Did France do the right thing in voting against the European Constitution?
According to Stephen Clarke, they knew not what they did. According to Nat, they made the wrong decision.
I don't make the news, I just report it.
Don't know what I'm talking about? Read the New York Times.
5/30/2005
5/25/2005
next week, on a very special "Maitresse"...
Pushed to the end of her patience by a string of good-for-nothing French goys, Maitresse realizes all she really wants is a nice Jewish boy, dons a long denim skirt and New Balance sneakers, and moves back to the Upper West Side to find her Prince Charming at B'nai Jeshurun.
Wait a minute-- that was just the introduction to the opposite sketches!
Sorry J-boys. She's not coming home just yet. To keep you busy while you wait for the Messiah, who is sure to put in an appearance before the above ever happens, you might jump over to Nextbook's compilation of the Ten Greatest Television Bar Mitzvahs. Shalom!
Wait a minute-- that was just the introduction to the opposite sketches!
Sorry J-boys. She's not coming home just yet. To keep you busy while you wait for the Messiah, who is sure to put in an appearance before the above ever happens, you might jump over to Nextbook's compilation of the Ten Greatest Television Bar Mitzvahs. Shalom!
5/24/2005
the cutest thing ever
Baxter is wagging his tail while he sleeps. Now that is one happy puppy. He's conked out on his pillow, and his tail is tapping the floor behind him.
It kind of reminds me of John Candy in "Spaceballs" ["I'm a Mog! Half man, half dog. I'm my own best friend"], when his tail lifts up some chick's skirt and he shrugs and explains that it has a life of its own. Not that Bax is lifting up any skirts. Just that, well, he doesn't seem to be controlling the tail right now.
It kind of reminds me of John Candy in "Spaceballs" ["I'm a Mog! Half man, half dog. I'm my own best friend"], when his tail lifts up some chick's skirt and he shrugs and explains that it has a life of its own. Not that Bax is lifting up any skirts. Just that, well, he doesn't seem to be controlling the tail right now.
5/23/2005
anti-Karo, part deux
A couple of months back I was grousing about the cult of ignorance that Aaron Karo promotes. While scrolling through his lastest email newsletter, I came across the following particularly damning evidence:
"Speaking of which, did you know there was huge election in Britain a few weeks ago? Yeah, me neither. How about that."
Ok, I just took a deep breath so that I can try to be clear about why this bothers me. I'm sure some of you did not realize that Tony Blair was up for reelection recently. I don't fault you for this. I only knew because I'm something of an information junkie. Of course there are many things going on around the world that I am completely unaware of. But the possibility of regime change in the UK was not something that escaped my attention.
The way Karo puts it, though, is simultaneously an admittance of and a perverse pride in his own ignorance. Kind of like when pretty girls act dumb so boys won't be threatened by them. You know, like when Jessie would pretend not to know the answer to a question in class so that Slater wouldn't think she was a know-it-all.
Ok, that was a lame SBTB reference because I don't even know if that ever happened. But you know what I mean.
So Karo, by pointing out that something major happened that he (and, I venture to say, 99% of his readership) was completely unaware of, legitimated a state of ignorance about the world, compensating for the smidgen of guilt he experienced by bragging about his lack of awareness. It's pretending to be self-deprecation but really it's the exact opposite.
Boys and girls: it is not ok to not read the newspaper. It. Is. Not. Ok. You Must inform yourself of what is happening in the world. It is your duty as a citizen to be aware of what your leaders are doing in your name. It is your duty as a human being to be aware of what is happening to people you don't know. Reading the Sunday Styles section is not enough. Read the main section. Read the Metro section. Make the New York Times website your homepage at work so you can just scroll the headlines to know when important things are happening--even if you don't read the whole article.
Don't be dumb like Aaron Karo. Aspire to more than he allows you.
That said, this might be a good place to mention that I think I've been reading too many avant-garde manifestos.
"Speaking of which, did you know there was huge election in Britain a few weeks ago? Yeah, me neither. How about that."
Ok, I just took a deep breath so that I can try to be clear about why this bothers me. I'm sure some of you did not realize that Tony Blair was up for reelection recently. I don't fault you for this. I only knew because I'm something of an information junkie. Of course there are many things going on around the world that I am completely unaware of. But the possibility of regime change in the UK was not something that escaped my attention.
The way Karo puts it, though, is simultaneously an admittance of and a perverse pride in his own ignorance. Kind of like when pretty girls act dumb so boys won't be threatened by them. You know, like when Jessie would pretend not to know the answer to a question in class so that Slater wouldn't think she was a know-it-all.
Ok, that was a lame SBTB reference because I don't even know if that ever happened. But you know what I mean.
So Karo, by pointing out that something major happened that he (and, I venture to say, 99% of his readership) was completely unaware of, legitimated a state of ignorance about the world, compensating for the smidgen of guilt he experienced by bragging about his lack of awareness. It's pretending to be self-deprecation but really it's the exact opposite.
Boys and girls: it is not ok to not read the newspaper. It. Is. Not. Ok. You Must inform yourself of what is happening in the world. It is your duty as a citizen to be aware of what your leaders are doing in your name. It is your duty as a human being to be aware of what is happening to people you don't know. Reading the Sunday Styles section is not enough. Read the main section. Read the Metro section. Make the New York Times website your homepage at work so you can just scroll the headlines to know when important things are happening--even if you don't read the whole article.
Don't be dumb like Aaron Karo. Aspire to more than he allows you.
That said, this might be a good place to mention that I think I've been reading too many avant-garde manifestos.
5/22/2005
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner in America
I am going to New York in June because my little sister just graduated from Penn and we have to mad celebrate. But it's also a fab opportuniy to see all the people I miss, go hunt through my little sister's closet to retrieve any summer clothes I might have left behind, round up all the books I've been missing, shop at Club Monaco and Banana, and chow the hell down on some good American food.
I have turned into such a flaming Americann in the last couple of weeks. I don't know what it is, maybe it's a reaction, like hives, to the overwhelming Frenchness of my boyfriend, my roommate, their associates, my classmates, my director, and my subject of study. I've certainly never felt as American in France as I have lately. So I am absolutely counting the days til my plane touches down at JFK and I exit the airport into the sweaty humid New York taxi-filled night.
Things I plan to consume while in the States:
Pizza.
Pizza.
Pizza.
Dunkin donuts coffee.
Pizza.
Bagels.
Pizza.
Lasagna.
Macaroni and Cheese
Pizza
Entenmann's donuts.
Bagels.
Anything my mom makes for me.
Entenman's chocolate chip cookies
Did I mention I will be having some pizza. And I might even hit Taco Bell, if I forget myself.
