I quit work a week early; today was my last day. I wasn't going to run away - after all, difficult children and parents are absolutely a part of babysitting (although I'd never before experienced it) and money is money, but there was an Incident on Monday night that made me realize I had to get out.
That's right, an Incident. With a capital "I".
Blanche, 8 years old, and I have to read in English for 20 minutes every day. Naturally, she hates it, and, naturally, she's a start procrastinator. On Monday evening, when I told her that we needed to start reading, she replied, "I don't have to listen to you. You won't be here for very much longer." Bizarre thing to say, yes, and rude, too, but she was right (at that point my last day was July 5), so I ignored it. We finally sat down and opened the book, but after 15 minutes had only read a paragraph and a half. I was frustrated by her stalling tactics, and tore the book out of her hands. I swear to God, I did not touch the child. But she looked at me, completely deadfaced, and said, "You hit me," I was like, "Excuse me?" She said, "I'm telling my mom that you hit me, and you'll be gone, just like Loretta, you'll be gone." (I later learned that Loretta was a nanny who had been fired because she didn't interact with the children enough.) I was totally shocked - and furious. I went to tell Madame Mère that her daughter had just threatened to have me fired with an abuse allegation, but Blanche ran past me. "Elle m'a tappée, elle m'a tappée!" she cried, in tears. The mother sent Blanche to her room and told me to finish reading with her. About 10 minutes later Mme Mère came into Blanche's bedroom, made the girl apologize to me and give me a hug and a kiss, and left - all without hearing what had happened. I followed her out and told her the story. Her response was, "Well, that's just how Blanche is. She's done that before. You just need to show her who's boss, be firm with her." I was kind of shocked at how nonplussed Mme Mère was, so I repeated the main bits of what had happened, just in case she hadn't fully understood me. She replied, "Don't take this so seriously." I wanted to be like, "Lady, I just spent 11.5 hours with your children. Do you really want me to not take my job seriously?"
The combination of Blanche's attitude and that of her mother incited me to give notice the next day.
Friday, June 29, 2007
growing every day in every way
A few days ago I ate a tomato.
Last night I ordered a gratin d'aubergines for dinner.
Booya.
Last night I ordered a gratin d'aubergines for dinner.
Booya.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Part III
Q: If you add these two facts together, what do you get?
1. Blogger doesn't have spellcheck.
2. I live in France and haven't officially written anything in English since 2006
A: A really impressively spelled and punctuated blog. Get off my back.
(This is aimed directly at the Rosenblum women - yes, both of you - and indirectly at everyone who smirks to themselves when they catch my mistakes.)
1. Blogger doesn't have spellcheck.
2. I live in France and haven't officially written anything in English since 2006
A: A really impressively spelled and punctuated blog. Get off my back.
(This is aimed directly at the Rosenblum women - yes, both of you - and indirectly at everyone who smirks to themselves when they catch my mistakes.)
Waiting for the Girls at Ballet (A Story in Three Parts)
Part I: I'm waiting for the girls at ballet. The baby is asleep (well, he's probably woken up by now) at home. Maman is home as well, planning Monsieur's surprise 40th birthday party - this party takes up much of her time. I've 70% decided to tell Maman that Friday - or possibly next Monday - will be my last day, rather than next Wednesday. I'd lose 250€, yes, but I wouldn't be 70% unhappy 42 hours a week. The funny thing - not funny ha ha, but funny weird - is how much of my sense of self is tied up in being good with children. After 7 hours of being told that I'm not doing things the way they should be done (reading to the baby, disciplining the oldest, searing the lamb for dinner), when I get home at night I doubt the Betsyness of myself. I need to learn how to leave these things at the door.
(If I do stop work early, though, I'll still have things to do; I have three other families who all want 10-15 hours a week for the next several weeks. Booya.)
Part II: This past weekend has been a whirlwind of sitting and playing. Thursday was the Fête de la Musique; I think this was the inaugural year of New York's festival, so most of you know what I'm talking about. If not, in brief, the Fête de la Musique is a huge party that is held on the equinox and takes place in the streets and concert venues of Paris; bands and DJs camp out on street corners and bridges, and more established groups play at the Louvre and in all the churches. It's kind of like Mardi Gras in New Orleans - everyone is out, carousing and singing and laughing and if you get seperated from your friends you'll never see them again. Harry and I met up with a bunch of his French friends (okay, by this point I suppose some of them are my French friends, as well) at St. Michel, near where I used to live. We were both zonked after a week of work, and I was in an infectiously bad mood, so we only stayed out until 11:30 or so, but I had a great time wandering around and soaking up everything.
On Friday I babysat and tutored and babysat again until 1am, so that was that day gone.
Saturday, though, was a blast; Harry and I slept in for like the first time ever, which was so wonderfully unstressful, and then I spent the afternoon with K because I needed to take a shower. Let me explain myself: in the way that karma works, God decided that it was my turn to leak. On Friday morning I was woken up by a neighbor banging on my door and explaining that I was ruining his bottom-floor apartment. I turned of the water, and, since the landlady's plumber couldn't come until Monday, resigned myself to a few days of serious deoderant use. I had a party to go to on Saturday night, though, so I galivanted gaily up to K's apartment (only a 10 minute walk from chez moi) to use his shower. We ended up frolicking away the entire afternoon; after eating lunch at his apartment we walked back down to mine, stopping in a pharmacy to buy pacifiers (not for me, for la famille, obvi!) and in a supermarket so I could restock my fridge. (Funny supermarket story: A guy was standing with a tray of dessert nibbles, and we tried the madeleines and absolutely loved them. I said no to the big bag, explaining that if we got a bag of twelve madeleines I'd eat eleven, but that I'd only eat seven if we got the bag of eight. The guy smiled knowningly and said, "Ah, yes, Madame, but the madeleines in the big bag are packaged individually - perfect for the children!" K and I exclaimed, "Ah, yes, the children!" and took the big bag from his hands. It was fantastic.) K and I parted ways at about 5:30, after spending 45 minutes on clips of the Daily Show (watch them!), and I headed off to babysit. That eneded around 12:30, at which point I raced home, changed into my new (and terribly trendy) dress, and headed off to a housewarming party with Harry. By the time we got there, the party was begining to wind down, and so the remaining partyers were pretty hardcore. Also, incidentally - or not, as the couple throwing the party were 28 and 29 and gay - older and way more flamboyantly homosexual than my 19 year old English boarding school boyfriend is used to. I had a lot of fun, but Harry, I think, was a little uncomfortable.
