The Tale of Stalker Cat

Shortly after setting foot on French soil at the CDG-Roissy airport, I took a couple of trains and headed back to my homebase in Sablé-sur-Sarthe. What I currently refer to as "home" is a small, furnished room complete with two faucets and a shower. Prior to leaving the premises to spend nearly six weeks in Miami, I had to vacate said room of every one of my possessions.

Every. Single. Thing.

I had only resided in my room for eleven months, but I soon figured that had been enough time to accrue what I now fondly refer to as "having way too much shit."

The belated spring cleaning took place over the course of five days and it involved several plastic containers and cardboard boxes which were graciously stored in someone's basement.

Arriving once again in Sablé, I found myself with the task of not only settling into my vacated room once more, but also having to move ALL of my possessions across a bumpy terrain so I could progressively organize my items.

This move occurred over two days, in which the first day I opted to take out only items involved in cleaning off body and hair travel residue and clothing a naked mattress so I could collapse into a well-merited rest.

Being a perpetual optimist, rather than complaining about the unavoidable labor of moving items under the hot, summer sun, I viewed it as the opportunity to redecorate my very humble abode. I had the genius idea to move some furniture around, which cleared out some space on the floor, enough for me to never have to side-step and trip over the veritable minefield of books, clothes and boxes ever again.

On the second day, I loaded a flat barrel with some plastic containers and made the first of multiple journeys from the basement to my room.

Suddenly, I heard a faint "mew" emanate from behind me. I craned my neck and spotted a thin, dark cat, eyes intently fixed upon my being.

I didn't think too much of this stray and continued with the task of hauling heavy plastic containers back to my room. I made it to my building, gradually unloaded the cart of the boxes and dumped them into my room.

"Mew."

I turned on my heel toward the glass front door. There, peering inside, was the cat patiently waiting for me to open the front door. "Mew," it beckoned once more as it blinked a couple of times.

"Sorry, cat, I can't let you in the building," I replied, hoping it would somehow magically be able to interpret human language. "It's against the rules, you know."

I opened the glass door, shooed it away, and continued with a second trek to the basement to repeat my previous actions.

Thirty seconds passed when I had the impression that I wasn't alone with this venture. I stopped in my tracks and turned to look behind me.

"Mew."

There was the cat, trailing a mere ten paces away from me. I took pity on its lithe form and forlorn calls. I headed back to my building (the cat following me) and fetched a small bowl of milk in the kitchen. As I made it out of the building once more, I saw that the cat had once again patiently waited by the entrance.

I placed the bowl of milk in a few feet away from the entrance and the cat eagerly lapped its free meal.

I went back to the basement, loaded the cart with more plastic containers, then headed to my building.

The cat was still there, stationary, by the front door.

"Mew," it said, in a more forceful tone.

I sighed and in my inane quest to make stray animals understand human speech told it to run off and catch of a couple of mice. I shooed it away and unloaded the plastic containers into my room.

Like that will happen with equality of the sexes. 

I paused for a moment, took a sip of cold water, and mentally prepared myself to follow through with a third trip to the basement. I reached the front door. My jaw dropped.

"Mew."

I dawned on me that I had acquired my very first stalker.

I huffed and told the cat to go away and leave me alone, for I was allergic to his kind.

"Listen, cat, this isn't going to work. I can't adopt you as my pet. It's not going to happen, so scram."

"MEW," it uttered sternly.

I ignored its scornful tone and continued the move toward the basement. I checked behind to see if my furry stalker trailed me.

He did. He stopped the instant he realized that I had spotted him chasing me in broad daylight. I harrumphed and kept walking.

Even when I went indoors to gather my things in the basement, stalker cat patiently waited for my return to gaze at me with those big almond-shaped eyes.

"Mewwwww."

I loaded the containers onto the cart and rushed back to my room, stalker cat in tow.

"MEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWW," he screeched when I made it to the front door. This time, his call was filled with accusatory animosity. With that one, brief sound, I interpreted his speech to translate as "Bitch, you gave me milk. You're just as well MINE from this point on."

