out to actually look at him - oh, and there's that whole making eye contact with a strange man equals making a sexual invite thing. And judging by the current circumstances, I didn't think I needed to throw gas on the fire.
I took a lunch break around 4, stuffing down a sandwich and some tomato-basil chips. Now, I know what you're thinking, and I used to think it too. Tomato-basil? CHIPS? I used to scoff and make weird faces at the concept, but actually, they are not that bad. Not that bad at all. Actually, I was thinking about stopping on the way home to get some, but then my senses thought better of it. After a quick trip to the bathroom, where you have to take the toilet paper before you go into the stall (still can't figure that one out), I continued my work next to the recently-seated normal guy doing calculus problems. I thought I was very productive. I worked the entire time, didn't procrastinate, never even sent a single text message. And somehow I only managed to read forty pages. What? Forty pages? Five hours of work and only forty pages? How is that possible? I did get information, but I'm not sure it's enough to finish the work I have for tomorrow and that mini presentation we have to give on Monday. Ah well. It's not like this'll be the first time I'll have had to bullshit my way through something.
On my way home I picked up some bread from my favorite boulangerie in my neighborhood. It'd been a while since I'd gone there since I rarely come home that way anymore, and I was starting to forget how good that bread is, especially when you get it fresh from the oven and melt some butter on it. Mmmm, heaven. It was warm today, not hot enough to melt the butter, but warm enough. It was a nice end to a very awkward day.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
I'm such a nerd.
So, I'm taking a break from trying to come up with a plan for my thesis/master's essay/mémoire, which, by the way, I'm so far behind on it's not even funny. I've been seeing a lot of movie posters around lately, and all my translation classes have got me preoccupied with the translation of movie titles here, because it's pretty ridiculous, if you ask me. And so, for your viewing pleasure, here are some examples, with the French titles translated back into English.
Horton. So this one's not that bad, but it still bothers me that they didn't make any effort whatsoever to translate "Horton Hears a Who." I get it, it's hard to translate alliteration in the first place, let alone with a sound that doesn't exist in French, but they could have at least come up with some alternative in French. They add 200 pages to Harry Potter books, so why can't they translate the full title?
"Two Sisters for One King" This one REALLY bothers me. COME ON. I know it's a trashy romance novel cleverly disguised as historical fiction, but did they really have to go and give it that trashy porno title?
No translation necessary. Seriously? Sexy Dance? And there's the new one that's out, Sexy Dance 2. Again, I get that Step It Up, or whatever the hell it was called, is not translatable into French, but couldn't they find some other French expression or something other than Sexy Dance, which doesn't really have anything to do with the premise of the movie? Oh my God, I can't believe I'm arguing something on behalf of that piece of shit Dirty Dancing rip-off. And I can't believe I just admitted to having watched it. Wow. I must really be desperate for procrastination tools.
So on that note, I'm going to return back to my work. Return back? Repetitively redundant. Return to my work. There you go. Bonne Nuit!
Horton. So this one's not that bad, but it still bothers me that they didn't make any effort whatsoever to translate "Horton Hears a Who." I get it, it's hard to translate alliteration in the first place, let alone with a sound that doesn't exist in French, but they could have at least come up with some alternative in French. They add 200 pages to Harry Potter books, so why can't they translate the full title?
"Two Sisters for One King" This one REALLY bothers me. COME ON. I know it's a trashy romance novel cleverly disguised as historical fiction, but did they really have to go and give it that trashy porno title?
No translation necessary. Seriously? Sexy Dance? And there's the new one that's out, Sexy Dance 2. Again, I get that Step It Up, or whatever the hell it was called, is not translatable into French, but couldn't they find some other French expression or something other than Sexy Dance, which doesn't really have anything to do with the premise of the movie? Oh my God, I can't believe I'm arguing something on behalf of that piece of shit Dirty Dancing rip-off. And I can't believe I just admitted to having watched it. Wow. I must really be desperate for procrastination tools.
So on that note, I'm going to return back to my work. Return back? Repetitively redundant. Return to my work. There you go. Bonne Nuit!
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Hardy Har Har
Well, after three weeks of freezing rain (and violent hail), winter is finally... well, I'd like to say it's over, except that weather.com is forecasting cold and rain for the next few days. But it was over 60 yesterday! And sunny! I sat outside with my friend at a café by school and tried to get work done! Yes, I tried, but the important part was that we sat outside! When the weather in Paris gets nice and I can finally move my café crème out onto the terrace, it's like a second Christmas for me. Ok, well, first, considering I don't partake in all of that Christianity stuff. I'm a heathen, I know. So then finally getting to sit outside is like a second winter solstice, or any other holiday that incites happy, endorphin-filled feelings. Anyways, the point is that I no longer have to wear my heavier coat, which makes me happy, although that thing does cover my ass, so maybe I should hold on to it a little longer...
The semester is busy, blah blah blah, you've heard that every time I write for the past four months, so I'm just going to skip over that part, because it's about as interesting as watching grass grow in winter.
