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My mother told me that my blog was depressing and that she has intentions of staging an intervention to encourage more positive thinking. So, I will attempt for the first time to write about “happy feelings,” which I am completely capable of doing……..

I saw this baby in a stroller yesterday and it, er I mean, he was SOOOO adorable. I looked right past the uncontrollable drooling and into his big beautiful eyes, and a single tear fell down my cheek. I couldn’t help it. Children are our fu— HAHA! Je blague, Maman. Tu me connais. La vie est amusante, pourquoi pas rire? Je t’aime.

Now on to the good stuff… So, last night my host sister invited KC and me to meet her American friend, who stayed with them a few years ago. Hmmm how can I put this without sounding negative? He was of the sort to ineffectively exert an enormous effort to present a “cool” façade. He is what one—not I—might call a “Loser.” That night was definitely a self-confidence booster—for me, of course! After he randomly declared: “I actually love the South.” I knew something was amiss, for no one from Connecticut confesses that kind of opinion, no one. Following that foolishness, I reacted with a judgmental side-glance, taking into account his lack of style which included a pair of mud-stained running sneakers and a prepubescent ‘tache. Need I say more? Well I will regardless. When the question of sports arose, he eagerly volunteered to tell us that he was on the swim team in high school. Later, he sheepishly owned up to the fact that it was for less than a month. Typical. But in retrospect, I realized that he was just a kid with bad game trying to work the room. Well, he gets an A for effort.

The value of personal hygiene

I dropped the cap to my makeup in the family’s bidet this morning. Ughhhhh. I scrubbed the cap frantically hoping to erase the scarring memory but it was to no avail. Forgive me but I’m just not comfortable with the existence an apparatus that sole purpose is to clean a person’s butt. It’s weird, ok. I know I’m being culturally insensitive but is showering THAT inconvenient for the French?? Each time I wash my hands in the sink that is dangerously close to the bidet, I see it out of the corner of my eye and I wonder, “Does this family really use this thing?” Some things are best left unknown.

When I returned from buying junk food, in preparation for eating my feelings, I saw a disfigured shadow repeating strange whimpers and hobbling through the house. Surprisingly, I was unfazed. You see, at chez Pottiers this is a common occurrence. An 87-year-old woman lives on the fourth floor above me. Ironically, she can barely walk and there’s no elevator. Since this is Paris, of course she has a hunchback—Quasimodo style. The effects to her spine as a result of the hunchback have completely deformed her neck. It looks as though her head became too heavy for her neck and one day it just slouched over and hasn’t moved since. She walks with a heavy limp and at a turtle’s pace. I passed her on the streets the other day, and by passed I mean I completely ignored her like it was high school and I was the betchy girl and she was the kid with the weird smell but redeeming personality. When I first saw the old bitty, I was PISSED! I don’t know to make small talk with someone who can’t turn her neck. Like, what do you say to that?? Luckily she is at an age where each day she gets shorter and shorter; so with the combination of her immobile neck and shrinking height, I was able to walk right past her without her even realizing it. Amazing, I know! I can’t believe I was so lucky. What a great way to avoid awkward situations—for me, not for her...

Like a boy

Ummmmm… How can I put into words the events of this past weekend?? I’ll put it this way, my walk of shame stretched 650 miles, from Prague to Paris. Hot dang it was fun! I took a stand for all women this weekend by objectifying the men. If nasty-ass construction workers can hurl shameless comments at women, why can’t I degrade men in the same manner? Since it is socially acceptable for a guy to visually violate me, then it’s only fair that I return the compliment to the male population by intensely staring them down while jeering, “Nice ass baby!” I’d say that’s one step closer to equality, ladies!

Due to the unexpected below freezing temperature (screw weather.com!), I wore every article of clothing that I brought at once. It may have cramped my “style,” but on the plus side it reduced the chances of theft. It also definitely made deciding what to wear going out easy. If I wasn’t feeling one shirt I could have just taken it off and had an entirely new outfit. Who could complain?? Despite the cold, Prague didn’t disappoint. Looking back, I think the highlight of my trip was walking around at night with my hood on and chilled beer in hand. It just felt right.