So ok. The point of this blog is, America, I salute you. And anyone reading this who lives in Paris, get thee hence to Breakfast in America, 17, rue des Ecoles, 5e (Supertramp reference or crazy coincidence?). I had a most enjoyable brunch there today with L and H. I had pancakes, bacon, and eggs, and washed it down with three cups of bottomless American coffee. Just what I needed before spending the rest of the day in the library.
The homesickness momentarily seeped into my brain (or maybe it was the surplus of oxygen in the smoke-free diner) and even made me excited to see some cute American boys there. They were so cute, and healthy looking in a way the French just aren't... I guess you might call them "corn-fed." Clean cut, non-smoking, not wearing scarves or making pretzels out of their legs. Real Live American Boys! It was even more amazing than later in the afternoon, when we saw a kangaroo hopping around the Jardin des Plantes.
And I might add that after a week of being in NY, I shall be more than ready to get back to my scarf-wearing, leg-crossing, chain-smoking, scooter-driving sexy French boyfriend, god love him.
I have turned into such a flaming Americann in the last couple of weeks. I don't know what it is, maybe it's a reaction, like hives, to the overwhelming Frenchness of my boyfriend, my roommate, their associates, my classmates, my director, and my subject of study. I've certainly never felt as American in France as I have lately. So I am absolutely counting the days til my plane touches down at JFK and I exit the airport into the sweaty humid New York taxi-filled night.
Things I plan to consume while in the States:
Pizza.
Pizza.
Pizza.
Dunkin donuts coffee.
Pizza.
Bagels.
Pizza.
Lasagna.
Macaroni and Cheese
Pizza
Entenmann's donuts.
Bagels.
Anything my mom makes for me.
Entenman's chocolate chip cookies
Did I mention I will be having some pizza. And I might even hit Taco Bell, if I forget myself.
So ok. The point of this blog is, America, I salute you. And anyone reading this who lives in Paris, get thee hence to Breakfast in America, 17, rue des Ecoles, 5e (Supertramp reference or crazy coincidence?). I had a most enjoyable brunch there today with L and H. I had pancakes, bacon, and eggs, and washed it down with three cups of bottomless American coffee. Just what I needed before spending the rest of the day in the library.
The homesickness momentarily seeped into my brain (or maybe it was the surplus of oxygen in the smoke-free diner) and even made me excited to see some cute American boys there. They were so cute, and healthy looking in a way the French just aren't... I guess you might call them "corn-fed." Clean cut, non-smoking, not wearing scarves or making pretzels out of their legs. Real Live American Boys! It was even more amazing than later in the afternoon, when we saw a kangaroo hopping around the Jardin des Plantes.
And I might add that after a week of being in NY, I shall be more than ready to get back to my scarf-wearing, leg-crossing, chain-smoking, scooter-driving sexy French boyfriend, god love him.
5/21/2005
the dirtying lady
quick question. after the cleaning lady has been there, your house is supposed to be clean. correct?
so then why, just hours after our cleaning lady has left, does my allegedly "clean" bedroom smell like fish?
it's such a nasty stench and I can't trace it anywhere. Lord knows it didn't smell like this before she got to it!
so then why, just hours after our cleaning lady has left, does my allegedly "clean" bedroom smell like fish?
it's such a nasty stench and I can't trace it anywhere. Lord knows it didn't smell like this before she got to it!
5/19/2005
A Rainbow Yes
Has Jean-Pierre Raffarin's illness caused him to experience an incurable nostalgia for the 1960s? And made him think he lives at the corner of Haight and Ashbury?
This is what I'm thinking this morning, as I begin to sift through the myriad "ouis" and "non" argued in the pages of the French media, as May 29th approaches.
For those of you who are sadly out of the loop, on May 29, France will vote whether or not to ratify the constitution of the European Union. There are two possible responses: yes and no. A couple of months ago, pollsters starting finding something that shocked and awed Chirac and got the media in a tizzy: a lot of people were planning on voting "non"! Which would suck because then they'd have to figure out why France said "no" and what measures France would need to see implemented in order to say "yes."
So everyone who's anyone has been going to the press to announce their vote. Raffarin said that he doesn't just want a "yes vote"-- he wants a "Rainbow yes," meaning that the "yeses" will not be as monolithic as someof the "no's" seem to fear. Rather, everyone on the "yes" side will be voting "yes" for their own reasons reflecting their own muti-colored politics.
Personally, I don't know why anyone is surprised that the French are causing a problem. I wouldn't expect any less than complete obstinacy. I adore France, the French in general, and many French individuals. But "non" is something I hear quite frequently here.
For example, after being enrolled in social security as a language assistant until the end of March, I'm now enrolling as a student. In order to do this, I had to give a check to the Bursar at the Sorbonne. Rather than just mail them the check, I said to myself, hey, I'm right here, let me just stop by and give it to them in person, to make sure they receive it.
"Non. We can't accept the check without proof of your enrollment. Come back with your Certificat de Scolarité."
The next day, I climbed the 5 flights of stairs back up to their office, armed with check plus receipt of my tuition payment (the "certificat"). I handed them everything. "C'est tout?"
"Non, that's not everything. We need to take your student ID card. You can have it back tomorrow." I leave my card and return the next day to pick it up.
"Non. We are not finished with your ID card. Come back tomorrow."
I kid you not: I returned three times to pick up the ID card. Every time, either the guy I was dealing with wasn't in and his female colleague didn't know where he kept things like ID cards (last Friday), or neither of the two of them were working (this past Monday, Ascension Day or whatever), or the internet wasn't working and consequently nothing had been processed (yesterday).
So finally, yesterday, when the man told me to come back tomorrow (today) I answered him: "Non. I am not coming back to your office anymore. Send it to me by mail. Goodbye forever."
Getting anything done in France requires multiple attempts. For example: today I am going for the second time to the Centre d'etudiants in the 15th arrondissement to see about my carte de séjour. Why should something as important as a Constitution be any different?
This is what I'm thinking this morning, as I begin to sift through the myriad "ouis" and "non" argued in the pages of the French media, as May 29th approaches.
For those of you who are sadly out of the loop, on May 29, France will vote whether or not to ratify the constitution of the European Union. There are two possible responses: yes and no. A couple of months ago, pollsters starting finding something that shocked and awed Chirac and got the media in a tizzy: a lot of people were planning on voting "non"! Which would suck because then they'd have to figure out why France said "no" and what measures France would need to see implemented in order to say "yes."
