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?

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)

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.

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.)

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.

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!

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?