Sunday was kind of unbearable, as I had to sing 5 hours after I had gone to bed, but it was my last AmCath service and we did lovely music (Purcell and Byrd), so I tried semi-successfully to will away my hangover. After the service, Harry, Imogen (a school friend of Harry's who's been living in Paris for the year as well) went out to lunch, and then I grabbed a lousy nap. I hate lousy naps - they're so unproductive! I then, shockingly enough, had to tutor for an hour. The weekend ended in the best way possible: dinner in the suburbs with K's family. K, you see, had bought a bottle of really good champagne for his sister because she was accepted to Columbia, and we finally drank it last night. I made it out there (40 minutes away on the RER - you can see stars and everything!) by 8, and we apero'd (drinkey-poo'd to you, Li) until nearly 10. We didn't sit down to the actual dinner until 10:30, and so I was beginning to crash, but the yumminess perked me up neatly. Also, it's difficult to fall asleep when your waistband is digging into your tummy. (When K asked if anyone was going to say grace at the beginning of the meal, his father and I chorused in unison, "Grace!") K's sister made a wonderful "gaspacho" of puréed raspberrys and strawberries and mint, and we had brownies and coconut cake and I told myself that I'd never eat again. (Ha!) Finally crawled into bed ariund 2. Up early this morning to babysit. What happened to summer vacation.
Part III: You'll get it. Eventually.
(If I do stop work early, though, I'll still have things to do; I have three other families who all want 10-15 hours a week for the next several weeks. Booya.)
Part II: This past weekend has been a whirlwind of sitting and playing. Thursday was the Fête de la Musique; I think this was the inaugural year of New York's festival, so most of you know what I'm talking about. If not, in brief, the Fête de la Musique is a huge party that is held on the equinox and takes place in the streets and concert venues of Paris; bands and DJs camp out on street corners and bridges, and more established groups play at the Louvre and in all the churches. It's kind of like Mardi Gras in New Orleans - everyone is out, carousing and singing and laughing and if you get seperated from your friends you'll never see them again. Harry and I met up with a bunch of his French friends (okay, by this point I suppose some of them are my French friends, as well) at St. Michel, near where I used to live. We were both zonked after a week of work, and I was in an infectiously bad mood, so we only stayed out until 11:30 or so, but I had a great time wandering around and soaking up everything.
On Friday I babysat and tutored and babysat again until 1am, so that was that day gone.
Saturday, though, was a blast; Harry and I slept in for like the first time ever, which was so wonderfully unstressful, and then I spent the afternoon with K because I needed to take a shower. Let me explain myself: in the way that karma works, God decided that it was my turn to leak. On Friday morning I was woken up by a neighbor banging on my door and explaining that I was ruining his bottom-floor apartment. I turned of the water, and, since the landlady's plumber couldn't come until Monday, resigned myself to a few days of serious deoderant use. I had a party to go to on Saturday night, though, so I galivanted gaily up to K's apartment (only a 10 minute walk from chez moi) to use his shower. We ended up frolicking away the entire afternoon; after eating lunch at his apartment we walked back down to mine, stopping in a pharmacy to buy pacifiers (not for me, for la famille, obvi!) and in a supermarket so I could restock my fridge. (Funny supermarket story: A guy was standing with a tray of dessert nibbles, and we tried the madeleines and absolutely loved them. I said no to the big bag, explaining that if we got a bag of twelve madeleines I'd eat eleven, but that I'd only eat seven if we got the bag of eight. The guy smiled knowningly and said, "Ah, yes, Madame, but the madeleines in the big bag are packaged individually - perfect for the children!" K and I exclaimed, "Ah, yes, the children!" and took the big bag from his hands. It was fantastic.) K and I parted ways at about 5:30, after spending 45 minutes on clips of the Daily Show (watch them!), and I headed off to babysit. That eneded around 12:30, at which point I raced home, changed into my new (and terribly trendy) dress, and headed off to a housewarming party with Harry. By the time we got there, the party was begining to wind down, and so the remaining partyers were pretty hardcore. Also, incidentally - or not, as the couple throwing the party were 28 and 29 and gay - older and way more flamboyantly homosexual than my 19 year old English boarding school boyfriend is used to. I had a lot of fun, but Harry, I think, was a little uncomfortable.
Sunday was kind of unbearable, as I had to sing 5 hours after I had gone to bed, but it was my last AmCath service and we did lovely music (Purcell and Byrd), so I tried semi-successfully to will away my hangover. After the service, Harry, Imogen (a school friend of Harry's who's been living in Paris for the year as well) went out to lunch, and then I grabbed a lousy nap. I hate lousy naps - they're so unproductive! I then, shockingly enough, had to tutor for an hour. The weekend ended in the best way possible: dinner in the suburbs with K's family. K, you see, had bought a bottle of really good champagne for his sister because she was accepted to Columbia, and we finally drank it last night. I made it out there (40 minutes away on the RER - you can see stars and everything!) by 8, and we apero'd (drinkey-poo'd to you, Li) until nearly 10. We didn't sit down to the actual dinner until 10:30, and so I was beginning to crash, but the yumminess perked me up neatly. Also, it's difficult to fall asleep when your waistband is digging into your tummy. (When K asked if anyone was going to say grace at the beginning of the meal, his father and I chorused in unison, "Grace!") K's sister made a wonderful "gaspacho" of puréed raspberrys and strawberries and mint, and we had brownies and coconut cake and I told myself that I'd never eat again. (Ha!) Finally crawled into bed ariund 2. Up early this morning to babysit. What happened to summer vacation.