So everyone who's anyone has been going to the press to announce their vote. Raffarin said that he doesn't just want a "yes vote"-- he wants a "Rainbow yes," meaning that the "yeses" will not be as monolithic as someof the "no's" seem to fear. Rather, everyone on the "yes" side will be voting "yes" for their own reasons reflecting their own muti-colored politics.
Personally, I don't know why anyone is surprised that the French are causing a problem. I wouldn't expect any less than complete obstinacy. I adore France, the French in general, and many French individuals. But "non" is something I hear quite frequently here.
For example, after being enrolled in social security as a language assistant until the end of March, I'm now enrolling as a student. In order to do this, I had to give a check to the Bursar at the Sorbonne. Rather than just mail them the check, I said to myself, hey, I'm right here, let me just stop by and give it to them in person, to make sure they receive it.
"Non. We can't accept the check without proof of your enrollment. Come back with your Certificat de Scolarité."
The next day, I climbed the 5 flights of stairs back up to their office, armed with check plus receipt of my tuition payment (the "certificat"). I handed them everything. "C'est tout?"
"Non, that's not everything. We need to take your student ID card. You can have it back tomorrow." I leave my card and return the next day to pick it up.
"Non. We are not finished with your ID card. Come back tomorrow."
I kid you not: I returned three times to pick up the ID card. Every time, either the guy I was dealing with wasn't in and his female colleague didn't know where he kept things like ID cards (last Friday), or neither of the two of them were working (this past Monday, Ascension Day or whatever), or the internet wasn't working and consequently nothing had been processed (yesterday).
So finally, yesterday, when the man told me to come back tomorrow (today) I answered him: "Non. I am not coming back to your office anymore. Send it to me by mail. Goodbye forever."
Getting anything done in France requires multiple attempts. For example: today I am going for the second time to the Centre d'etudiants in the 15th arrondissement to see about my carte de séjour. Why should something as important as a Constitution be any different?
5/18/2005
now, y'all know we da stars
Scene : The Black Eyed Peas Concert, Tuesday night.
Pea # 1 : (to the crowd, who roar in response to each question) Alright, who all out there came with their boyfriend or girlfriend ?
Maitresse : (Thinks. Hmm. Moment of clarification with J? Sticks out tongue at him. J looks confused.)
Pea #1 : Who all out there is single ?
Maitresse : (looks askance at J, who is smiling in a vague, confused way.)
J : Qu’est-ce qu’il a dit ?
(at the same time as Pea #1 speaks)
Pea #1 : Who out there is in a fucked up relationship ?
Maitresse : Il demandait qui était ici avec leur copain ou copine---
J : (makes funny face; they kiss)
Maitresse : puis il a demandé qui est dans une relation foutue!! (makes funny face back; they kiss)
The Peas begin to play "Shut Up." Maitresse’s friends begin to comment on appropriate nature of song, and lament fact that J probably doesn’t understand lyrics.
…Or did he ? this morning, as Maitresse complains:
Maitresse: I'm tiiiiiiired, you kept me out too laaaaaaate.
J : (Gallicly )Shutup just shutup shutup
Maitresse : Oh, so you do understand some English!
J : (smiling) shut up shut up
Anyway. So the concert was fantastic. When we got there they slapped little "all-access badges" on our legs, which meant we could roam the Zenith at will, backstage and front (though sadly not onstage). The opening act, Flipside [Flipsyde?] was kickass. The Peas were in great form. Fergie was, pardon the expression, wicked awesome. The woman was belting out high notes and turning cartwheels at the same time. The other Peas were great too, breakdancing and keeping the crowd energized. Dancing, bouncing, and hand waving ensued.
After the concert, we ALL went backstage, where Pea #2 (I think his name is Will?) complimented me on my bronze t-strap heels and J on his navy blue military-style jacket (over the course of the night, each Pea would individually comment on the jacket). My cousin took me aside and informed me that I was on the list for the "phat" after party at L'Etoile, plus 3. This posed a problem because I was at the concert plus 6. One ticket obviously went to my gallant escort. The other two went to K and her sister. H and L got autographs and swiped water bottles from Fergie’s dressing room (after she had vacated it). We watched the Peas pile into Volkswagon SUVs and drive off to the party. It was fucking freezing but we were so hyped up we barely felt it as we walked to the metro and J’s scooter.
I know I sound like a gum-cracking teenager, but you guys, the after party was AMAZING. This club is so not the kind of place I would ever frequent were there not a specific reason to be there—think Lotus transplanted to Paris. But we cruised right on through all the hangers-on and straight back to the VIP room where the Peas and their friends were celebrating with pink champagne and confetti. We got very silly drunk and danced to the best of Destiny’s Child, Pink, and Snoop. K got hit on by a succession of Peas and members of their band. J got a warning from my cousin. As for my cousin, N, well, you should see this man work a crowd. There’s something for everyone to learn there.
I know I’m leaving things out, either because I was too drunk and tired to remember or because too many mommies read this blog… but suffice to to say : we were rock stars for the night, and I could definitely get used to that. It was one of those shiny nights where you love everyone and everyone loves you, you know? Yeah. You know.
ADDENDUM: I want to apologize to NN for leaving him out of my description of Tuesday night. NN rocked the house. Check out Kaitlin's blog about the evening for a funny story concerning him...
Pea # 1 : (to the crowd, who roar in response to each question) Alright, who all out there came with their boyfriend or girlfriend ?
Maitresse : (Thinks. Hmm. Moment of clarification with J? Sticks out tongue at him. J looks confused.)
Pea #1 : Who all out there is single ?
Maitresse : (looks askance at J, who is smiling in a vague, confused way.)
J : Qu’est-ce qu’il a dit ?
(at the same time as Pea #1 speaks)
Pea #1 : Who out there is in a fucked up relationship ?
Maitresse : Il demandait qui était ici avec leur copain ou copine---
J : (makes funny face; they kiss)
Maitresse : puis il a demandé qui est dans une relation foutue!! (makes funny face back; they kiss)
The Peas begin to play "Shut Up." Maitresse’s friends begin to comment on appropriate nature of song, and lament fact that J probably doesn’t understand lyrics.
…Or did he ? this morning, as Maitresse complains:
Maitresse: I'm tiiiiiiired, you kept me out too laaaaaaate.
J : (Gallicly )Shutup just shutup shutup
Maitresse : Oh, so you do understand some English!
J : (smiling) shut up shut up
Anyway. So the concert was fantastic. When we got there they slapped little "all-access badges" on our legs, which meant we could roam the Zenith at will, backstage and front (though sadly not onstage). The opening act, Flipside [Flipsyde?] was kickass. The Peas were in great form. Fergie was, pardon the expression, wicked awesome. The woman was belting out high notes and turning cartwheels at the same time. The other Peas were great too, breakdancing and keeping the crowd energized. Dancing, bouncing, and hand waving ensued.