Something everyone can relate to

Tomorrow morning I’ll be crossing borders as I head to Prague (holla!). This weekend isn’t just about sightseeing; it’s also about challenging myself to see how long I can bear to look a HOT mess. Some people say, “Work it out” but I, in accordance with my style, say, “Bum it out.” I have self-diagnosed my look as hobo-chic… Sans the chic part. Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, right??? The first step is a doozy. But if MK can make it stylish, why can’t I? Some days I get dressed in the dark and some days I don’t. At least I make an effort. I could roll out of bed and go to class with my crooked glasses and untamed hair. But even I know, boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. Remember that kids.

Self-awareness is all the resolution I need. Yes, my awkwardness has led me to reference a rap song during a panel interview and to sit on someone in the dark during an initiation and to spend Valentine’s Day at a pink and red table with a giant ice sculpture of a heart. But those kinds of the things happen to everyone…

I only hope that Prague can handle alllll of *this* because not many countries can. I struggled for weeks with the prospect that Paris “cured” my awkwardness. That is until a few days ago when it all came rushing back with such a force that even I was taken aback. That day was filled with uncomfortable encounters and unusual sounds dispersed in between my words inflicting warranted, and familiar, confusion. It was a bittersweet homecoming.

Vanity or aesthetic sensitivity?

I would consider myself a mean person--many of my character references would agree. I love Paris because it offers a right of passage for all women to be mean. I, of course, have taken full advantage of this (how could I not??). It's out of necessity, really. This city is over infested with creepers who possess a disproportionate amount of self-confidence. One would think that a stern "No" and one particular finger would kill their game. Quite the opposite. It takes a lot of special words before they get the hint. If that's not determination, then I don't know what is. The fact that they think they have a shot with me is what really perplexes me. Greasy drunkards do not interest me. Time is money so don't waste my time. NEXT!!!!

My struggle for justice

Only in Paris, the city of romance, can two twelve year-olds holding hands piss me off.  I wanted to trip them... Fools!  No matter, I have bigger problems.  This morning, my arch nemesis--AKA my host mother--asked what day would be best to have the room vacuumed.  I pointed at the condition of the room and said, "Well definitely not today."  I figured one would need to see the floor in order to vacuum it.  Now I am not deceived by all of her Jesus shrines and motherly affections.  No, I knew by the tightness of her high-waisted capris that she is only days away from cracking.  So after I returned from taking care of some bizzzzness, there she was, holding a vacuum straight out of the 80's.  She then proceeded to tell me that she cleaned up my room--but only "un petit peu"--so that she could vacuum.  HMMMM... Interesting.  Like I said, DAYS away.

My bed is now a display of all my belongings.  I prefer the floor.

What they don't teach you in school!

Heyyy this is my second post!  I'm kinda a big deal, ok.  I don't normally commit to anything for this long, so just recognize how privileged you are to read such a literary masterpiece.  I'm doing this for selfless reasons, really.  I feel the need to share my story, my struggles, and my perseverance with the world.  I only hope that I can help people and make the world a better place with my experiences abroad.  And to kick this suckaaa off, it's important I explain the French language and all its glory...

To describe my struggles with the French language would require audiovisual reenactment to capture the series of emotion, which many times manifest themselves in incoherent babble.  The initial trauma of being asked a question in a foreign language sets off the uncontrollable chain reaction of sounding like a fool.  I almost always follow the presented question with a looooong uncomfortable pause, during which I try to figure out why the person is using such fancy words and syntax.  In defeat, I normally rely on the French word I use the most: Comment.  At this point, the person settles on two possibilities: either I am an idiot or I am American (how they are so accurate with this perception is beyond me... Maybe it's my "hyyyyper cool" style).  At any rate, the person will repose their question in a simpler, dumbed-down way.  Sometimes they will ask the question in English, signaling a complete loss of hope for my French abilities.  I don't protest it.  However, if I can understand the question, I proceed with multiple uncomfortable sounds, hoping to casually buy some time to think.  To those who know me, you know my, um let's call them mannerisms, can last perhaps too long.  These hesitations are prolonged enough to merit a sympathy-professed head nod.  In cases such as these, I resort to the all-powerful phrase for a quick exit: Je ne sais pas.  It never fails.

French 101: How to quickly kill a conversation and get the efffff out of there.  Lesson learned.