Part III: You'll get it. Eventually.
Friday, June 22, 2007
café life
I'm doing internet work at a really nice café on Avenue Kléber, and one of the managers just told me that I need to work on my French accent - apparently the way I pronounce my vowels are incorrect.
UPDATE: He just made fun of me for not knowing a word. Not sure if he's being obnoxious or is hitting on me.
UPDATE: He just made fun of me for not knowing a word. Not sure if he's being obnoxious or is hitting on me.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
contratry to popular belief, I AM NOT AN IDIOT
Okay. Re: the old Jewish men.
1. I did not blindly follow them into an apartment. I followed them cautiously into a completely open room on the courtyard. The whole wall was practically windows, the door was open the entire time, and I suspect it was a back room of the totally reputable restaurant in my building.
2. I made sure before actually entering said unthreatening room that I could take them. After all, they're old Jewish men. Who couldn't take them.
3. I'm never going to see them again. Cool your gakis, and stop kvetching.
1. I did not blindly follow them into an apartment. I followed them cautiously into a completely open room on the courtyard. The whole wall was practically windows, the door was open the entire time, and I suspect it was a back room of the totally reputable restaurant in my building.
2. I made sure before actually entering said unthreatening room that I could take them. After all, they're old Jewish men. Who couldn't take them.
3. I'm never going to see them again. Cool your gakis, and stop kvetching.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Monday, June 18, 2007
Bar Mitzvahs for Jesus?
Yesterday's Amcath service included the Rite 13 service, where girls and boys of thirteen years pass into woman- and- man-hood. Copycats.
One of the acolytes, who was also the older brother of one of the Rite 13-ers, gave the sermon. For a 15 year old, he did an amazing job. He talked about how humbling it was to be in the pulpit, and said he hoped that the congregation could "learn through and from his confusion" - something priests, I think, often forget. The two lessons, the Gospel, and the psalm were about forgiveness; the Old Testament reading was Samuel II 11:26-12:10, 13-15, and the New Testament was Galatians 2:11-21, and the Gospel was Luke 7:6-50. The boy, Jordan, talked about how it takes an active step on our part to be forgiven for our sins; he said that we have to want and to ask to be forgiven in order for it to happen, and that no matter what our sin God loves us for making that choice. It was really something to see that boy up there. He was inspiring.
We sang our last evensong of the year - we did the Howells Coll Reg and Parker's Now the Sun Sinketh. We kicked ass on the Howells, but kind of train-wrecked on the Parker. Whatever, though; it was still a lovely service. I miss doing evensongs! They're so calming. Yoga for the soul, kind of, minus achieving nirvana and plus a little lack of faith on my part.
One of the acolytes, who was also the older brother of one of the Rite 13-ers, gave the sermon. For a 15 year old, he did an amazing job. He talked about how humbling it was to be in the pulpit, and said he hoped that the congregation could "learn through and from his confusion" - something priests, I think, often forget. The two lessons, the Gospel, and the psalm were about forgiveness; the Old Testament reading was Samuel II 11:26-12:10, 13-15, and the New Testament was Galatians 2:11-21, and the Gospel was Luke 7:6-50. The boy, Jordan, talked about how it takes an active step on our part to be forgiven for our sins; he said that we have to want and to ask to be forgiven in order for it to happen, and that no matter what our sin God loves us for making that choice. It was really something to see that boy up there. He was inspiring.
We sang our last evensong of the year - we did the Howells Coll Reg and Parker's Now the Sun Sinketh. We kicked ass on the Howells, but kind of train-wrecked on the Parker. Whatever, though; it was still a lovely service. I miss doing evensongs! They're so calming. Yoga for the soul, kind of, minus achieving nirvana and plus a little lack of faith on my part.
satuday, jour des fêtes
Woke up early on Saturday morning to bake. Duh. K was having another brunch, and, as I had refused to host it for him, felt the least I could do would be to bring a yummy lemon poppyseed cake. (Mission successful, by the way.)
The brunch was tons o' fun. I didn't stay till the end because I was party hopping like a frog on New Year's Eve, but he invited a different crowd at the begining than usual, so it was nice to make new friends. Most of these cats were ENS - École Normale Supérieure - masters students; I talked to one girl who was studying the morality of infants. The explanation of her thesis totally went over my head, but it sounded very cool. (K very cleverly has his guests stagger their arrivals so that each different group of friends is at the party for a different block of time. Sneaky.)
On my way back home to bake another cake for party number two, I was stopped in the courtyard of my building by an man who asked me to come talk with him and his friends. I was like, "Um... yeah, no, I have to go home." But he was kind of insistant in a non-creepy way, and because he was about 60 and wearing a kippah I figured it couldn't hurt. I followed him to a room on the rez-de-chausse, where he and three other kippah-toting men were finishing a Shabbbas lunch. We talked for a while, and every so often they'd offer me food or coffee or whatever, but I kept saying no. Finally, I couldn't resist the challah on the table, and asked if I could have some. They were like, "How do you know challah?" "Je suis juive," I said. They all exclaimed and laughed and the man who had invited me in looked very smug; apparently, he had guessed that I was Jewish from "mes gestes." So that opened up a whole nother can o' worms - I ended up staying for nearly two hours, talking Jew shop with these men and eating challah. One of them, the first, told me he wanted his son to marry a Jewish girl like me - and then he invited me to Shabbas dinner at his house next week. Sneaky. Another, a little older than the first, lived most of the year in Jerusalem. I knew that most Israelis of a certain age were very anti-Palestine, but I didn't realize how rabidly anti-Palestinian they were! This man was insane; when I pointed out that the wall didn't fix any long-term issues, he got very agitated and said, "Why do you not want us to protect our children? Thay are coming in and killing our children. How can you tell us we do not have the right to protect ourselves?" Okay, fair point, but the Israeli army kills Palestinian civillians and children all the time - what about them? Obviously I didn't say that out loud, but. Anyway, it was very very interesting. I hope I manage to make it back to lunch with them next week!