From outside of the glass door, his baleful expression was cut with a fleeting glance of being in confused pain. Why was I rejecting him? Why couldn't I appreciate that I finally had someone who was willing to stick by my side?

Probably because his relentless chasing freaked me out. I bid my stalker cat good-bye and closed the door to my room.

Within a few hours, my abode took on a new air:

It may not be much, but it's quite cozy. 

Content with my work, I took a well-deserved shower followed by a jet-lag induced nap.

Barb the French Bean

The Date That Almost Seems Forgotten

Twelve years have passed from that day when I was a high school Freshman sitting in my second period geography class. Twelve years from the moment when the vice principal's voice emanated from the speakers to announce the news that struck me dumb.

The events of September 11, 2001 have since been marked as the day that will not be forgotten.

It's also hard to forget considering the repercussions that ensued shortly after the attacks: stricter airport security measures, a burrowed fear permeating people's consciousness, fright at the thought that perhaps some loon with a bomb sought to take a life worth living in mere seconds.

Yes, we were afraid in those fledgling months of trying to make sense within the chaos. United over the loss, the people in my country were linked by invisible threads of hope, courage and resilience. So were our allies. "Today, we are all American," Jacques Chirac quipped at the time.

The following year, I took French as one of my high school elective classes. Little did I know that such a relatively minor decision would guide me to where I am now.

Twelve years later, I am in France on September 11, 2013. Apart from a few media blurbs on the T.V., newspapers and radio, it's a fairly normal day. People go to work, greet their co-workers, take their kids to school without the faintest qualm that perhaps it may just be the last time they see each other. Life goes on, and the contrast of how I experience every anniversary of that fateful back home versus here comes off as almost irreverent to me.

Over the years, I have slowly, even begrudgingly, accepted that such American customs as Halloween, Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July go by without a second, if any, thought here. However, the way that life has gone by tranquilly on this September 11 almost seems...wrong. I can't wrap my head around it.

And yet, living tranquilly is exactly how I've spent this day. I got up, had breakfast, worked, had lunch, went to the gym, showered, went grocery shopping, and had dinner. The normalcy is striking and blunt. It makes me want to turn to those around me and ask "don't you remember what today is?! I can't be the only one!"

Of course they must remember. Who could forget news like that?

Perhaps I'm simply having a difficult time with the acceptance that things will always be perceived differently abroad, especially something that has forever been etched into my underlying way of being.

Time goes by. Life goes on. C'est la vie.

Barb the French Bean

    

Something to Get Out of My Head, A.K.A. Mocking "Sharknado"

There's been an endless stream of mockery about the infamous American D-list soon-to-be-an-instant-classic Sharknado. For those of you who have no idea what I am talking about, then, clearly, you haven't seen the movie's trailer with the tagline of "SHARKS...TORNADO...SHARKNADO. 'NUFF SAID."

Yes, some freak meteorological event causes a horde of sharks to be transported into the swirling death funnel and cause havoc upon the streets with their ruthless, meat-tearing ways. Humans can only defend themselves with guns. And chainsaws.

In the aftermath of mindless drivel such as Twilight, Fifty Shades of Grey, LMFAO, Nicki Minaj, the Kardashians, the Jersey Shore, any form of half-assed, brain-numbing entertainment that attacks our feeble minds under any and every medium, I have to say that I am hardly, and sadly, surprised that such a shitastic movie managed to be produced in the first place.

I guess what I am trying to say is...I'm getting old and really tired of all of this shit. I refuse to let the insufferable term "YOLO" replace carpe diem. Every day, a piece of my soul dies then decays over the thought that children will become so dependent on technology that they won't even be taught to think for themselves. They'll have knowledge at their finger tips, access at a mere click of a button, yet they won't LEARN anything.

But I digress. Sharknado.

I thought to myself, why sharks? These creatures have become so traditional and expected in semi-horror movies that I wondered...what if the animal were replaced by something you wouldn't expect?

Like narwhals.