After the concert, we ALL went backstage, where Pea #2 (I think his name is Will?) complimented me on my bronze t-strap heels and J on his navy blue military-style jacket (over the course of the night, each Pea would individually comment on the jacket). My cousin took me aside and informed me that I was on the list for the "phat" after party at L'Etoile, plus 3. This posed a problem because I was at the concert plus 6. One ticket obviously went to my gallant escort. The other two went to K and her sister. H and L got autographs and swiped water bottles from Fergie’s dressing room (after she had vacated it). We watched the Peas pile into Volkswagon SUVs and drive off to the party. It was fucking freezing but we were so hyped up we barely felt it as we walked to the metro and J’s scooter.
I know I sound like a gum-cracking teenager, but you guys, the after party was AMAZING. This club is so not the kind of place I would ever frequent were there not a specific reason to be there—think Lotus transplanted to Paris. But we cruised right on through all the hangers-on and straight back to the VIP room where the Peas and their friends were celebrating with pink champagne and confetti. We got very silly drunk and danced to the best of Destiny’s Child, Pink, and Snoop. K got hit on by a succession of Peas and members of their band. J got a warning from my cousin. As for my cousin, N, well, you should see this man work a crowd. There’s something for everyone to learn there.
I know I’m leaving things out, either because I was too drunk and tired to remember or because too many mommies read this blog… but suffice to to say : we were rock stars for the night, and I could definitely get used to that. It was one of those shiny nights where you love everyone and everyone loves you, you know? Yeah. You know.
ADDENDUM: I want to apologize to NN for leaving him out of my description of Tuesday night. NN rocked the house. Check out Kaitlin's blog about the evening for a funny story concerning him...
5/17/2005
citing me to me
there comes a joyful day in every writer's life when she finds herself being cited-- to herself.
now, I've yet to experience anything on the level of the double date in "When Harry Mat Sally" (you know, when Sally's friend cites a magazine article that it turns out Harry's friend, who is also on the double date, wrote himself). Nothing so cool as that.
But today, in my weekly newsletter from the European Jewish Congress, under the heading of "recent events in France" were three different articles I wrote for JTA! Of course they don't cite my byline, just saying "According to JTA..." But still! "According to you, Maitresse, this is what happened in France this week." Well thanks! You're officially made it a tautology for me to subscribe to your newsletter.
La di dah. I'm going to the Black Eyed Peas concert tonight 'cause my cousin the Interscope publicist is SO COOL and is getting a bunch of us in for free. Then my lovah and myself will be escorted backstage to meet the Peas! Joy!
now, I've yet to experience anything on the level of the double date in "When Harry Mat Sally" (you know, when Sally's friend cites a magazine article that it turns out Harry's friend, who is also on the double date, wrote himself). Nothing so cool as that.
But today, in my weekly newsletter from the European Jewish Congress, under the heading of "recent events in France" were three different articles I wrote for JTA! Of course they don't cite my byline, just saying "According to JTA..." But still! "According to you, Maitresse, this is what happened in France this week." Well thanks! You're officially made it a tautology for me to subscribe to your newsletter.
La di dah. I'm going to the Black Eyed Peas concert tonight 'cause my cousin the Interscope publicist is SO COOL and is getting a bunch of us in for free. Then my lovah and myself will be escorted backstage to meet the Peas! Joy!
5/16/2005
mood ring glowing: indignant
I am too young to be growing grey hairs on my head! No? am I not? 26? too young? Too young!
There was a particularly stubborn hair that cropped up right where I part my hair. It was only about an inch and a half long (so I've only been graying for what, 3 months?) but those fuckers are wiry! I couldn't get a good enough grasp on it to yank it out. I stood at the mirror, furrowing my brow, squinting, trying to separate it from its healthy light brown friends (yes, I naturally have light brown hair, I admit it-- in France they say I'm "chataine"-- not blonde, not brune, but chataine. I like it).
Then I realized my squinting and furrowing was creating lines in my forehead, at the corners of my eyes, and softening the skin under my eyes, which has been slowly turning to the most delicate location on my face. Soon they'll be retaining water and looking like little handbags. Great.
I will not botox, I swear I will never botox, but neither do I appreciate getting older. I like when I go out with my (ahem) almost-twenty-two year old sister and people think I'm younger than she is!
It doesn't help that all of this observing of lines and grey hairs took place in a mirror that hangs over a picture I keep on my mantle of five-year-old Maitresse sitting with her grandmother. It's really sad-- I'm sure this photograph, in the precise frame my grandmother kept it in, will accompany me wherever I go. No matter where I move, it will always sit on my mantlepiece, and as I move farther away from the age I was and closer to the age she was, I'll watch the passing of the years in the mirror.
Why am I so morbid this monday morning? I have to go to class and I've just depressed my readership. Ok. Here's a joke I heard recently that made me crack up. What did the Zero say to the Eight?
Answer: Nice belt!
Ha! Happy Monday.
There was a particularly stubborn hair that cropped up right where I part my hair. It was only about an inch and a half long (so I've only been graying for what, 3 months?) but those fuckers are wiry! I couldn't get a good enough grasp on it to yank it out. I stood at the mirror, furrowing my brow, squinting, trying to separate it from its healthy light brown friends (yes, I naturally have light brown hair, I admit it-- in France they say I'm "chataine"-- not blonde, not brune, but chataine. I like it).
Then I realized my squinting and furrowing was creating lines in my forehead, at the corners of my eyes, and softening the skin under my eyes, which has been slowly turning to the most delicate location on my face. Soon they'll be retaining water and looking like little handbags. Great.
I will not botox, I swear I will never botox, but neither do I appreciate getting older. I like when I go out with my (ahem) almost-twenty-two year old sister and people think I'm younger than she is!
It doesn't help that all of this observing of lines and grey hairs took place in a mirror that hangs over a picture I keep on my mantle of five-year-old Maitresse sitting with her grandmother. It's really sad-- I'm sure this photograph, in the precise frame my grandmother kept it in, will accompany me wherever I go. No matter where I move, it will always sit on my mantlepiece, and as I move farther away from the age I was and closer to the age she was, I'll watch the passing of the years in the mirror.
Why am I so morbid this monday morning? I have to go to class and I've just depressed my readership. Ok. Here's a joke I heard recently that made me crack up. What did the Zero say to the Eight?
Answer: Nice belt!
Ha! Happy Monday.
5/14/2005
my very own personal battery-operated...