The second (or third, if you will) party of the day was hosted by K's sister, Julie. She and her friends had just finished the Bac and were celebrating. (Taking the Bac is kind of like doing the SAT Is twice plus three SAT IIs all in one week. Yikes.) I took the train 40 minutes of of Paris into the beautiful western suburbs. It was so bizarre to see stars and houses, actual houses! I had a great time; we barbequed and ate pie and watermelon and it was lovely. Best quote of the night came at the end, as K and his mother drove me and a few other guests back to the train station: "The problem with the suburbs," he said, "is that every town has a chateau." Problem? What? Okay, with this town it was definitely a problem; their chateau was hideous. In theory, though, it sounds pretty sweet!
The brunch was tons o' fun. I didn't stay till the end because I was party hopping like a frog on New Year's Eve, but he invited a different crowd at the begining than usual, so it was nice to make new friends. Most of these cats were ENS - École Normale Supérieure - masters students; I talked to one girl who was studying the morality of infants. The explanation of her thesis totally went over my head, but it sounded very cool. (K very cleverly has his guests stagger their arrivals so that each different group of friends is at the party for a different block of time. Sneaky.)
On my way back home to bake another cake for party number two, I was stopped in the courtyard of my building by an man who asked me to come talk with him and his friends. I was like, "Um... yeah, no, I have to go home." But he was kind of insistant in a non-creepy way, and because he was about 60 and wearing a kippah I figured it couldn't hurt. I followed him to a room on the rez-de-chausse, where he and three other kippah-toting men were finishing a Shabbbas lunch. We talked for a while, and every so often they'd offer me food or coffee or whatever, but I kept saying no. Finally, I couldn't resist the challah on the table, and asked if I could have some. They were like, "How do you know challah?" "Je suis juive," I said. They all exclaimed and laughed and the man who had invited me in looked very smug; apparently, he had guessed that I was Jewish from "mes gestes." So that opened up a whole nother can o' worms - I ended up staying for nearly two hours, talking Jew shop with these men and eating challah. One of them, the first, told me he wanted his son to marry a Jewish girl like me - and then he invited me to Shabbas dinner at his house next week. Sneaky. Another, a little older than the first, lived most of the year in Jerusalem. I knew that most Israelis of a certain age were very anti-Palestine, but I didn't realize how rabidly anti-Palestinian they were! This man was insane; when I pointed out that the wall didn't fix any long-term issues, he got very agitated and said, "Why do you not want us to protect our children? Thay are coming in and killing our children. How can you tell us we do not have the right to protect ourselves?" Okay, fair point, but the Israeli army kills Palestinian civillians and children all the time - what about them? Obviously I didn't say that out loud, but. Anyway, it was very very interesting. I hope I manage to make it back to lunch with them next week!
The second (or third, if you will) party of the day was hosted by K's sister, Julie. She and her friends had just finished the Bac and were celebrating. (Taking the Bac is kind of like doing the SAT Is twice plus three SAT IIs all in one week. Yikes.) I took the train 40 minutes of of Paris into the beautiful western suburbs. It was so bizarre to see stars and houses, actual houses! I had a great time; we barbequed and ate pie and watermelon and it was lovely. Best quote of the night came at the end, as K and his mother drove me and a few other guests back to the train station: "The problem with the suburbs," he said, "is that every town has a chateau." Problem? What? Okay, with this town it was definitely a problem; their chateau was hideous. In theory, though, it sounds pretty sweet!
Saturday, June 16, 2007
ani lo mitaberit ivrit
A few months ago I took an four new English students. I now have Armelle (age 7), Clement and Thomas (16 year old twins), Arnaud (a 30-something lawyer), and Julia (age 12). I've been having the greatest time tutoring them!
Armelle is the little girl I've had since February. Since she's only 7, most of the English we're learning together is by rote, but we have a lot of fun anyway. Today we went over question words - who, what, where, when, why, how, and the ever important phrase "what happened?" - and played reporter. We took turns being the journalist and the policeman, and made up news stories in French, using the English question words. Now that I've discovered what an amazing imagination Armelle has, we've been doing a lot more games like this that demand creativity. In one of the rounds where I was the policeman on the scene, Armelle asked me what had happened. I replied, "Armelle fell in love with François." She shook her head gravely and said, "No, not François. Lucien!" It was the funniest thing.
Clement and Thomas, who I see individually, just meet with me for an hour of conversation a week. They have a very good grasp of the language, but are going to Andover for a summer program in July and want to practice colloquial English. They've been recommending me bands and underground concert venues - I feel like such an old lady for not having been to these places yet!
Arnaud is fantastic. As a lawyer for top European private equity firm, he does a lot of work with London, but his English fluency is pretty much limited to the written word and his grasp of complex grammar is, like mine, tenuous. An English teacher at a girls' boarding school just outside of Paris meets with him once a week and they do real grammar and vocab work together, and then I meet with him once a week and we review, do reading and reading comprehension, and practice conversation. We've been reading Frankenstein, and had an amazing discussion about the man/God, creation, nature, and goodness/evil/original sin. It was very cool.
