McScavenger Hunt

On our way back from Normandy, we stopped along the highway for lunch at a French McDonald's.

It had touch-screen kiosks, like ATM's, where you could order your food.

It had a cafe, where you could order actual pastries and cappuccino.

And it had a McDonald Land Playland your kid could leave little poops all over, like some scatological Easter Egg Hunt where even in you win, you lose.

You see, Potty Training Roxy entails asking her if she needs to use the potty, then taking her to the bathroom if the answer is yes.

If we are distracted, Roxy will usually come up to us and say "peepees in the potty," which means "I'm about to pee in my pants. Let's get a move on, people."

Except, on this particular day, Roxy came up to us to say "Doggy on the slide!"

Now, if you have kids, you know they frequently come up to you to inform you of, pardon the harsh tone, meaningless bulls**t. "Stop-a-stop," "tinkerbell pancake," "One! Two! Six! Blue!" These are all previous News Flashes Roxy has felt compelled to share with us.

And as there clearly wasn't an actual dog loose on the playground, I went back to my lunch.

Roxy repeated it. Only now, we noticed she didn't say doggy. She said cocky.

"What does 'cocky on the slide' mean?" I asked.

Sensing trouble, Leni spun Roxy around; it looked like someone had poured an entire bag of Peanut M&M's into her underpants. M&M's someone had sucked the candy-coated-shell off of. And underpants that were clearly about to surrender all of their elasticity in protest. The nightmare was about to get worse.

So while Leni rushed Roxy into the bathroom to do damage control, I casually strolled over to the play structure to see if we had dodged a bullet. Or bullets, as it were.

Not a chance.

And that's how, on our last day in France, I found myself exploring a McDonald Land Playland, crawling around with an empty French Fry cup in my hand, retracing Roxy's steps, and scooping up the trail along the way.

The Tooth Mouse

Julien’s sons [who, coincidentally, are also Julien's wife Nina's sons, whose name I put in bold lest she think I was, once again, unfairly omitting her contribution/s] are two of the most adorable kids on the planet. And I’m not just saying that because they followed me around all the time, saluting me and called me “Chef” [meaning “Boss"]. Though, I must admit, it is nice to be recognized by your peers.

Maxim, who is 5 ½, happens to be missing all 4 of his front teeth, apparently having lost each in the same amount of consecutive days. And if you thought French was difficult enough to understand coming from adults, from a 5 year old with a lisp it’s virtually impossible.

I spent most of the time picking up rocks and sticks, then telling Maxim I had found one of his teeth. This would usually send him running off giggling, sparing me the embarrassment of having to eventually explain that he already knew more French than I did. Or asking to borrow one of his books.

During lunch one day, the conversation at the table landed on exactly what happens to baby teeth in America. Where we explained the entirely plausible scenario of a fairy sneaking into your room and removing said tooth, leaving a small recompense in its place. Because, you know, that's what really happens.

“Yes, we have something similar…in France…we have a little mouse,” said Julien.

“A mouse?” I asked.

“The Tooth Mouse.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” I said.

“Why? We have a Tooth Fairy,” added Leni, offering Julien an ally at the table.

“Right: a magical creature. Not some rat. What does the mouse do with it?”

And with no embellishment, like he was giving directions to the Post Office, he continued: “He…takes the teeth and, in the morning, there is a bit of money.”

“And no one finds it disconcerting that a mouse has some huge collection of human teeth somewhere?”

“Look,” Julien smiled, “I get money. I don’t ask any questions.”

He had a point.

Bastille Day

For Bastille Day (July 14^th), we went up to stay at my childhood friend Julien’s parents’ house up in Normandy. And while fireworks aren’t technically “legal” on the day of French independence, they are tolerated. And not just by the authorities. All of France washes their hands of any responsibility whatsoever as legions of people, from 6 to 60, try their hand at handheld incendiary devices and aiming them at their compatriots.

Meaning? They will literally hurl fireworks at each other without so much as a shrug in response. They’re more likely to get annoyed at the British couple trying to use their bathroom than the 12 year old who just rolled an M-80 under their stroller. “Non, non, pas un problem, ma petite…”

Rockets, Firecrackers, Really Loud Exploding Things No Civilian In Any Country Should Have Access To Especially If He’s Wearing A Purse…These all get hurled into the sky, fuses lit, creating a situation where it is impossible to predict where they will come down and explode. It’s like the Russian Roulette of Apathy, because doing anything to prevent it would involve exerting far more energy [any energy > no energy = too much energy] than simply squeezing your eyes closed and hoping for the best, a tactic they’ve honed since WWII.