...toothbrush.
Yes kids, that's just the latest gift from the boyfriendish person in my life.
Now, girls and boys, fess up and admit that it's gifts like that which put you securely on the hook for someone until they resolve their issues. That's a gift that says, "I want not only for you to be able to stay at my place and have your own toothbrush, but for your oral hygiene to be particularly efficient and entertaining."
It is orange and it lives on his bathroom sink. He claims his battery-operated toothbrush is superior to mine, because it has a timer on it. I left that one alone.
Isn't that just the sweetest thing.
Yes kids, that's just the latest gift from the boyfriendish person in my life.
Now, girls and boys, fess up and admit that it's gifts like that which put you securely on the hook for someone until they resolve their issues. That's a gift that says, "I want not only for you to be able to stay at my place and have your own toothbrush, but for your oral hygiene to be particularly efficient and entertaining."
It is orange and it lives on his bathroom sink. He claims his battery-operated toothbrush is superior to mine, because it has a timer on it. I left that one alone.
Isn't that just the sweetest thing.
5/12/2005
a day in shadowland
The migraine hovered over me yesterday afternoon, causing me to have a very dramatic fainting moment on the bus. I managed to keep it at bay, but those couple of glasses at wine at dinner with friends were not a good idea. At 7:30 this morning, to borrow a phrase from the Indigo Girls, "I woke up with a feeling like my head against a board." I reset the alarm for 8:30 and went back to sleep. 8:30 came and went and my head felt like elephants were marching around on it. I pulled myself out of bed, went to the kitchen to get some Advil, prayed that my roommate's boyfriend would not choose that moment to go into the kitchen and find me in my little slip of a nightgown, and scurried back to bed. Baxter, annoyed at not being taken out for his morning stroll and bathroom break, sobbed and whined and made damn sure Mommy felt bad about ignoring him.
I sank back into the darkness, awakened by occasional yelps from Himself. The advil did not do its job. Head throbbing, I made it back out to the kitchen to grab a piece of leftover matzoh, the only food that didn't make me nauseous at the thought of ingesting it.
Back into the darkness. Hours went by. Soon it was 11:30, and I managed to type an email (in French, in the dark) to my 330 appointment to let him know I was sick and could we postpone it? Back to sleep. A text message made my phone rattle on the marble mantle of my fireplace. I ignored it. Another hour went by and I remembered my text-- J asking what I was doing tonight and did I want to come over. I almost threw up at the idea of leaving my bed, even for him.
Doublechecked my email to make sure no more frantic messages from editors regarding the desecration of the Jewish cemetary in Alsace and to make sure nothing else was happening in the French Jewish community that I would have to file about. Thankfully, the neo-nazis were at rest, so I could go back to nursing my migraine. Texted J back to inform him of my state of illness, inviting him to come here instead.
I turned the computer off and inserted my head between my two pillows. Baxter was furiously unhappy at his point. I realized it was 1 pm and he was probably hungry. I dragged myself back to the kitchen, got his food and water, and all but dropped it on the floor of my bedroom. He set at it energetically as I lost consciousness again.
Then another text. J again, negotiating about tonight. Back to sleep. An hour later, I got up and realized the Advil was doing jack squat and that an Excedrin Migraine was called for. Pill popped. Bowl of Special K eaten. An hour more of sleep and I woke up at 3:30, ready to shower and start my day!
I hate when I lose half of an entire day. I hate it. It's stress that brought on the migraine, but I'm that much more stressed because the migraine made me lose my day! It's a vicious cycle. And now, of course, now that I'm awake and at his beck and call, Baxter has decided it's naptime and is behaving like a little angel. Grrrr.
I sank back into the darkness, awakened by occasional yelps from Himself. The advil did not do its job. Head throbbing, I made it back out to the kitchen to grab a piece of leftover matzoh, the only food that didn't make me nauseous at the thought of ingesting it.
Back into the darkness. Hours went by. Soon it was 11:30, and I managed to type an email (in French, in the dark) to my 330 appointment to let him know I was sick and could we postpone it? Back to sleep. A text message made my phone rattle on the marble mantle of my fireplace. I ignored it. Another hour went by and I remembered my text-- J asking what I was doing tonight and did I want to come over. I almost threw up at the idea of leaving my bed, even for him.
Doublechecked my email to make sure no more frantic messages from editors regarding the desecration of the Jewish cemetary in Alsace and to make sure nothing else was happening in the French Jewish community that I would have to file about. Thankfully, the neo-nazis were at rest, so I could go back to nursing my migraine. Texted J back to inform him of my state of illness, inviting him to come here instead.
I turned the computer off and inserted my head between my two pillows. Baxter was furiously unhappy at his point. I realized it was 1 pm and he was probably hungry. I dragged myself back to the kitchen, got his food and water, and all but dropped it on the floor of my bedroom. He set at it energetically as I lost consciousness again.
Then another text. J again, negotiating about tonight. Back to sleep. An hour later, I got up and realized the Advil was doing jack squat and that an Excedrin Migraine was called for. Pill popped. Bowl of Special K eaten. An hour more of sleep and I woke up at 3:30, ready to shower and start my day!
I hate when I lose half of an entire day. I hate it. It's stress that brought on the migraine, but I'm that much more stressed because the migraine made me lose my day! It's a vicious cycle. And now, of course, now that I'm awake and at his beck and call, Baxter has decided it's naptime and is behaving like a little angel. Grrrr.
5/11/2005
reason to be a vegetarian, #649
Thanks to Lizzie, who passed on this link to Wendy's training video. Bon appetit!
5/10/2005
"love's still the cruelest venereal disease"
I'm sorry, I just needed to start a post with that heading. I would be so very impressed if someone could name the song that line comes from, but I seriously doubt anyone but the hardest core New York music scene fan would be able to do it (are there any of you out there? speak up!). So I'll save myself the heartbreak and tell you the answer.
It's from a little ditty called "Can't Get You Out of My System," by Dave's True Story, a jazz ensemble who made it somewhat big a few years ago when a couple of their songs were used in "Kissing Jessica Stein"-- notably "Sequined Mermaid Dress" and one of my all time favorite songs, "Crazy Eyes." I say it again: Dave's True Story: highly recommended. Some renegade lyrics here and there to keep you on your toes (and to remind you to use protection).
In other jazz news, I'm listening excessively to Jane Monheit's "Save Your Love For Me," I've been singing "Someone to Watch Over Me" in the shower, and I've taken to playing table snare in cafes.