Julia sees the same English teacher, and meets with me once a week just for conversation. She's 12 and a little shy, so sometimes it's hard to draw her out, but once she starts talking she's on fire. I feel so victorious when I get her going, when she forgets to be nervous about speaking in English and just runs with it!
Armelle is the little girl I've had since February. Since she's only 7, most of the English we're learning together is by rote, but we have a lot of fun anyway. Today we went over question words - who, what, where, when, why, how, and the ever important phrase "what happened?" - and played reporter. We took turns being the journalist and the policeman, and made up news stories in French, using the English question words. Now that I've discovered what an amazing imagination Armelle has, we've been doing a lot more games like this that demand creativity. In one of the rounds where I was the policeman on the scene, Armelle asked me what had happened. I replied, "Armelle fell in love with François." She shook her head gravely and said, "No, not François. Lucien!" It was the funniest thing.
Clement and Thomas, who I see individually, just meet with me for an hour of conversation a week. They have a very good grasp of the language, but are going to Andover for a summer program in July and want to practice colloquial English. They've been recommending me bands and underground concert venues - I feel like such an old lady for not having been to these places yet!
Arnaud is fantastic. As a lawyer for top European private equity firm, he does a lot of work with London, but his English fluency is pretty much limited to the written word and his grasp of complex grammar is, like mine, tenuous. An English teacher at a girls' boarding school just outside of Paris meets with him once a week and they do real grammar and vocab work together, and then I meet with him once a week and we review, do reading and reading comprehension, and practice conversation. We've been reading Frankenstein, and had an amazing discussion about the man/God, creation, nature, and goodness/evil/original sin. It was very cool.
Julia sees the same English teacher, and meets with me once a week just for conversation. She's 12 and a little shy, so sometimes it's hard to draw her out, but once she starts talking she's on fire. I feel so victorious when I get her going, when she forgets to be nervous about speaking in English and just runs with it!
if you want this choice position, have a cheery disopsition...
I said I'd blog about my new family, but, in retrospect (and outside-help-spect), I realize that it may not be terribly politic.
This means that I won't be blogging much for the next month, as the family will pretty much be my life until they leave for their country house on July 7.
So, to quench your thirst for all things Betsy, I recommend you read Emma McLaughlin and Nora Roberts' The Nanny Diaries. However, to get a fuller picture of my month, insert "Betsy" when they write "Nanny," "three children" when they write "one child," and "the 16th arrondissement" when they write "the upper east side."
This means that I won't be blogging much for the next month, as the family will pretty much be my life until they leave for their country house on July 7.
So, to quench your thirst for all things Betsy, I recommend you read Emma McLaughlin and Nora Roberts' The Nanny Diaries. However, to get a fuller picture of my month, insert "Betsy" when they write "Nanny," "three children" when they write "one child," and "the 16th arrondissement" when they write "the upper east side."
Thursday, June 14, 2007
je t'aime
It's kind of incredible that I live in this city that so many dream/write/sing/[insert action verb here] about. When I leave my new babysitting job (expect a long post about that soon) and walk down the street to the métro, the first thing I see is Trocadero and, below it, the Eiffel Tower. It's unbelievable.
Will be seeing "Paris, je t'aime" tonight. Expect also a review.
The only slightly jarring thing about Paris is that it's not an independent city in my mind. I mean, I don't think I'll ever be able to think about Paris without thinking about Harry. Okay, maybe when I'm a happily-married soccer mom with 2 kids, a lab, and a Volvo - never a minivan! - somewhere in the Washington suburbs, I'll think of Paris just as a place where I spent a perspective-changing six months when I was twenty, but for now, Harry is my Paris experience. I bring this up not because I like to talk about Harry (although I do) or because I want you all to know I've got the sweetest guy (which I do), but because with the advent of summer has come the inevitable question, from every Jean and Marie we meet as well as from a lot of you: What happens when I leave Paris at the end of July?
We'll be breaking up. It's a bummer.
Will be seeing "Paris, je t'aime" tonight. Expect also a review.
The only slightly jarring thing about Paris is that it's not an independent city in my mind. I mean, I don't think I'll ever be able to think about Paris without thinking about Harry. Okay, maybe when I'm a happily-married soccer mom with 2 kids, a lab, and a Volvo - never a minivan! - somewhere in the Washington suburbs, I'll think of Paris just as a place where I spent a perspective-changing six months when I was twenty, but for now, Harry is my Paris experience. I bring this up not because I like to talk about Harry (although I do) or because I want you all to know I've got the sweetest guy (which I do), but because with the advent of summer has come the inevitable question, from every Jean and Marie we meet as well as from a lot of you: What happens when I leave Paris at the end of July?
We'll be breaking up. It's a bummer.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
catch-up
Nana called my blog "anemic;" blame her for the over-compensation.
Today was my last day with the lovely Ithaca family. The father is a physics professor at Cornell, and he brought his family to Paris for a month for a workshop he was attending at the Curie Institute. I worked with the family 9-12 hours a week; usually I was just babysitting Lily, who will be three on August 29 (my birthday!), but sometimes the mother and I would go on field trips with Lily and her 3 month old brother Wolfgang. Paris is a nightmare city to navigate when it's unfamiliar to you, so I can't imagine trying to get around with a stroller, an infant who is nursing constantly, and a metro that is unaquainted with the Americans with Disabilities Act. I had a great time with Sue, and I think she really liked having someone over the age of three to talk to oduring the days! Wolfie was a cutie; he's young enough that in just this past month I got to watch him learn to roll onto his belly from his back and hold himself up a little. (An infant with the hiccups is the funniest thing EVER.) Since we often went off on our own, Lily and I totally bonded, and last Friday she told me she loved me.
