More often than not, I awake to a sky that beckons me with its promising blue skies. The inviting light of this sky urges me to join it quickly and deliberately lulls me into believing that a wonderful day is in store for me!
There is no use reasoning with me once I am duped into thinking that not a single drop of rain could possibly fall from the heavens. I only reflect on how "difficult" it would be to spend my time walking around with my cumbersome Umbrella. Plus, the Umbrella in question is covered with multi-colored polka dots. Très chic, non? But it simply would not go with what I have chosen to wear. The Umbrella has to stay behind.
I do not heed my Umbrella's sage advice. I only think of the present. I happily skip outside. I enter into this carefree state of sunshine nirvana. I come alive as I bask in the glowing rays of the warm golden orb. Nothing could possibly ruin my day.
Yet, more often than not, this state of elation brusquely alters in a split second. The Weather takes advantage of the absence of my Umbrella to teach me a lesson.
Each drop that pelts upon my skin feels like a poignant dart of embarrassment! Thousands of wet bullets pound down on me as I screech hysterically like a mating cat and dash for shelter. My hands cover my hair to offer what little protection they can; it is futile because it doesn't do much. My once-bouncy curls now lay matted and plastered to my forehead. I am forced to return home.
About a month ago, I was sitting in my Biology class falling asleep. I tried to pay attention to what was being said, but it was no use my eyes felt heavy and my mind was having trouble keeping focus.
As I was slowly drifting into sleep, I heard the professor say something very interesting that kept me alert throughout the whole class.
The parasitic cuckoo bird lays its egg in other bird nests, and leaves. When the baby cuckoo bird is born it tends to kick the other birds off the nests (sometimes the cuckoo's mother does this before leaving the egg in the nest). So when the other bird arrives to the nest, it will feed the cuckoo thinking it is her baby.
Very messed up.
This is why it is called a parasitic cuckoo.
Like the animal world, people have the same problem. Sure, we do not necessarily leave babies in other people's homes and throw their baby away, but people can be parasitic in many different ways.
#1
The "newbie" co-worker: You have been in a job for about 2-10 years and have been working your butt off for a promotion. The "newbie" co-worker enters the company and in less than 2 months of working there, he/she gets the promotion you have been working your butt off to get (which has probably taken you months of stress).
Job = nest
"Newbie" co-worker = parasitic cuckoo bird, who has taken the promotion you have worked your butt off for months.
You = The other bird, who has been pushed out of a promotion.
#2
Anyone who takes credit for something you did: Lets say you didsomething nice for someone and though you might not be seeking praise for it, someone else takes credit for it. This also applies to doing an excellent job at work, but someone else took the credit for the amazing job.
Whatever good you did/credit= nest
Anyone/Someone else= Parasitic cuckoo bird, who took the credit.
You= The other bird, who was pushed out of getting credit.
(You get the point...no need for a video)
#3
The other woman/man: You are married or have a boyfriend/girlfriend, but you end up getting cheated on with another woman/man.
The family/boyfriend/girlfriend = nest
The other woman/man = parasitic cuckoo bird, who gets to your nest and kicks you out. Making the nest hers/his.
You = The other bird who ends up getting cheated on, divorced, or in most cases kicked out of the house.
Example: Diary of a Mad Black Woman
There are millions of other areas in which people can be parasitic, but these are just a few most notable situations. So as you can see the Parasitic Cuckoo bird and people can be quite similar.
[Much thanks for reader Delphine Chevalier at Chez Mlle Delphine who suggested the earth-shattering idea that I should start numbering my letters...but if you are the creepy, thirsty guy she warded off, stay AWAY from her house!]
The previous sets of letters are #1, #2, #3, and #4.
Dear Cheaper Italian Espresso Pot:
When I purchased you in Rome as a literal last-minute impulse last April, I had no idea how well you would work. I never imagined that your no-name, no-brand status would actually function better than the Bialetti Espresso Maker I encountered before you. Early this week, I discovered that not only do you boil coffee faster, you also bring out the aromatic flavors more than your pricey cousin.
Had I known you had existed, I would have easily skipped purchasing the Bialetti pot and gotten 3 of you instead.
Dear Bialetti Espresso Maker:
No offense, old pal. I still like you, but you really haven't proven yourself to be worth the money I paid for you. I still remember the joy I felt when I first saw you in Italy. I had gone on vacation to the boot-shaped peninsula with a friend and had made it a personal goal to buy an authentic Italian espresso maker during my once-in-a-lifetime stay. This goal was inspired by my memories of my family once owning an Italian espresso maker that lasted for nearly 10 years. I was fed up with using the low-quality "Made in China" varieties and just wanted something that would last a little longer. I figured that because I was in Italy, I would be provided with an endless stream of espresso makers.