Think about it: narwhals are whales that have a long tooth growing out of their skull. THEY HAVE A BUILT-IN HARPOON, people. They are unicorn whales, only slightly less magical and charming. How cool is that? I can envision it now: with the mighty force of the tornado, the narwhals are lifted into the sky. Using their harpoon-tooth, they mercilessly spear their victims like they were some sort of human shish kabobs.

And do you know what the tagline of Narwhalnado will be?

Due to an F-list budget of pixelated cartoons , the special effects for Narwhalnado are restricted to copying and pasting in MS Paint.

Okay, who cares if narwhals technically live in the Arctic circle and thus have never even seen a hurricane or tornado? Why should science and nature put a damper on how cool it would look?!

Or perhaps the film could feature Portuguese Man o' Wars. To put it in layman terms, the sting from those badass colony polyp motherfuckers will fuck you up, either by giving you excruciatingly painful red welts, or an allergic reaction or, in rare cases, even attacking the lymph nodes which will eventually result in death.

Then again, Portuguese Man o' Warnado is quite a mouthful to say. So is Australian Sea Waspnado. Those creatures are even worse than the Portuguese Man o' War.

Or, perhaps both creatures can be combined to make a new film: MedusApocalypse.

These jellyfish cling to their victims faces like the face huggers from Alien. Or some poisonous neurotic ex who simply can't accept the breakup has happened.

Fear them. Fear them ALL.

Barb the French Bean

Growing Up Sucks Balls

When I was younger, I used to have this huge desire to grow up. To do everything everyone older than me did--going to concerts, driving, traveling, staying up past 11 p.m. and all the other things I couldn't do as a child. I would sometimes throw temper tantrums screaming "I CAN'T WAIT TO GROW UP!"

Oh how wrong was I...

                                                 photo credit: Ahoova via photopin cc
                                                 (Nope...not me. I'm a woman)

It was foolish of me to think that my life would be easy and to overlook the very things that stress me out.
Bills, bills, and more bills. As a child, I did not comprehend the way of life, to me it was just a world of playgrounds, cartoons, swings and food. Nothing else existed to me and on occasions I would throw hissy fits when I didn't get what I wanted. Of course, as I started to grow up, so did my responsibilities.

Below you will find the growth of my responsibilities:

Age: 1
Responsibilities: Pooped, ate and slept.
Job: Cried

Age: 6
Responsibilities: Pooped, ate, slept, smiled and looked pretty.
Job: Eating McDonald's Fries.

Age: 10
Responsibilities: Pooped, ate, slept, annoyed brother, occasionally smiled and rarely looked pretty.
Job: Watched cartoons

Age: 13
Responsibilities: Annoyed brother, never smiled, hid from bullies, chores and observed (Yes...I still pooped, ate and slept).
Job: Referee for fights in my house

Age: 16
Responsibilities: Chores, homework, walking the dog, screaming, applying to colleges, pooped, ate, and slept.
Job: Breaking out of my house every so often.

Age: 20
Responsibilities: Gym, homework, driving, boyfriend, working, paying cell phone, rarely slept, looked pretty, and ate.
Job: Worked in Retail.

Age: 22
Responsibilities: Gym, homework, driving, working, paying several bills, rarely slept, dated, looked like a disaster and ate.
Job: I had temp. jobs (at least...I made them temp.)

Age: 25 (NOW)
Responsibilities: Gym, driving, working, pestering the mailman, paying A MILLION BILLS (SCHOOL LOANS....NOOOO!), rarely sleeping, looking alright, dealing with a few stubborn guys, snapchatting people, and  finding ways to make more money (yes yes yes I still poop and eat).
Job: Marketing and Business Development for a good company.

I must admit, looking at this list, I have come a long way from where I used to be, but the fact that I can't seem to pay off anything...is..well...ridiculous.

Thus, I have come to the conclusion that growing up sucks balls, a phrase that a friend used to say on a daily basis. A phrase I have come to know as:

sucks balls- An expression used when things are shitty (according to Urban Dictionary).

