Lost in translation

I find myself gravitating more to the faint reminders of America (yes, America) scattered sparsely throughout Paris. Not only that but I suspect that I’m becoming more and more cynical with each Parisian I crash into—apparently, I have a higher threshold for pessimism than I thought. It’s to the point where I now make rampant generalizations and hurl offensive stereotypical remarks about the French. I mean, normally, yes I do send forth outrageous comments (only a few here and there!!) but now it’s outtaaaaa control! Impulsively, instinctually, unconsciously, involuntarily, I perpetuate all the hackneyed Parisian perceptions without shame. I don’t care! As I sit in Starbucks and realize how magical heat feels, I can’t help but conclude that perhaps the French REEK (…and they really do!) because their exceptionally inactive, contemptible professional careers transcend beyond their worthless 35-hour work week into their mundane bread-and-cheese-eating personal lives so much so that these unduly lethargic French fo—

Torture, I say!

I. Don’t. Understand. The children are back… Why?? I was wondering why the presence of the Barbie dolls and high chair persisted even after they left. Great, now I have to return to hearing the mother’s insatiable happiness and the troublemakers’ piercing screams which could shatter glass. I don’t blame them, though. If I had her as a grandmother persistently chasing me around, I would shriek for help and/or be one BITTER baby.

Flattery will get you NOWHERE!

OMG! Finallyyyyy! Ok, it took long enough but I was finally able to give a bountiful amount of sarcasm in French the other day. It was amazing! Normally, when I attempt to speak French, it sounds like I’m the stuttering kid in Billy Madison (click here!!!!!!). But this time, I was blessed with the perfect opportunity to flatter myself naturally with arrogance and conceit all because I gave what every indolent French worker audaciously demands: exact change. Don’t even get me started on how many eye rolls I’ve received because I didn’t have the suitable amount of centièmes. Whutevaaa, I’m not there to make your jobs easier, I’m just there to buy my chocolate and seltzer. Yeah, check that attitude and just give me my change so I can be on my way, ok. Ugh, I promised myself I wouldn’t get worked up about this. I digress... Basically, after seeing the price, I checked my wallet and proceeded to smile like I had omnipotent power over the entire French people, which I generally believe I do. So I looked directly at the squirrelly cashier, tossed him the change as if to say, “Here kid, go do something with your life,” but I did so with just enough attitude to imply that the €4,40 in centièmes wouldn’t carry him far, so, you know, he betta have a plan B. A vivacious hue swept over his face which then achingly crooked a smile, drawing attention to those neglected muscles. I made this man’s day because the prospect of doing minimal work for the French is like Christmas morning. “C’est parfait! Ohhhhh formidable,” he squealed. I returned his excitement with a nonchalant wave of the hand and immodestly said, “Ouais, c’est parfait à cause de moi.” I reassured him that while his compliments of me were well deserved, they weren’t anything I didn’t already know. I walked away with the glimpse of him physically stunned by my abrupt egotistical character.

I’m conceited, I got a reason!

I just got SCHOOLED!!

My pride is wounded!!! DANGGGG! Ok, I don’t know how to properly and accurately put this but… My professor today betttttttch slapped me with his WORDS! There, ok I said it. Gahhhh! It happened. And all I could do was stand there and take it like—not like a man—but like a crackhead at an intervention with some sprinklings around his mouth! The crackhead can’t say ishhhhh in defense!

My professor, who I would describe as sinister-looking with a crooked smile and jagged, lifeless teeth, believed it to be true that I had asked him to meet 15 minutes before class to look over my powerpoint. I had, in fact, asked him to quickly look over my presentation right before class; no specific time given ‘cuz that’s just how I roll. As soon as I arrived to my class (on-time, mind you), my professor’s yellow glazed eye slithered its gaze around to the front of the room. He then villainously descended upon his prey—me. What proceeded entirely, remains a blur, for good reasons. Guy, le prénom de mon professeur (fo’ reals!), spoke of irresponsibility, shame, and anger. A lot of anger. Now, at first I tried to correct his misunderstanding in the hope that he would see his wrongdoings. Yeah, that turned out to be a mistake. Les Français ne bougent jamais! After my presentation, Guy let looooooose his reign of intellectual arrogance upon my vulnerable position at the head of the class. My pronunciation errors, which extended to the faint sound of the letter “d” at the end of a word, seemed criminal to him. Projecting to the class, he escalated my faults—only mine, ignoring my partner’s—by declaring it nearly impossible to utter such offensively incorrect French. Until I, he seethed, lowered the bar of grammatical standards.

Yeahhhhh it burned. Guy: 1. Me: 0. Until next week, old man!

UGH! Youth...

Sooo for the past week my nemesis revitalized two-fold her duties as a mother with the gracious accommodation of her grandchildren. Oh, she LOVED every second of it. Consequentially, I despised it all. I never once saw these hooligans—but I certainly heard them. Starting 8AM, I could hear a stampede approaching the kitchen with shrilling laughter that verged on the brink of deathly cries. Bringing up the rear, the mother chuckled at, I’m sure, “the gift of a child’s laughter.” Bah! Children are nothing but greedy, ok. They stole my sleep, my sanity, AND my happiness. I say, mélangez some applesauce and a splash of Benadryl; stuff them full and be on your way. If that’s not responsible parenting, then I don’t know what is.

Where yo boss at??

I have nothing to blog about. My mom always told me, if you don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all. If I had followed that advice when it was given, I would be a mute child. However, I’ll make an exception this time.

But let’s get one thing straight. I’m a boss! And don’t forget it.

Survival of the fittest

This past weekend was all about the extremity. I mean, HOT DANG it was intense! It began early Friday morning past, when I thought Karma had hit its threshold and pondered the idea of correcting my foregoing reprehensible behavior. The flight to Salzburg confronted death head on in its miniature aircraft equipped with propellers, not jets. While my roommate KC slept undisturbed—surprisingly, without the help of tranquilizers—Abby and I weathered, quite literally, through the storm. If I were capable of crying, the tears would have been streaming down my fear-stricken face. I contemplated escape plans in hopes of ensuring a higher chance of survival. I questioned my coat’s potential with a lunatic eye: Could this act as a parachute if need be? As we embarked on our descent through the tempestuous clouds, I knew it would require a fight in which Nature wouldn’t play fair. A fight, it was indeed; one that left me physically ill and mentally disturbed. I walked off that plane, legs shaking against my confounded will. How I survived, I cannot say. I feel like I gained years of wisdom on that flight—perhaps because the stress aged me twenty years.

The extreme theme continued when Abby and KC tricked Anne and me into climbing up a mountain to see a fortress. Yes, a fortress. Instead of taking the funicular (that would have been too easy), we dragged ourselves up an icy, treacherous mountain in the name of tourism. Unprepared for climbing mountains, Anne and I wobbled our way up all the while cursing the likelihood of crashing to the icy ground which would then lead us to slip down the mountain. Perilous, I say!

We ventured on… The Sound of Music bus tour followed. It may not seem so extreme after a few near-death encounters, but let me correct you. FOUR hours of singing musical numbers, including miserable imitations of Julie Andrews' voice, could be nothing but extreme! The campy bus with a Sound of Music drawing plastered all around it treaded through Salzburg and up into the mountains while our tour guide, Trudy, squeaked corny-ass jokes and Sound of Music trivia. It was everything I hate most in the world, all trapped into one seemingly small bus. EXTREME!