Boy, was I wrong. I first spent two days scouring Venice visiting the tourist essentials and I only managed to find ONE store that sold kitchen equipment; it was closed. Then, when my friend and I went to Rome, I miraculously found a shop that specialized in only Italian goods. There, I found a coffee pot and bought it with full confidence that it would be a bona fide 100% Italian product (I even asked the shopkeeper if the espresso maker was of Italian origin and he assured me that it was). I walked out of the shop, shopping bag proudly clutched in hand.
I then checked its packaging. Next to an image of the Union Jack, I read the words "Made in China."
Made in China.
Not Italy. CHINA.
I simply refused to leave Italy with a Chinese espresso maker.
It promptly went back to the store where I informed the respectable-looking elderly Italian shopkeeper that what he had sold me was not Italian. I won't forget that moment: his eyes bulged dangerously in his withered face, vein throbbing upon the temple. He turned to his co-worker and then, while viciously strangling the foreigner, started yelling in the Romance language I do not speak. I could only grasp that he was just as scandalized as I was that the coffee pot in his 100% Italian product store did not meet his required qualifications.
I promptly received his apologies and was given a full refund.
So Bialetti, you can understand how, after this ordeal, you became a long-lost hope in my eyes the moment I saw you. It was my last full day in the Italian capital and I simply needed to seize the desperate opportunity. Despite your hefty price, I bought you.
It wasn't until I was checking out of the hotel-campsite which I had stayed in for 3 days the following morning that I saw your much cheaper cousin. I decided to buy him too because I could not bear the insult of having scoured two espresso-makerless Italian cities only to notice on my last moment that it existed.
On top of that, once I returned to Dijon, I soon found a shop that sold coffee and tea items. There, in the display window, I saw one of your siblings. And he was cheaper than you.
How insulting is it to find that the same Italian espresso maker is cheaper in France than in its native Italy?
So, again, my friend, I have nothing against you. We share great memories together, but you just don't work as well as my other coffee maker. I'm not being an ingrate. I just honestly feel ripped off.
Dear Half-Pound:
Thank you for finally going away from my body after stagnantly lingering for over two weeks. I can now officially claim that I have lost a total of 20 pounds. You have truly frustrated me for two weeks. Please don't ever come back.
Check out the video I made at the bottom! --------------------------------------------
The other day I was mentioning to a good friend of mine how I would love to give him a makeover. Now he's not a bad looking guy at all and he has his own style, but I have been curious to see what he would look like in clothing pieces he has never worn.
He agreed to this.
It is not the first time I give a guy a makeover, actually I have done it plenty of times (mostly with my ex-boyfriends). My makeovers have gotten really great results, but it has also not done much for me.
When I first met my ex-boyfriend, he was this really nerdy guy, who had the whole gamer t-shirt and jeans look. I have nothing against gamer shirts, but this was on a daily basis (plus the type of underwear he wore was not helping his appearance). Well I liked him for who he was, but out of curiosity I suggested a few pieces of clothing here and there, and this became one of the best and worst things I have ever done. It was the best because he felt good about himself and he was finally showing that he was handsome. The downside was when the other girls (that never realized how cute he was) started to get interested in him just because of a few changes to his appearance.
Well, though he was very much crazy about me, he still ended up leaving me because of the attention he was getting and he went through the whole "grass is greener on the other side syndrome."
I am, however, pleased to know that because of me I made a difference in someones life even though it didn't benefit me in any way.
So why is it that I do makeovers?
I do it because I love style and I find a great sense of euphoria doing it. Plus, it reminds me of my life size barbie, except I use guys for my makeovers.
Which gave me another idea; to make my own company called Make Me Over, Coffee Bean Inc. The start of this company can change things around for men all around the world! From looking like a bum to looking classy, the man who uses my services will have the best self esteem ever.
My services include:
1. Having me around for one whole day
2. Compliments from a lot of girls
3. A change of look
4. Girls checking you out
5. A better you
6. And probably a new girlfriend by the end of the day
(My services can be for ladies too, but as I said before, I mostly do makeovers on men).
Today, I had a dental appointment at 11 o'clock so I needed to head out of the house at a particular time. Since I had not seen my dentist in over a year (thanks to my 7-month Dijon hiatus), I decided to dig out of my closet and try on a t-shirt that I had not worn in over two years; it fits again!
As I made my way down the driveway towards my car, my attention was diverted to a small dark circular object lying adjacent to the mailbox. My mind didn't register what was going on. I blinked. I leaned further down to confirm what my eyes were interpreting.
There, baking on the cracked sidewalk, was indeed a very small turtle. I did one of those gasps that results in you simultaneously having a large, stupid grin on your face. I looked around. I live in a suburban area that is considerably turtle-less, so I wonder where and how this stray creature arrived in front of my house. There is a canal in my neighborhood but it is too far for it to have crawled all the way. Could someone have carelessly discarded it? Who knows?