The best part about the sitting, though, was that it gave me a chance to do all the tourist things I hadn't done; and to explore further things I had. We went to the Cluny Museum, the Catacombs, the Eiffel Tower, Sainte Chappelle, Notre Dame a million times (she loved the stained-glass windows), the Tour Montparnasse, and the Louvre a million times. Lily was obsessed with the Louvre; she called it the Triangle Museum and was totally happy just hanging out under the big pyramid in the lobby. (Bonus to travelling with a stroller: you don't have to wait in long security lines!)
The whole experience was really fantastic. Lily was a doll, and I'll totally miss her, and Wolfie was a delight to cuddle, but it was the mom who tied it all together. She never made me feel like I was intruding, or like her way of doing things was the best/only way, or like I was the "help." Whoever gets her full-time back in Ithaca once Wolfie gets a bit older will avoir de la chance.
Today was my last day with the lovely Ithaca family. The father is a physics professor at Cornell, and he brought his family to Paris for a month for a workshop he was attending at the Curie Institute. I worked with the family 9-12 hours a week; usually I was just babysitting Lily, who will be three on August 29 (my birthday!), but sometimes the mother and I would go on field trips with Lily and her 3 month old brother Wolfgang. Paris is a nightmare city to navigate when it's unfamiliar to you, so I can't imagine trying to get around with a stroller, an infant who is nursing constantly, and a metro that is unaquainted with the Americans with Disabilities Act. I had a great time with Sue, and I think she really liked having someone over the age of three to talk to oduring the days! Wolfie was a cutie; he's young enough that in just this past month I got to watch him learn to roll onto his belly from his back and hold himself up a little. (An infant with the hiccups is the funniest thing EVER.) Since we often went off on our own, Lily and I totally bonded, and last Friday she told me she loved me.
The best part about the sitting, though, was that it gave me a chance to do all the tourist things I hadn't done; and to explore further things I had. We went to the Cluny Museum, the Catacombs, the Eiffel Tower, Sainte Chappelle, Notre Dame a million times (she loved the stained-glass windows), the Tour Montparnasse, and the Louvre a million times. Lily was obsessed with the Louvre; she called it the Triangle Museum and was totally happy just hanging out under the big pyramid in the lobby. (Bonus to travelling with a stroller: you don't have to wait in long security lines!)
The whole experience was really fantastic. Lily was a doll, and I'll totally miss her, and Wolfie was a delight to cuddle, but it was the mom who tied it all together. She never made me feel like I was intruding, or like her way of doing things was the best/only way, or like I was the "help." Whoever gets her full-time back in Ithaca once Wolfie gets a bit older will avoir de la chance.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
pop culture for parents
Dear Michelle,
Haven't you seen "Clueless" or "10 Things I Hate about You" or pretty much any Disney Chanel Movie? I guess not; if you had, you would know already that being cool to your kid is never going to happen.
Sincerely,
Betsy
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/07/fashion/07Cyber.html?pagewanted=1&ei=5087%0A&em&en=fab074711e530c6e&ex=1181534400
Haven't you seen "Clueless" or "10 Things I Hate about You" or pretty much any Disney Chanel Movie? I guess not; if you had, you would know already that being cool to your kid is never going to happen.
Sincerely,
Betsy
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/07/fashion/07Cyber.html?pagewanted=1&ei=5087%0A&em&en=fab074711e530c6e&ex=1181534400
is that a compliment?
I hate it when men, while hitting on me, tell me that I'm beautiful, and then tell me that they don't like skinny women. It's so bizarre! First of all, calling me fat isn't going to get you a date. Second of all, explaining that you like a woman with a little sum'in' sum'in - they almost always follow up with descriptions of how and why - isn't going to get you a date. Third of all... you're not going to get a date.
Monday, June 4, 2007
procrastination nation
or, putting up photos rather than revising my belle epoque paper on maupassant
(Harry and me, at lunch with his parents a few weeks ago)
(Saturday, midnight)
(with the grand Rosenblums in Berlin)
(Harry and me, at lunch with his parents a few weeks ago)
(Saturday, midnight)
(with the grand Rosenblums in Berlin)
argh?
I absolutely need to read another well-written book. The Gopnik has faded and my writing style has returned to pot.
Hence the angsty, feelingsy post. Sorry about that. Anyone have any recommendations?
Hence the angsty, feelingsy post. Sorry about that. Anyone have any recommendations?
the strangest dream
There's this movie I really want to see called "Paris Je T'aime." The film is made up of 18 unrelated vignettes by different directors, all shot in Paris. I've heard both good and bad things about it, but I need to see it. I watched the trailer nearly half a dozen times early this morning - it was the strangest thing, I couldn't stop.
I think I'm somehow homesick for Paris already.
Yesterday, for only like the fourth time ever, I was homesick for Washington, DC. I'm blaming Ned and Trinity Sunday; the hymns at AmCath were very Nat'l Cathedral/NCS hymns (Love Divine, O God Our Help in Ages Past, etc), and we did some Britten (I wasn't a huge fan of it, but I couldn't stop thinking of that time Chorale did "Rejoice in the Lamb"). Following the service, because AmCath is technically the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, we had a Name Day picnic outside. It was so twilight zoney; most of the adults were speaking English, most of the children French, and I was standing in a group of other singers who were mostly British. After that, I saw the new Pirates movie with Rob - but it was dubbed in French. This morning, Harry left to go back to England for a week, and tonight Alex Evans comes to visit for the end of her Grand European Tour.
You know that scene in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" where what's-his-face and Kate Winslet are running through Grand Central and all around them people are disappearing? I kind of feel like that - except it's not people, it's homes.