Last night, in an effort to force myself to be social, I went to a French improv thing, at the behest of a friend, whose friend's cousin was in the improv group (incidentally, he was the funniest one). It was... interesting. I think improv is kind of a new thing here, not at all mainstream. After all, it doesn't follow any sort of rules, which, of course, is the main principle of French theater, and since it's spontaneous, there's no way it could be planned out and therefore intellectual, so what's the point anyways? But the thing is, I think improv and this troupe and their whole existence kind of goes back to the origins of theater, in France and elsewhere. So they're not a traveling group of lower-class whores, and they don't go around with a cart that magically opens into a full stage and lighting set-up, complete with props and music; but they are a diverse group of actors/comedians that go from theater to theater and do their thing for the public, at the audience's suggestion/command. I just wish it had been funnier. There were a few skits that were pretty enjoyable, but nothing I'd call hilarious, and a couple of the skits we sat through thinking, "alright, we get the premise, but this is just not funny." I have to admit, the electronic vomiting duck was funny, but such a stupid idea. I'm pretty sure it was an inside joke between someone in the audience and one of the guys on stage, but come on - we're all sitting there too, and just because you think your acid-trip influenced creation is skit-worthy, we may not. Although, I can't really blame the troupe, since all the skits were chosen from words that audience members wrote down. I was going to write down "elephantiasis of the [insert random body part here]," but I forgot. And I didn't know how to say it in French, which could have posed a slight problem. My favorite part was when one of the skits got moved to Washington, somehow, and they all started doing their best American impressions, and one guy just started cussing and throwing gang signs going "that's whack!" (This was a short Asian man, FYI.) In any case, I'm glad I went - it was an experience, I mostly enjoyed myself, and I never have to go again. Unless it's for free, in which case, I'm all over that shit.
On the bus to aforementioned improv gig, I passed by a building with big-graffitied letters on the side. I wouldn't have paid attention to it except that instead of saying some nonsense or incorrectly-spelled or -used curse words in English, it said "je t'aime." And then I was reminded of this post (scroll to the top) I saw on another blog. Why don't people do this in the States? Why don't people profess their love on the sides of buildings and construction sites? Maybe it's just the French occupation with love and the fact that people here can't go more than three months without someone special in their lives (or so I sincerely believe), but it's still sweet, don't you think? And you find this shit all over the city - on bus stops, carved into concrete, on national monuments (of course), on ads in the metro, etc. The best part is that it looks like any other graffiti; it's messy and sometimes looks like it was written by a drunk monkey (which, let's face it, is a serious possibility). Nevertheless, it's comforting to know that there are still people out there who care enough about their significant other and about love itself that they're not afraid to go around tagging buildings and billboards expressing it. We could all learn a little something from the Parisians, non?
The semester is busy, blah blah blah, you've heard that every time I write for the past four months, so I'm just going to skip over that part, because it's about as interesting as watching grass grow in winter.
Last night, in an effort to force myself to be social, I went to a French improv thing, at the behest of a friend, whose friend's cousin was in the improv group (incidentally, he was the funniest one). It was... interesting. I think improv is kind of a new thing here, not at all mainstream. After all, it doesn't follow any sort of rules, which, of course, is the main principle of French theater, and since it's spontaneous, there's no way it could be planned out and therefore intellectual, so what's the point anyways? But the thing is, I think improv and this troupe and their whole existence kind of goes back to the origins of theater, in France and elsewhere. So they're not a traveling group of lower-class whores, and they don't go around with a cart that magically opens into a full stage and lighting set-up, complete with props and music; but they are a diverse group of actors/comedians that go from theater to theater and do their thing for the public, at the audience's suggestion/command. I just wish it had been funnier. There were a few skits that were pretty enjoyable, but nothing I'd call hilarious, and a couple of the skits we sat through thinking, "alright, we get the premise, but this is just not funny." I have to admit, the electronic vomiting duck was funny, but such a stupid idea. I'm pretty sure it was an inside joke between someone in the audience and one of the guys on stage, but come on - we're all sitting there too, and just because you think your acid-trip influenced creation is skit-worthy, we may not. Although, I can't really blame the troupe, since all the skits were chosen from words that audience members wrote down. I was going to write down "elephantiasis of the [insert random body part here]," but I forgot. And I didn't know how to say it in French, which could have posed a slight problem. My favorite part was when one of the skits got moved to Washington, somehow, and they all started doing their best American impressions, and one guy just started cussing and throwing gang signs going "that's whack!" (This was a short Asian man, FYI.) In any case, I'm glad I went - it was an experience, I mostly enjoyed myself, and I never have to go again. Unless it's for free, in which case, I'm all over that shit.