 While I do have a job that pays, I still do not make enough to pay off my credit cards, loans, car loan and everything else that is on a loan. So for the next few days I have gone Google "insane" and have spent a few days looking for ideas...

How to make money according to Google:

1. Become a gold digger
2. Sell your body to advertising companies so they can tattoo your forehead.
3. Become a moving billboard- wear ads on your shirt, use their pens and use your car to stick their ads on.
4. Sell items on Ebay (I have plenty going on...this can only get me so far, unfortunately).
5. Do another persons dirty work by joining a site that everyone seems to be on and have no chance of even getting that job to begin with.
6. Garage sale! (I have no yard and no garage...I live in a cave somewhere).
7. Pan Handling
8. Write Reviews (unfortunately this doesn't pay all that well...at all).
9. Sell your photography (I have yet to find someone who will buy any of it).
10. Sell your soul to the pawn shop (I don't even have gold or anything worth pawning).

I read plenty of other ideas that were well...a bit...disturbing. At some point I was waiting for someone to say that the best way to make money was by selling unicorn milk.

Gladly, there isn't anyone twisted enough to think of that, except for me. Maybe I should start selling unicorn milk, possibly do a false advertisement of how magical you'll feel in the mornings after drinking unicorn milk or how unicorn milk will make you sparkle just like the vampires in Twilight.

Unfortunately, I don't think unicorn milk can stop my responsibilities or pay all my bills...Growing up definitely sucks balls.

BALLS.

Hanny the coffee bean

(and yes I really had to emphasis the balls part).

Signs You *May* Be Turning French

After several months of pondering, and at the insistent elbowing encouragement from my pal King Stu at Invading Holland, I present to you a list of signs which indicate that you *may* be turning French.

-Your stomach has survived one of those five-hour long French dinners and lived through the cheese course.

-You actually have hosted one of those infinite dinners yourself.

-The thought of skipping lunch is UNACCEPTABLE. Got work to do? Too bad. Your stomach comes first.

-You unconsciously eat said lunch in multiple courses: entrée, plat, fromage, dessert and le p'tit café for last.


-You have finally achieved that perfect, elusive dietary balance which allows you to eat creamy/stinky cheeses, buttery croissants, crusty baguettes, sumptuous foie gras, and to imbibe copious amounts of wine while NOT gaining weight.

-You know very well that the humble potato is bread's sworn enemy on being the country's food favorite.

-You have a favorite cheese, which is no small task considering how the country is known for producing over 400 different cheeses.

-Said favorite cheese will always find a place in your fridge, along with a glass of moutarde and an ever-present jar of cornichons.

-You scoff at Spanish tomatoes and strawberries. And pretty much every other produce that doesn't come from France and its overseas regions.


-Before agreeing to an outing with friends, you first consult with your "agenda" to make sure you are free and therefore won't inconvenience anyone with last-minute cancellations.

-And you take out a pen from your ever-present "trousse" to write down said date.

-You make it a habit to carry several passport-sized photographs with you for identification and paperwork purposes.

-You always keep an ever-so-handy RIB (relevé d'identité bancaire) in your wallet for whenever you need to hand your bank account information over to a complete, but authoritative, stranger.

-When completing a file, it no longer surprises you when you are asked to provide more documents and photocopies than was previously required.

-Nor will you raise eyebrows to make photocopies of documents you could have sworn had already been provided.

-Seriously. You won't even bat an eye when hearing that the minimum delay for ANY legal documentation will take at least six weeks.


-You no longer break into cold sweats whenever you hear the SNCF's doon-DOON-doonoo chime in the train station over the worry that your train was delayed/cancelled/mysteriously abducted by aliens*.

BE AFRAID.

-You start to consider that any place that takes more than a three-hour drive is "far."

-You often opt to take a vacation within the country as opposed to travelling abroad because you reason that France's beauty is unparalleled and it is therefore pointless to go elsewhere**.

Nope. Not even Sherlock Holmes in the London Underground could surpass the wonders of France. 