It's from a little ditty called "Can't Get You Out of My System," by Dave's True Story, a jazz ensemble who made it somewhat big a few years ago when a couple of their songs were used in "Kissing Jessica Stein"-- notably "Sequined Mermaid Dress" and one of my all time favorite songs, "Crazy Eyes." I say it again: Dave's True Story: highly recommended. Some renegade lyrics here and there to keep you on your toes (and to remind you to use protection).
In other jazz news, I'm listening excessively to Jane Monheit's "Save Your Love For Me," I've been singing "Someone to Watch Over Me" in the shower, and I've taken to playing table snare in cafes.
5/09/2005
well, it's not *that* small...
I dream of one day having an eat-in kitchen in my apartment-- the kind where you can have a nice round table with a pretty tablecloth, and keep a vase with flowers on it, and sit there and have your morning coffee and read the paper as the sun pours in the window (just like at my parents' house on Long Island, minus the tablecloth, and in a different country).
So for now, I eat all my meals in the living room, where we have a lovely little table near the window which sometimes has a tablecloth and flowers on it. It's a at least a step up from that little studio I used to live in, where I have to eat dinner either at my desk or sitting on my bed, both within 2 meters of each other.
However, in an incredible act of mimicry, Baxter has picked up on the fact that we don't eat in the kitchen. His food might be in the kitchen, but that doesn't mean he has to eat it there. He has evolved a strange eating ritual that involves going into the kitchen to pick up a few nuggets of his dried dog food, carrying it into the hallway (or my room, or the living room), dropping a couple of pieces on the ground, eating them one at a time, then running back into the kitchen to repeat the process.
I don't know why he doesn't eat in the kitchen. It's certainly big enough for his purposes (hey, if I ate out of a bowl standing up it would be good enough for my purposes too). Yet another strange Baxter habit to add to the ever-growing list.
PS. Today on my walk home I saw a boy on a unicycle riding up the rue de Buci. Then not long after I saw a man wearing a tuba on rue Rochechouart. Is the circus in town?
So for now, I eat all my meals in the living room, where we have a lovely little table near the window which sometimes has a tablecloth and flowers on it. It's a at least a step up from that little studio I used to live in, where I have to eat dinner either at my desk or sitting on my bed, both within 2 meters of each other.
However, in an incredible act of mimicry, Baxter has picked up on the fact that we don't eat in the kitchen. His food might be in the kitchen, but that doesn't mean he has to eat it there. He has evolved a strange eating ritual that involves going into the kitchen to pick up a few nuggets of his dried dog food, carrying it into the hallway (or my room, or the living room), dropping a couple of pieces on the ground, eating them one at a time, then running back into the kitchen to repeat the process.
I don't know why he doesn't eat in the kitchen. It's certainly big enough for his purposes (hey, if I ate out of a bowl standing up it would be good enough for my purposes too). Yet another strange Baxter habit to add to the ever-growing list.
PS. Today on my walk home I saw a boy on a unicycle riding up the rue de Buci. Then not long after I saw a man wearing a tuba on rue Rochechouart. Is the circus in town?
5/08/2005
I'm just a Broadway baby...
There's an article in today's Times about the "super-sizing" of the high school musical. And would you make fun of me if I told you it was too painful for me to read all the way through? All those scattered dreams, now nothing more but shredded film on the cutting room floor of my life. Alas! I can't bear to contemplate it for any longer than is necessary to provide you with the link. I'm going to go sing "On the Steps of the Palace" to my rubber ducky now, if you don't mind...
...I might have dropped out of the theatre, but I'm still a drama queen! (and just, you know, for self-respect's sake, I don't actually have a rubber ducky)
...I might have dropped out of the theatre, but I'm still a drama queen! (and just, you know, for self-respect's sake, I don't actually have a rubber ducky)
5/07/2005
a little woolf would do you some good
Read this. Read every word.
Always, Mrs Ramsay felt, one helped oneself out of solitude reluctantly by laying hold of some little odd and end, some sound, some sight. She listened, but it was all very still; cricket was over; the children were in their baths; there was only the sound of the sea. She stopped knitting; she held the long reddish-brown stocking dangling in her hands a moment. She saw the light again. With some irony in her interrogation, for when one woke at all, one's relations changed, she looked at the steady light, the pitiless, the remorseless, which was so much her, yet so little her, which had her at its beck and call (she woke in the night and saw it bent across their bed, stroking the floor), but for all that she thought, watching it with fascination, hypnotized, as if it were stroking with its silver fingers some sealed vessel in her brain whose bursting would flood her with delight, she had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!
(Virginia Woolf, _To the Lighthouse_, Part I, Chapter 11. Published May 5, 1927. Thanks to Today in Literature.)
Always, Mrs Ramsay felt, one helped oneself out of solitude reluctantly by laying hold of some little odd and end, some sound, some sight. She listened, but it was all very still; cricket was over; the children were in their baths; there was only the sound of the sea. She stopped knitting; she held the long reddish-brown stocking dangling in her hands a moment. She saw the light again. With some irony in her interrogation, for when one woke at all, one's relations changed, she looked at the steady light, the pitiless, the remorseless, which was so much her, yet so little her, which had her at its beck and call (she woke in the night and saw it bent across their bed, stroking the floor), but for all that she thought, watching it with fascination, hypnotized, as if it were stroking with its silver fingers some sealed vessel in her brain whose bursting would flood her with delight, she had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!
(Virginia Woolf, _To the Lighthouse_, Part I, Chapter 11. Published May 5, 1927. Thanks to Today in Literature.)
5/06/2005
LAPSE OF CONCENTRATION DEPT.
in honor of yesterday's.
CLIII.
Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes.
CLIII.
Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes.
5/05/2005
the deaf shall inherit the earth
How freaking cool is this story???
Natalia Dmytruk is a 48 year-old sign language interpreter for the Ukraine's state-run television station-- she gets her own little corner of the screen to interpret for the (apparently numerous) hearing-impaired viewers.
Last fall, during the Ukrainian presidential elections, Dmytruk was doing her job, reporting the results as they came out. ...Or was she? Turns out she was informing the deaf viewers to the fradulence of the "official" results from the November 21st runoff. As the story goes, "Her act of courage further emboldened protests that grew until a new election was held and the opposition candidate, Viktor Yushchenko, was declared the winner."
Amazing. I am amazed and impressed. Who would have thought that a grassroots movement led by a group of hard-of-hearing Ukrainians would have that kind of major impact?
Natalia Dmytruk is a 48 year-old sign language interpreter for the Ukraine's state-run television station-- she gets her own little corner of the screen to interpret for the (apparently numerous) hearing-impaired viewers.