For the time being, this nameless turtle shall be known as Turtle X.
What's the first thing you do when you see something out of the ordinary? You tell someone else.
Fearing it becoming overly dehydrated, I picked it up using a clean paper towel (I still couldn't control my "ick" factor), filled a plastic container with some water and temporarily placed Turtle X in it. It squirmed a bit and tried to escape. I noticed from its little webbed paws (claws?) indicated that it is indeed acclimated to water. It also has claws that it probably uses for walking on land.
I'm not a fan of reptiles, but I admit that Turtle X does have something cute about it. Its teeny, tiny claws, the markings dotting its round shell, its minuscule head that it contracts and expands cautiously as a defense mechanism.
This all probably took five minutes and I soon made my way to the dentist, the same one I've been seeing since I was 8. I'm glad to report that my teeth are in great health (zero cavities) and that when I told my dentist that I would be returning to France, she granted me nearly a whole box of those sample tubes of toothpaste dentists hand out. They have whitening power, too! (Cross one item off my list.) For one moment, I felt like the Toothpaste Queen.
I went back home to Turtle X and breathed a sigh of relief that it was still very much alive.
The question lingered in my mind: what does it eat? I fully admit my ignorance as to what this cold-blooded herp chows down on to survive, and I don't want to end up with the tragic story of a starved turtle on my hands. What could it possibly eat? Worms? Grass? Bugs? Lettuce? Carrots? Macaroni and Cheese?
(Turtle X doesn't seem to appreciate its decor of the sink drain. It probably thinks it's a prison for plates and cups.)
My grandmother seems all for keeping it. I suspect that this little turtle evokes nostalgic memories of the time when she had a small plot of land in Colombia where she raised chickens, ducks, goats and even had a turtle or two. I'm trying to prevent myself from getting too attached to Turtle X because I still have to see what my mother's reaction is (God, asking for her permission makes me feel like such a little kid). I doubt she will want a pet turtle; we already have enough on our plates with a vicious Demon Chihuahua. She'll probably tell us to just release it into the wild (ie, the neighborhood canal) where it will surely die at the beaks and jaws of predators.
Although, I guess what really will be better for Turtle X would be to let it fend for itself against the hungry canal ducks and fishes. I suppose it beats a life living in a prison-like plastic container, no?
However, if Mom does accept to keep Turtle X...I will need some name suggestions for it. :-)
Barb the French Bean
Update about Turtle X:
Well, Mom came home and said that it would be in Turtle X's best interests to be back in its natural habitat (not the scalding sidewalk). It would not have been practical for us to have kept it.
She also momentarily had the crazy idea that we should release my temporary pet to walk inside the house. Based on a friend's superstitions: if a turtle shows up at your house, it is good luck to let it roam indoors to remove any bad vibes/spirits.
Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaah...I'm not very keen on having a turtle as a rabbit's foot.
(Here's Mom checking out our temporary house guest.)
Still, Mom was not just about to let Turtle X into the wild before introducing Maddie to it. I was a bit wary when she placed the plastic container on the floor, but thankfully the Demon Chihuahua turned out to be a chickensh*t docile host.
She immediately fled from Turtle X to the highest throw pillow on the couch.
Yes. Turtle X is gone now. I really hope that it safely makes it big in this vast world.
In exactly one month from today, I will find myself in Charles de Gaulle airport and set my feet upon French soil.
However, before that day comes, I must deal with sorting and organizing the many, many things I will require for my proper installation. What better way to do this than by making lists?
The Essentials:
The Passport (duh)
The Plane Ticket (duh)
The Arrêté de Nomination (my work contract-major DUH)
Multiple photocopies of said document
The French Cellphone (duh)
The French Cellphone Charger (major duh if you consider the French Cellphone)
French Checkbook for Société Générale
Société Générale Bank Card
Perhaps this sounds a bit negative, but considering the money I don't have in the account, this card is practically pointless...
Official Copy of Birth Certificate
Some French organizations require proof that I was born. It will impress them to see that I was born in New Jersey 23 years ago.
The SNCF Carte 12-25
This is a discount card for train tickets. Very, very efficient if you make lots of one-day trips to surrounding French cities. It requires a passport-sized picture and a valid I.D. (passport) with the train ticket. The pesky contrôleurs may or may not check all of this when you board the trains.
Divia Bus Card
This is a card that also has my picture on it. I use it once I purchase a monthly bus pass, which is different from the card itself. It wards off those pesky Divia contrôleurs who randomly hop on the buses to catch those without a ticket or bus pass and fine them.