Even though I pride myself on being a New Yorker, I don't really miss New York at all. For some reason, here in Paris, I miss my high school experiences. I have no idea why (especially since I hated French in high school), but when I long for somewhere else, it's always DC, I'm always 17, and it's always a sunny fall morning when the air is crisp but only the maples on Brookeville Road have started burning. And yet, when I think of "home," I see my new apartment in my mind's eye. I've only lived here for a week and a half... how is this home already? And my old apartment - five months, and enough poo went down to fill a memoire, but it was never really home. What the hell is going on here?
I think part of the reason I'm in such a hurry to finish school is because I want to settle down. I don't mean settle DOWN settle down, I just mean that I want a home that is mine, all mine, not a dorm room, not a sublet, not even 365 West End Ave. I want somewhere that is mine and that will be mine for a very long time, somewhere where I know exactly why that Ikea bookshelf is tilted and why the green in the Pottery Barn sofa is faded only on the right side. Somewhere I can have vanilla beans just chilling in the pantry because I know I'll use them eventually. Somewhere I can put frozen chicken stock in the freezer, somewhere I don't have to worry about an un-housebroken dog peeing, somewhere I can want to vedge when I'm home sick.
Uprooted. That's the word I'm looking for. I love Paris, I love New York, and I love Washington, and I'm uprooted. Present tense.
I think I'm somehow homesick for Paris already.
Yesterday, for only like the fourth time ever, I was homesick for Washington, DC. I'm blaming Ned and Trinity Sunday; the hymns at AmCath were very Nat'l Cathedral/NCS hymns (Love Divine, O God Our Help in Ages Past, etc), and we did some Britten (I wasn't a huge fan of it, but I couldn't stop thinking of that time Chorale did "Rejoice in the Lamb"). Following the service, because AmCath is technically the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity, we had a Name Day picnic outside. It was so twilight zoney; most of the adults were speaking English, most of the children French, and I was standing in a group of other singers who were mostly British. After that, I saw the new Pirates movie with Rob - but it was dubbed in French. This morning, Harry left to go back to England for a week, and tonight Alex Evans comes to visit for the end of her Grand European Tour.
You know that scene in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" where what's-his-face and Kate Winslet are running through Grand Central and all around them people are disappearing? I kind of feel like that - except it's not people, it's homes.
Even though I pride myself on being a New Yorker, I don't really miss New York at all. For some reason, here in Paris, I miss my high school experiences. I have no idea why (especially since I hated French in high school), but when I long for somewhere else, it's always DC, I'm always 17, and it's always a sunny fall morning when the air is crisp but only the maples on Brookeville Road have started burning. And yet, when I think of "home," I see my new apartment in my mind's eye. I've only lived here for a week and a half... how is this home already? And my old apartment - five months, and enough poo went down to fill a memoire, but it was never really home. What the hell is going on here?
I think part of the reason I'm in such a hurry to finish school is because I want to settle down. I don't mean settle DOWN settle down, I just mean that I want a home that is mine, all mine, not a dorm room, not a sublet, not even 365 West End Ave. I want somewhere that is mine and that will be mine for a very long time, somewhere where I know exactly why that Ikea bookshelf is tilted and why the green in the Pottery Barn sofa is faded only on the right side. Somewhere I can have vanilla beans just chilling in the pantry because I know I'll use them eventually. Somewhere I can put frozen chicken stock in the freezer, somewhere I don't have to worry about an un-housebroken dog peeing, somewhere I can want to vedge when I'm home sick.
Uprooted. That's the word I'm looking for. I love Paris, I love New York, and I love Washington, and I'm uprooted. Present tense.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Remember how I claimed the NYTimes is stalking me?
I rest my case.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/03/fashion/03cupcake.html?pagewanted=1
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/06/03/fashion/03cupcake.html?pagewanted=1
Friday, June 1, 2007
things to do before leaving Paris
a) play poohsticks on the seine*
b) have an affair with an older, married politician**
c) smoke an entire pack of cigarettes while drinking an espresso in a dive café***
d) go to Queen - not on ladies night****
e) go on a date with an actual Frenchman, not a Tunisian or a Brit**
f) bake a successful soufflé
* while watching carefully for traffic
** sorry, Harry, but it won't mean anything
*** i keed, i keed.
**** i.e. the gay club
b) have an affair with an older, married politician**
c) smoke an entire pack of cigarettes while drinking an espresso in a dive café***
d) go to Queen - not on ladies night****
e) go on a date with an actual Frenchman, not a Tunisian or a Brit**
f) bake a successful soufflé
* while watching carefully for traffic
** sorry, Harry, but it won't mean anything
*** i keed, i keed.
**** i.e. the gay club
debeo, debere, debui, debitus
[Latin; owe, ought. Aren't you impressed I remember this? I am!]
Basically, I really need to get caught up on the blog fo' real, yo. None of this "I'm vaguely writing something..." poo. We'll start with the new apartment/quartier.