Last fall, during the Ukrainian presidential elections, Dmytruk was doing her job, reporting the results as they came out. ...Or was she? Turns out she was informing the deaf viewers to the fradulence of the "official" results from the November 21st runoff. As the story goes, "Her act of courage further emboldened protests that grew until a new election was held and the opposition candidate, Viktor Yushchenko, was declared the winner."
Amazing. I am amazed and impressed. Who would have thought that a grassroots movement led by a group of hard-of-hearing Ukrainians would have that kind of major impact?
5/04/2005
Well that's a relief
Ok, now that I'm done bitching about France, let's tawk Noo Yawk.
Thanks to Michelle, I was able to take the "Which Manhattan Neighborhood is Best for You?" quiz.
I scored as Upper West Side/ Morningside Heights.
Well hoo-ee! Isn't it nice to have electronic affirmation that the nieghborhood you consider your own is in fact the best neighborhood for you? Here's what the quiz had to say about my Manhattan hood (Jan '97-May '00; June '04-Sept '04):
"The UWS may not be as tweedy and artsy as it was in the era of the Trillings and Podhoretzes (some argue that it has turned into the Upper East Side), but the neighborhood is still home to artists, actors, and writers, and not just in Jerry Seinfeld’s income bracket. Morningside Heights is the area by Columbia University west of Harlem."
Wow, good thing they gave me directions on how to get there.
They were kind enough to inform me that I would also do well in chelsea and the Upper East Side. Well-- I already lived in Chelsea/Gramercy as well as the UES and felt like my soul was draining away... luckily, I would also do well in Washington Heights, Hell's Kitchen, and Inwood, so maybe I got too much soul, know what I'm sayin'? I assume it's because I said I like bagels that they bumped me down to Morningside Heights...
Thanks to Michelle, I was able to take the "Which Manhattan Neighborhood is Best for You?" quiz.
I scored as Upper West Side/ Morningside Heights.
Well hoo-ee! Isn't it nice to have electronic affirmation that the nieghborhood you consider your own is in fact the best neighborhood for you? Here's what the quiz had to say about my Manhattan hood (Jan '97-May '00; June '04-Sept '04):
"The UWS may not be as tweedy and artsy as it was in the era of the Trillings and Podhoretzes (some argue that it has turned into the Upper East Side), but the neighborhood is still home to artists, actors, and writers, and not just in Jerry Seinfeld’s income bracket. Morningside Heights is the area by Columbia University west of Harlem."
Wow, good thing they gave me directions on how to get there.
They were kind enough to inform me that I would also do well in chelsea and the Upper East Side. Well-- I already lived in Chelsea/Gramercy as well as the UES and felt like my soul was draining away... luckily, I would also do well in Washington Heights, Hell's Kitchen, and Inwood, so maybe I got too much soul, know what I'm sayin'? I assume it's because I said I like bagels that they bumped me down to Morningside Heights...
ça suffit!
Have you ever heard of Easter Monday?
You know, it's the day that comes after Easter Sunday, when for no good reason, everything in France is closed. Stores, offices, banks, schools, etc. Don't think you can get anything accomplished on Easter Monday. It's a jour ferié.
Ok. That's cool. But what about tomorrow, Thursday, May 5?
Why, it's Ascension Day. That means: everything in France will be closed. Stores, offices, banks, some schools, etc. Don't think you can get anything accomplished tomorrow. It's a jour ferié.
Well, alright then. It's Yom HaShoah anyway, maybe I'll spend the day thinking about what French Catholics did to French Jews sixty years ago. But how about Monday, May 16th?
Don't you know? It's Pentecost! That means: everything in France will be closed. You know the drill. And apparently, there will be massive union demonstrations and manifestations that day.
What the hell are they demonstrating against: no one works more than 4 days a week in this godforsaken country anyway!
You have to excuse me. It's just that something strikes me as ridiculously hypocritical when a country that so prizes its separation of church and state to the point that it attempts to efface all signals of ethnic or religious variation actually shuts down to observe minor Catholic holidays. There's something fishy about the fact that I am learning catechism from the post office closings.
Don't get me wrong: I love France. But I question its claims to laicité. And I get really pissed off when I feel like I'm the only one working in the entire country.
You know, it's the day that comes after Easter Sunday, when for no good reason, everything in France is closed. Stores, offices, banks, schools, etc. Don't think you can get anything accomplished on Easter Monday. It's a jour ferié.
Ok. That's cool. But what about tomorrow, Thursday, May 5?
Why, it's Ascension Day. That means: everything in France will be closed. Stores, offices, banks, some schools, etc. Don't think you can get anything accomplished tomorrow. It's a jour ferié.
Well, alright then. It's Yom HaShoah anyway, maybe I'll spend the day thinking about what French Catholics did to French Jews sixty years ago. But how about Monday, May 16th?
Don't you know? It's Pentecost! That means: everything in France will be closed. You know the drill. And apparently, there will be massive union demonstrations and manifestations that day.
What the hell are they demonstrating against: no one works more than 4 days a week in this godforsaken country anyway!
You have to excuse me. It's just that something strikes me as ridiculously hypocritical when a country that so prizes its separation of church and state to the point that it attempts to efface all signals of ethnic or religious variation actually shuts down to observe minor Catholic holidays. There's something fishy about the fact that I am learning catechism from the post office closings.
Don't get me wrong: I love France. But I question its claims to laicité. And I get really pissed off when I feel like I'm the only one working in the entire country.
5/01/2005
May Day
There is a tradition in France: every first of May, you are supposed to give someone a sprig of Lily of the Valley.
The only person I saw today was myself, so I gave myself a sprig.
Here it is. I wish I could blog how heavenly it smells.
well, glory be
I am happy to announce that the GJ cycle, the dialectic of which I spoke last week, is broken.
After an enlightening conversation with my roommate, it turns out the schmuck was going around complaining to people about my dog and saying that I have "une relation trop exclusive" with the dog-- meaning, as far as I can understand, that I'm too close to my dog to let people in.
What??? At no point in my relationship wih J did the dog ever-- EVER-- come between us. If anything, I ignored Baxter in favor of J (all apologies tendered to little guy).
I could kick J in the head right now. What an idiot. Mais quel con!
[Ed.: J has subsequently clarified his remarks and been duly excused. --5/6/05]
After an enlightening conversation with my roommate, it turns out the schmuck was going around complaining to people about my dog and saying that I have "une relation trop exclusive" with the dog-- meaning, as far as I can understand, that I'm too close to my dog to let people in.
What??? At no point in my relationship wih J did the dog ever-- EVER-- come between us. If anything, I ignored Baxter in favor of J (all apologies tendered to little guy).