The Carrefour Carte de Fidélité
Does not require picture I.D. It is the points card for the supermarket chain, Carrefour. This card collects store credits (money) and later awards me with store check which I can use to buy more stuff at Carrefour. When Carrefour wants your fidélité (loyalty), it gets it, all right.
Each packet lasts for approximately one month. That is, only if I end up with new roommates who also do not like coffee. If they happen to love coffee just as much as I do, then I predict I will run out of espresso by October 15.
Espresso Maker
Essential Bathroom Stuff:
2 Tubes of Toothpaste with Whitening Power
I've noticed, with horror, that the French have unusually yellow teeth. I would like to blame smoking and excessive drinking of coffee and alcohol for such a vibrantly disturbing color, but both my room mates neither smoked nor drank coffee and only drank alcoholic beverages on social occasions. Conclusion: something is up with their toothpaste.
1 American Toothbrush
French toothbrush heads are quite small. Perhaps it has something to do with the difference in dental structure between both cultures? Are American oral orifices that honestly that huge?
Yes, they are. I will treasure Oral-B for life.
Shampoo and Conditioner/Body Wash/Deoderant
I could easily save myself some extra weight in my suitcase and just buy this stuff over there, but I also aim to at least spare myself from having to purchase these toiletries for 1 month or so. I got to save some money and buy in bulk.
Feminine Stuff.*ahem*
Obtained Items for Trip:
4 New Pairs of Shoes
3 New Pairs of Jeans (In a smaller size, no less!)
2 Very Cute Bolero Jackets from Forever 21
1 Dress that I Got on Clearance (Thank you, Target!)
I always tend to splurge on new clothes for a trip. I blame my mother for instilling this vanity in me. Plus, I'm gonna be over there for 7 months...I need to spend in Dollars while I still can!
2 Small Notebooks (very handy when I need to jot down something quickly)
Pending Items:
Money for rent and one-month deposit (!!!)
How I'll get this money, I'll never know...
At least 2 cans of Paul Mitchell Sculpting Foam hair mousse
I just haven't been able to find anything that works as good as that in Dijon. I have a hunch that it might be available in Paris, but I'd rather pay for the mousse in Dollars rather than Euros. I'm sensibly stingy like that.
Bottle of Biosilk Silk Therapy (hair product)
While I am on this item, I would like to take a brief moment to vent. It seems that for the time that while I was away, the makers of Biosilk (apparently, Farouk USA) decided that it would be a fun idea to irk me by nearly doubling the price. Instead of viciously yanking out my hair in tufts, I'm gonna hit some stores and compare prices. The game's objective: whichever store offers the lowest price gets my money.
Strawberry Nesquick
They only have the chocolate kind over there, and that will be sure to freak out my students.
A Bottle of French's Mustard
If strawberry Nesquick doesn't freak them out, then the American version of a bright yellow condiment that dare calls itself "mustard" will. Remember: Dijon = Mustard
I especially hope they get the irony of the brand's name...
American Mini-Oreos for my students
Oreos do exist in France, but they 1) come from Spain and 2) are quite expensive. I could get a 3 ounce bag over here for $1 at Target.
My Lost Temporarily Misplaced CD of Christmas Music
The French have the wrong impression that American Christmas music consists of slow ballads crooned by Bing Crosby. "Jingle Bell Rock" and "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree" are unheard of over there! I really need to dispel this misunderstanding.
Gifts for French Friends!
One of them specifically requested that I get her a box or two of Duncan Hines cake mix. I think I will stock up on Cuban coffee and guava paste. Mmmmmm...
*****************************************
Before I start getting too excited, I must also remember that I am returning to a not-so-foreign country. Like many foreign countries, there is a possibility that I may encounter some culture shock-inducing instances.
That is why I decided to re-train myself and start the culture shock process while I am still in the States. I find that music often aids in my transition...
Ilona Mitrecey "Un Monde Parfait." Yes, this is a children's song and it was a hit over there. Deal with it.
Philippe Katerine. Just about anything he does is weird, but I still haven't quite recovered from "Louxor, J'adore" and "100% V.I.P."
And, the biggest shock: France Gall's "Les Sucettes." Written by the legendary Serge Gainsbourg, who admittedly was not the most saintly man, "Les Sucettes" is a playful song about a girl named Annie who likes "lollipops." Really likes "lollipops."
The best part? 17-year-old France Gall had NO IDEA about the song's innuendo. At all. Not even with the bluntly explicit music video.
After seeing these videos, you may wonder what exactly appeals to me about France. What could possibly make me love a country that produces such weird music?
...I just feel at home over there. I can't quite explain it, really. :-/
Wish me luck!
Barb the French Bean
Disclaimer: the videos are not mine...even I couldn't think up stuff this weird. o_O"