But I must admit, there is an inevitable pull, a primal urge that overcomes every man, the invisible thread connecting him across the millennia to his ancestors who, spear clasped tightly in their hands, decided it would be cool to blow some s**t up despite how dangerous their wives thought it was.

Haute Couture

Fashion really has been an important cultural export of France, dating back to the 17th century. Modern "haute couture;" extravagant uses of fabric and feminine elegance; as the virtual epicenter of trending and style, Paris has long since been considered one of the world's fashion capitals. If not the fashion capital.

So suck on it, New York. Because by the time you read this, you'll be wearing last year's Hamster costume, eyeing those tiered organza silk Taco Suits dotting the pages of French Vogue with envy.

How To Start An Electrical Fire

At several points in my life, I've had to recognize and accept I have some significant cognitive limitations. Economics. Salsa Dancing. When To Use Sarcasm. These are things that have remained elusive to comprehend and impossible to process. They fall into the same black hole a person's name does when they introduce themselves. I could look you right in the eye, repeat your name right back to you, but my brain most definitely didn't register any sound. So unless you're wearing a name tag, to me, you'll always be "Señor."

One of those limitations is also Adapting Electrical Currency in foreign countries.

Somehow, last year, I fried my iPhone in Geneva. It got really hot, then kept turning off and on, as if I had downloaded an App to simulate what would happen if Roxy continuously sat on it (well, it died).

So this year I was determined not to repeat the disaster. I brought along an American powerstrip, thinking that I could plug my iPhone, computer, and whatever else into it without a problem. I just had to adapt the plug from an American male to the Two Pronged French fangs of electrical death. Which I did, quite easily.

Clearly, there was some Math involved that I had overlooked. The powerstrip exploded in my hand, a bright blast of sparks shooting out from inside the plastic, black burns streaking my palms.

Except, it wasn't until I looked up that I realized I had blown the entire wall out. Everything was dead. Everything. All the lights. All the electronics. The computer. The television. Every expensive electronic device these people owned and had entrusted us to use while we stayed in their apartment, were all now quite possibly garbage.

Leni turned away from the black void of the monitor, eyes like daggers.

I half smiled, and said "Well, at least I'm alive..."

She smiled back. And replied "For the moment..."

"I'll, uh, I'll go check the breakers."

Genes

"Dad?"

"Yeah, son?"

"Will I be like you some day?"

"[Deep sigh] You sure will, pal. You sure will."

La Morte de Chivalry

Chivalry (n.): the sum of the ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valour, and dexterity in arms.

If you zoom into that picture up there, you'll see a tiny red dot. Keep that in mind. Because I wanted to give you an idea of the distance I had to travel in order to secure 2 metal lawn chairs.

Tonight, we saw a free Chopin concert in Le Jardin du Luxembourg. It was rumored about 5,000 people would be in attendance, so, this being France, not only did we want a good spot, we wanted one with a healthy breeze. I'm sorry, France, but the rumors are true. You smell terrible.

It became immediately clear that in order to sit, we would have to find several of the metal chairs scattered at multitude about the park, and carry them over towards the concert. As Leni and I were already on the verge of an argument (it's a simple formula, really: low blood sugar + Roxy crying + being inconvenienced in any way), we were about to bail. But I decided to try and salvage things by getting a few seats so we could relax and enjoy the concert.

The "O" is where I found them. I pretty much yanked them out from under the feet of a German couple. The "X" is where I had to deliver them, which I did, three days later.

I guess the Parisian Parks Commission don't worry about anyone stealing those chairs because each one weighs about 900 lbs. They may as well have pianos for people to sit on. I had to stop 3 or 4 times just to get them back to Leni (and I carry furniture for a living), each time fighting off the jackals and vultures of tourists trying to pry my fingers off of them.

And when the amount of frustration with Roxy eventually outweighed our enjoyment of Chopin, we decided to leave. It's hard to listen to the Barcarolle, Op. 60 when your daughter is throwing gravel at an old Italian woman.

I noticed a young woman leaning against a nearby tree. She held a young girl of 2 or 3 in her arms, the little one squirming and fidgeting to get free. And she seemed very, very tired. So I went over to her before Leni stood up. I asked, in French, "Madame, would you like our chairs? We are leaving..."

The relief washed over her face; she politely stepped a bit closer to us as we gathered our things. And as we finally packed up, I motioned for her to help herself.

She quickly sat, her child still in her arms, sinking into the metal chair. And as she held her daughter aloft, finagling the toddler's legs over the arm rest, just about to place her in the adjacent seat...

Some nearby men leaned over, pulled the chair out from beneath the child, and dragged it back towards their group without another thought.

And had I the dexterity in my arms to keep Roxy quiet and Leni and I from resuming our argument, I would have liked to get my chair back. When he was hopefully sitting in it.