I could kick J in the head right now. What an idiot. Mais quel con!
[Ed.: J has subsequently clarified his remarks and been duly excused. --5/6/05]
catch-up and a cool thing
There's been so very much going on in my life that I can barely keep up with the blogging. I am trying, though. Each time something happens I want to blog about it, but never get around to it because the next thing is already happening.
I realized today, though, the reason why I haven't been especially productive writing my memoire de DEA-- because my life has just been too tumultuous. There's what I'm now calling the "GJ cycle," as well as a supporting cast of boys who circulate in and out of my frame of vision. There's my roommate getting on my case for one reason or another, some of which are legitimate (as in, why is it that my friends keep breaking her shit? is it just bad luck or do I have inconsiderate friends?), and some of which are sympotmatic of deeper issues she's having in her life right now. There's the slow and somewhat painful recognition that people you thought had your back, past a certain point, actually don't. There's the dog barking, constantly, and cringing, and unabating anxiety about complaints from the neighbors and my roommate. There's the fact that the dog needs surgery on tuesday to remove a mysterious lump that appeared out of nowhere about a month ago which hasn't responded to antibiotics. There's financial troubles, and my refusal to go back to teaching businesspeople [isn't it funny, that word, "business"? busy-ness people?] English, and my subsequent reliance on journalism to make ends meet, and the anxiety associated with lancing myself into an occupation for which I never received official training. Then there's next year bearing down on me, and applying to programs and finding funding, and the years after that-- the decision to return to NY or to stay in Paris. There's the coming to terms with what you're too afraid to come to terms with.
Last night I went to the Greek Orthodox church in the sixteenth arrondissement to celebrate "Greaster"-- that is, Greek Easter. No, I haven't picked up a new religion; a Greek friend's sister was in town, and their father told them to go to the services, and so I was invited along to witness something "interesting." It was amazing. When I got to thr rue Georges Bizet last night around 10:30, there were hundreds of people swarming the street outside the church, standing around holding unlit candles, while the church services inside finished up. I tried to find my friends, looking mostly for R, who, being blond and six foot three, would probably be easier to find than S, who, being shorter and very dark, would just blend into the crowd. I saw a lot of guys who looked like S, which was nice, because S is very attractive (and sadly, not on the market, for several reasons, one of which is R). For a moment I entertained the idea of flirting with one of these cute Greek boys. Then I remembered I was there for a church shindig and I had just finished eating matzoh-- it just wouldn't work out between us.
Around 11, the high priest and all his bejewled friends proceeded from the church, holding a candle on which burned "the flame of Jerusalem"-- apparently flown in that day from Jerusalem on some kind of military jet. Everyone lit their candles from that flame, and the entire crowd started to sing. Well-- sing is a strong word. There wasn't much of a melody, but it was more than a chant; kind of a drone, but more pleasant to listen to. The priest sang a lot, apparently recounting the Easter story from the part where the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalene go down to Jesus's tomb and find no body there.
Then he switched from Greek into French, and I could follow along. It was weird, that shift from not understanding to understanding. It's never like that in shul-- I don't understand more than a few words of Hebrew when they're chanting from the Torah, an dI almost prefer it that way. It keeps the ritual more sacred, less penetrable, if you don't understand, and I think that's why this Orthodox ceremony appealed to me. It was foreign; it was beautiful.
So that was a cool thing.
Something really annoying and not so cool happened on Friday when I tried to go to the Memorial des martyrs de la deportation on Ile de la cite. But I'll blog about that later...
I realized today, though, the reason why I haven't been especially productive writing my memoire de DEA-- because my life has just been too tumultuous. There's what I'm now calling the "GJ cycle," as well as a supporting cast of boys who circulate in and out of my frame of vision. There's my roommate getting on my case for one reason or another, some of which are legitimate (as in, why is it that my friends keep breaking her shit? is it just bad luck or do I have inconsiderate friends?), and some of which are sympotmatic of deeper issues she's having in her life right now. There's the slow and somewhat painful recognition that people you thought had your back, past a certain point, actually don't. There's the dog barking, constantly, and cringing, and unabating anxiety about complaints from the neighbors and my roommate. There's the fact that the dog needs surgery on tuesday to remove a mysterious lump that appeared out of nowhere about a month ago which hasn't responded to antibiotics. There's financial troubles, and my refusal to go back to teaching businesspeople [isn't it funny, that word, "business"? busy-ness people?] English, and my subsequent reliance on journalism to make ends meet, and the anxiety associated with lancing myself into an occupation for which I never received official training. Then there's next year bearing down on me, and applying to programs and finding funding, and the years after that-- the decision to return to NY or to stay in Paris. There's the coming to terms with what you're too afraid to come to terms with.
Last night I went to the Greek Orthodox church in the sixteenth arrondissement to celebrate "Greaster"-- that is, Greek Easter. No, I haven't picked up a new religion; a Greek friend's sister was in town, and their father told them to go to the services, and so I was invited along to witness something "interesting." It was amazing. When I got to thr rue Georges Bizet last night around 10:30, there were hundreds of people swarming the street outside the church, standing around holding unlit candles, while the church services inside finished up. I tried to find my friends, looking mostly for R, who, being blond and six foot three, would probably be easier to find than S, who, being shorter and very dark, would just blend into the crowd. I saw a lot of guys who looked like S, which was nice, because S is very attractive (and sadly, not on the market, for several reasons, one of which is R). For a moment I entertained the idea of flirting with one of these cute Greek boys. Then I remembered I was there for a church shindig and I had just finished eating matzoh-- it just wouldn't work out between us.
Around 11, the high priest and all his bejewled friends proceeded from the church, holding a candle on which burned "the flame of Jerusalem"-- apparently flown in that day from Jerusalem on some kind of military jet. Everyone lit their candles from that flame, and the entire crowd started to sing. Well-- sing is a strong word. There wasn't much of a melody, but it was more than a chant; kind of a drone, but more pleasant to listen to. The priest sang a lot, apparently recounting the Easter story from the part where the Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalene go down to Jesus's tomb and find no body there.
Then he switched from Greek into French, and I could follow along. It was weird, that shift from not understanding to understanding. It's never like that in shul-- I don't understand more than a few words of Hebrew when they're chanting from the Torah, an dI almost prefer it that way. It keeps the ritual more sacred, less penetrable, if you don't understand, and I think that's why this Orthodox ceremony appealed to me. It was foreign; it was beautiful.
So that was a cool thing.
Something really annoying and not so cool happened on Friday when I tried to go to the Memorial des martyrs de la deportation on Ile de la cite. But I'll blog about that later...
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