On the bus to aforementioned improv gig, I passed by a building with big-graffitied letters on the side. I wouldn't have paid attention to it except that instead of saying some nonsense or incorrectly-spelled or -used curse words in English, it said "je t'aime." And then I was reminded of this post (scroll to the top) I saw on another blog. Why don't people do this in the States? Why don't people profess their love on the sides of buildings and construction sites? Maybe it's just the French occupation with love and the fact that people here can't go more than three months without someone special in their lives (or so I sincerely believe), but it's still sweet, don't you think? And you find this shit all over the city - on bus stops, carved into concrete, on national monuments (of course), on ads in the metro, etc. The best part is that it looks like any other graffiti; it's messy and sometimes looks like it was written by a drunk monkey (which, let's face it, is a serious possibility). Nevertheless, it's comforting to know that there are still people out there who care enough about their significant other and about love itself that they're not afraid to go around tagging buildings and billboards expressing it. We could all learn a little something from the Parisians, non?
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Who's got the dunce cap?
You know, after almost two years of being immersed in French academic life, I still can't figure out their system of education. Any American student that has ever taken a class at a French university will probably agree with me when I say that it seems like the system here is made to set people up to fail. In a way, it's a genius Darwinian plan - it weeds out the idiots and the slackers and leaves room only for the elite few that deserve to progress in their quest to be part of the pretentious French intelligentsia. Ok, so maybe I'm being a little harsh. But when I get French translations back with a grade of 6/20 and am told that's fairly normal for this professor, I start to wonder: if the educator's job is to educate and facilitate the student's academic journey, why does he do everything he can to shoot the student down and make her feel like a complete and total moron? I really don't understand what the harm is in congratulating a student for a job well done or using a tone in class that doesn't seem like the professor thinks everyone is a mentally disabled chimp. He goes over translations, and 90% of the time, he goes off on why choice A is bad, and choice B is worse, and why choice C isn't even possible in French, but half the class put it down anyways. Rarely does he commend a student for an interesting proposition, and never has he commented positively on my or my friend's French. Alright, ego trip, I know. But seriously - I know we don't speak perfect French, but when everyone else we meet says we have a bon niveau de français, I expect to hear it as a little bit of encouragement from my professors, instead of a mini lecture after class about how this class is practically useless for us and how we need to work on our French. Also, he said he would grade us as if we were French people translating into English. And now I understand why French people suck so much with English.
It's the same with basically anything. Because of the system they've set up, where all you need is a 10/20 to pass, and the highest you can possibly get is an 18 - and even that would be like Stephen Hawking winning gold for the high jump - they've basically constructed a Petri dish of mediocrity. No one cares enough to do well, just well enough. Here, they say that the best student will get an 18, the professor would get 19, and only God would get a 20. And they grade things on such an arbitrary scale, too. How can you grade a translation on a conversion chart? One point off for a misconstrued idea, a half point off for being too inventive, another half point for using the wrong tense. They get mad at you for using calques (verbatim translations), but if you try to be a little more interpretive, they tell you you've strayed too far away from the original text. How can you get anywhere with that? Jesus, France. Loosen up a bit and let me have some ideas of my own!
And with that, I must return back to my weekend of translation. We're nearing the completion of the first draft of the Stoppard translation, finally. My job for the next few weeks pretty much consists of proofreading everything and making sure not too much got lost along the way. Did I mention this play is 91 pages long and includes page-long tirades involving 19th century pre-revolutionary Russian philosophy? Yeah, I know - you so wish you were me right now. I also have a presentation to do for Monday, one of those bitches of a translations for Tuesday, and a plan for my thesis for Wednesday, as well as some other various busy work. I went out last night with some friends, and tomorrow half my day is consumed with the translation meeting, so I don't think I'm going to make it to pub quiz, which is finally back this week. I've been looking forward to it for literally 6 weeks, which sucks.
Man, I'm so ready for the real world already.
It's the same with basically anything. Because of the system they've set up, where all you need is a 10/20 to pass, and the highest you can possibly get is an 18 - and even that would be like Stephen Hawking winning gold for the high jump - they've basically constructed a Petri dish of mediocrity. No one cares enough to do well, just well enough. Here, they say that the best student will get an 18, the professor would get 19, and only God would get a 20. And they grade things on such an arbitrary scale, too. How can you grade a translation on a conversion chart? One point off for a misconstrued idea, a half point off for being too inventive, another half point for using the wrong tense. They get mad at you for using calques (verbatim translations), but if you try to be a little more interpretive, they tell you you've strayed too far away from the original text. How can you get anywhere with that? Jesus, France. Loosen up a bit and let me have some ideas of my own!
And with that, I must return back to my weekend of translation. We're nearing the completion of the first draft of the Stoppard translation, finally. My job for the next few weeks pretty much consists of proofreading everything and making sure not too much got lost along the way. Did I mention this play is 91 pages long and includes page-long tirades involving 19th century pre-revolutionary Russian philosophy? Yeah, I know - you so wish you were me right now. I also have a presentation to do for Monday, one of those bitches of a translations for Tuesday, and a plan for my thesis for Wednesday, as well as some other various busy work. I went out last night with some friends, and tomorrow half my day is consumed with the translation meeting, so I don't think I'm going to make it to pub quiz, which is finally back this week. I've been looking forward to it for literally 6 weeks, which sucks.
Man, I'm so ready for the real world already.
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