-It's perfectly acceptable to have furniture that you would never have considered owning before, such as a combination bookcase/booze cabinet.

Booyah.

-You no longer giggle whenever you see a bidet.

-You actually get mildly peeved whenever you see a bathroom that has a toilet in it, instead of seeing the porcelain throne in a separate water closet.

-You have willingly used the dreaded "toilettes turques", a.k.a. the "WTF toilet," on more than one occasion.

-You once hated how French windows blocked all sources of light with the "volets." Now, you can't imagine life without shutters, particularly during those long summer days that start at 5 a.m.

-You've been lucky enough to go to a French wedding and managed to party for most of the night.

The lovely bride is my friend Emily.  The pink thing on my head is a fascinator.  

-You actually know someone who plays the accordion.

-You know very well that mentioning the Mont St Michel to someone from Brittany is a big no-no.

-You manage to find something to do on Sundays.


*When my mother came to visit me last year for Christmas, our train to head back to Paris was delayed, THEN cancelled. According to the SNCF message (which was preceded by the chime), this "inconvenience" was due to an "incident de personne" which happened to someone;"incident de personne" is often code for "suicide."

And I had purchased First Class tickets, too. Harrumph.

**New York City is the apparent exception.

The Little Mothereffin' Things that Get to Me

The title should be self-explanatory. If not, then I'll present you with a list of various annoyances that bring a frown to my face.

1) The fact that there is a trio of flies that are currently buzzing around my room. I have since opened the window to allow them with a means of escaping. Instead, those sand grain-brained bastards are too stupid to recognize when a window is WIDE OPEN and opt to hover or cling to the window's frame, not actually going back outside. They are just close enough to freedom without feeling the need to liberate themselves into the world, and it's enough to irk me with their incompetent fly ways.

2) The fact that I would like to cook some proper food this weekend, but the security code to enter the front door in the building where the kitchen is located has changed...and no one has bothered to inform me what that new code is. Hoorah.

3) The fact that weekends go by in the blink of an eye, and that the amount of work I have to do simply is does not balance out with my so-called "free time."

4) The fact that I purchased on Saturday a reduced-price bookcase/booze cabinet from the local LeClerc supermarket for 50 euros, which is right across the street from where I live. The only hitch is that I have absolutely no means of transporting it on my own and was thus left with no choice but to pay for it to be delivered.

On Wednesday afternoon, a.k.a., my free afternoon, between the vague hours of 2 p.m. to 6 p.m.

And the price to have it delivered across the street? 40 euros. That's 90 euros total for my bookcase/booze cabinet.

5) Plus, the man who handled the bookcase/booze cabinet's transaction needed a lesson or two on friendly customer service. He probably thought that it would have killed him to smile.

6) I remind you: I literally live across the street from this LeClerc. Considering that I nearly paid double what the bookcase/booze cabinet was priced, they could have at least delivered the damn thing that same Saturday. Ugh.

7) Now one fly from the trio is attempting to become my friend by landing itself closer to my person, either next to me on the bed or right on my laptop's screen. I DON'T WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND, FLY.

8) No, don't come next to me. GO AWAY, FLY. You hear me????!!!! GO. AWAY.

9) In fact, the window is still wide open. Why don't you tell your fly buddies to just leave?

10) No. Instead, you opted to call over your other pals and have them hang out next to me. I recently showered and washed my hair, so I don't understand what the appeal about me is since I don't smell of poop.

11) At least, I don't think that I smell of poop. Perhaps these flies are trying to tell me something that I don't know...

12) The fact that this blog post is about me griping about flies and expensive delivery fees and how I can't even be bothered to provide an illustration with it.

I shall remedy that.

Here is a totally 100% accurate illustration about my delivery woes.

13) The fact that my cartoon was so utterly unimaginative and repetitive that it makes me want to draw something even more eccentric. Fat chance that will happen because I have to keep working.

14) The fact that I have remorse over having wasted time painting a wooden tissue box.

I don't even use tissues.

Barb the French Bean