I still can't transfer photos from my camera to my laptop, so you're going to have to settle for a really, really well-written description. (My new favorite website smallblueprinter doesn't let you save. Bummer.) So. My building, 10 rue Saulnier, is darling. You walk in (door code required, obviously), and there's a big beautiful courtyard in front of you, full of plants. They've hidden the trash cans and mailboxes, so it's really pretty. Turn to the left just before you enter the courtyard, and go up escalier B to the first floor - the second, to you American isolationists. I'm the apartment on the left. You walk into the center hallway of my apartment and see a closed door at the end of the hallway. That's my landlady's room; she usually rents my room and another to a student and acts as kind of a host mom, but she's not here this summer so the apartment is all mine and we won't bother with her room. If you go into the first room on the left after entering Chez Elizabeth (sounds way better than "Chez Betsy") you'll be in the kitchen. It's sizable - two can fit in without killing each other with a knife/hot oil/weapon of choice. In the corner is the toilet - in its own little closet, of course. (I still think it's stupid to have the WC and the bathroom in two separate places. Really discourages washing the hands afterwards. Silly, unhygenic French people.) Anyway, the kitchen has everything that makes me happy: a full-sized fridge, a four range gas burner, a small oven (toaster sized, but ça suffit), and, glory of glories, a dishwasher. You can do good things in this kitchen. (In fact, a few nights ago Harry and I made magret de canard in a white wine sauce with peas and roasted potatoes. It was heavenly.) Moving on. The room next to the cuisine - second door on the left - is the salle de bains and, let me tell you, it shows my old apartment's bathroom how these things are to be done. Full tub, sink, washing machine, closet, enough room for two people to not kill each other... you get the idea. Moving on: if you make a right from the front door, you are presented with another little hallway, at the end of which are a charming little writing desk and a mirror. Just off the hallway, again to the right, is my little chambre de coucher. Really, there's not much room for anything but couchering; you can just barely walk between the wall and my bed. There is room for a closet and shelves and a night table, though, and it's all pink and white, so it's lovely. If you pass the hallway once you've gotten into the apartment, the sitting room is the last room on the right. I call it the sitting room because, during the year, it's someone's bedroom, but for me it's livingroom/diningroom/study. It has a sofabed, a closet and shelves, and a table, and it's all done in blue and white. It, too, is lovely. So... that's my apartment. It makes me happy.
My quartier, too, makes me happy. The 9th is much more residential than the 5th - I don't think I've seen one tourist since I moved in. (When K came to visit, his first comment upon turning into my street was, "Welcome to the real Paris!") There are a couple of boucheries and fromageries and wonderful fruitstands as well as the best French traiteur ever on the street parallel to mine, and a couple supermarkets within a five minute walk in case I need to live on more than bread, cheese, magret de canard, and mangoes (which I'm doubting). This is a really Jewish area, too, so there are a bunch of kesher bakeries and boulangeries and restaurants on the street behind mine. Check out the map in a post from a couple weeks ago - you can see six synagogues just in that one square. It's intense. The métro, Cadet, is on line 7, which is kind if a pain and means I have to take a bus or transfer at least once, to get anywhere, but I'm much closer to the metro now than I was at 11 Victor Cousin. So, all, in all, my quality of living has gone from like +3 to +303.
Excellent.
More later. Must refuel. I'm thinking mangoes.
Basically, I really need to get caught up on the blog fo' real, yo. None of this "I'm vaguely writing something..." poo. We'll start with the new apartment/quartier.
I still can't transfer photos from my camera to my laptop, so you're going to have to settle for a really, really well-written description. (My new favorite website smallblueprinter doesn't let you save. Bummer.) So. My building, 10 rue Saulnier, is darling. You walk in (door code required, obviously), and there's a big beautiful courtyard in front of you, full of plants. They've hidden the trash cans and mailboxes, so it's really pretty. Turn to the left just before you enter the courtyard, and go up escalier B to the first floor - the second, to you American isolationists. I'm the apartment on the left. You walk into the center hallway of my apartment and see a closed door at the end of the hallway. That's my landlady's room; she usually rents my room and another to a student and acts as kind of a host mom, but she's not here this summer so the apartment is all mine and we won't bother with her room. If you go into the first room on the left after entering Chez Elizabeth (sounds way better than "Chez Betsy") you'll be in the kitchen. It's sizable - two can fit in without killing each other with a knife/hot oil/weapon of choice. In the corner is the toilet - in its own little closet, of course. (I still think it's stupid to have the WC and the bathroom in two separate places. Really discourages washing the hands afterwards. Silly, unhygenic French people.) Anyway, the kitchen has everything that makes me happy: a full-sized fridge, a four range gas burner, a small oven (toaster sized, but ça suffit), and, glory of glories, a dishwasher. You can do good things in this kitchen. (In fact, a few nights ago Harry and I made magret de canard in a white wine sauce with peas and roasted potatoes. It was heavenly.) Moving on. The room next to the cuisine - second door on the left - is the salle de bains and, let me tell you, it shows my old apartment's bathroom how these things are to be done. Full tub, sink, washing machine, closet, enough room for two people to not kill each other... you get the idea. Moving on: if you make a right from the front door, you are presented with another little hallway, at the end of which are a charming little writing desk and a mirror. Just off the hallway, again to the right, is my little chambre de coucher. Really, there's not much room for anything but couchering; you can just barely walk between the wall and my bed. There is room for a closet and shelves and a night table, though, and it's all pink and white, so it's lovely. If you pass the hallway once you've gotten into the apartment, the sitting room is the last room on the right. I call it the sitting room because, during the year, it's someone's bedroom, but for me it's livingroom/diningroom/study. It has a sofabed, a closet and shelves, and a table, and it's all done in blue and white. It, too, is lovely. So... that's my apartment. It makes me happy.
My quartier, too, makes me happy. The 9th is much more residential than the 5th - I don't think I've seen one tourist since I moved in. (When K came to visit, his first comment upon turning into my street was, "Welcome to the real Paris!") There are a couple of boucheries and fromageries and wonderful fruitstands as well as the best French traiteur ever on the street parallel to mine, and a couple supermarkets within a five minute walk in case I need to live on more than bread, cheese, magret de canard, and mangoes (which I'm doubting). This is a really Jewish area, too, so there are a bunch of kesher bakeries and boulangeries and restaurants on the street behind mine. Check out the map in a post from a couple weeks ago - you can see six synagogues just in that one square. It's intense. The métro, Cadet, is on line 7, which is kind if a pain and means I have to take a bus or transfer at least once, to get anywhere, but I'm much closer to the metro now than I was at 11 Victor Cousin. So, all, in all, my quality of living has gone from like +3 to +303.
Excellent.
More later. Must refuel. I'm thinking mangoes.
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