French Amenities

Here's a question: Barbie comes over to your house and says at home (ahem, Dream House) there's a tiny can of soup Ken is having trouble opening, but because Ken is insecure about all of his fingers being fused together (as well as his height and non-descript genital mound), she doesn't want you to open it. Instead she wants to borrow a can opener. Except, and more importantly, [INSERT YOUR NAME HERE], do you have one in miniature? Well, if you live in France, you're goddamn right you do! Because they sell these everywhere!

The people who live in this apartment have a Wii. A PC. An electric keyboard and a washing machine. Like they won a bunch of crap on Wheel of Fortune and at the end, when Pat Sajak broke the bad news they only had 1.75 euros left, they took the miniature can opener. "I'll take the piece of s**t that cuts your thumbs open."

If you walked into a hardware store and said "I want the most dangerously awkward thing you sell to open cans except I don't actually want it to work. I want it to slice all of my fingers off." He'd hold up a Tasmanian Devil with chainsaws tied to its face. "No, no, it has to fit in my pocket..." you'd offer as a correction. And then he'd hand you that thing in the picture.

Let's say you like to do laundry, but people keep stealing your jeans from the dryer. What do you do? Didn't you see The Goonies? You make Booby Traps! You rig a drying rack to a pulley that hangs above people's heads in the bathroom. Then you rig the rope to a hook that is fastened at eye level. Because you want people to think they can lower it. Because while their attention is on the laundry, they aren't expecting the rack to clip the clasp on the cabinet above them. They aren't expecting a 12" tall Buzz Lightyear to sidesaddle an iron down onto their head. Because, seriously, who the f**k is EVER expecting that?!!

Water Landing

Jetlag does wonders for a toddler. Everything they say about the "Terrible Twos" gets shaken up with equal parts Volatility and Tears and then spilled in your lap while accidentally set on fire. All the weapons at your disposal, every dance, every snack or sugary bribe, that whole "Bag of Tricks" you have to keep them quiet suddenly becomes ineffective, leaving you with just one: the iPad.

I've listened to Selena Gomez sing some god-awful song from the Tinkerbell movie a million times, now. And by "Selena Gomez" I mean "future whore" and by "sing" I mean "shove a bagpipe with a family of raccoons living in it up her nose and sneeze for 3:17 secs" and by "Tinkerbell Movie" I mean "Did Hitler team up with Leni Riefenstahl again because this film destroys souls?!"

But I can't just let her scream at 4 AM in some other family's apartment. I can't. And so Tinkerbell. And tears. And utter, utter exhaustion.

The point is that we've been Potty Training Roxy. I'll tell you how some other time. But she's 2 and doesn't wear diapers. Except to sleep. Except in France she hasn't been sleeping so we haven't been sleeping and with the time change and Selena Gomez and making sure she doesn't break anything in the apartment we've been staying at, we've had a few accidents. Like when we all fell asleep in our bed at 6 AM yesterday morning.

Roxy wet the bed. And because I was heaviest, it all pooled towards me.

I used to be clean. I was meticulous. I never thought about wiping anyone's nose, not only with my sleeve, but are you f**king kidding me, a bare finger? Gross! I never said to myself, "It's just poop." I never picked food off the floor and wondered "What's the worst that could be on there?" And I certainly never expected to let my daughter finish swallowing whatever it was she was eating even though I knew goddamn well I didn't give her anything to eat at the park and figure "Ah, go build your immune system."

But mostly, I never thought I'd reach the day I'd be so tired that I'd wake up, find myself in a pool full of urine, someone else's urine, mind you, and think "Well, if I don't move it will stay warm..." and gently fall back to sleep.

For 3 more hours.

We're Baaaaaaack!

I guess I just figured that if anyone can use my frequent missteps as a cautionary tale, or the very least, the comical equivalent of March 17th from the 1998 The Far Side calendar "How Nature Says 'Do Not Touch!" I should start blogging again.

Because god forbid some Celiac American is riding on the Paris Metro worried about s**ting his pants because he suddenly gets the cold sweats and stumbles into a seat because he is about to literally pass out leaving his non-French-speaking family to have the following conversation without him:

LENI: Sweetheart, wake up! Wake up, baby! How do you say 'ambulance?'

MAX: I'm bored. When are we eating?

ROXY: Ice Cream? Ipad? Ice Cream? Ice Cream? Ice Cream?

... when all he had to remember was to actually eat, which he might know if he read my humble little blog.

So maybe you can take some small to moderate level schadenfreude when I tell you the last thought I had right before I went down was "Please, god, please don't let me s**t my pants while I'm unconscious!"

Because God, being wise and all-knowing, looked down and said "Do not worry, my child...I'll wait 'til you're awake.