jeudi, mai 27, 2004

Romantic French Wedding Songs

Well, kids, I'm back from France, where I spent a nice ten days. The weather was gorgeous (sunny and 75+ degrees even in Paris) and I had more than my share of fun, despite having been infected with Willie the janitor's cold a day before I left. (From an innocent whassup hand shake, thank you very much you dirty minded people.)

What I gathered from this trip:

The funny raunchy girl working in the chocolate shop on the Rue de Rennes is my kinda gal, and if I get to go back, I will look her up. We could definitely hang.

Pointy high heeled sandals look really good in black and bubblegum pink, but they really suck for walking to the park and back.

The cafe/restaurant near headquarters has the most overpriced watery coffee in all of France, but damn that little spin your spoon and flirt with the guy next to you ad for colored contact lenses that is encased in the cafe tables is a clever little idea. Not that I need any encouraging to be outrageously flirtatious. Especially in France.

Out of the three (count them, THREE, including the one I just got this trip) job offers I have gotten from Paris headquarters, I have never actually had an interview. It's always been more like let me tell you about this job to see if you are interested. I could get used to this. Now if only the French Labor Department adopts this attitude, things will be just peachy.

For some inexplicable reason, most French weddings I have ever attended have played "YMCA" and "I Will Survive" during the reception. There is a part of me that remembers these songs from birthday parties at roller skating rinks full of boys in headbands and girls in leg warmers scarfing down neopolitan ice cream bars, and I can explain it away by concentrating on the nostalgic for the seventies party-like atmosphere, but most of me associates this with flamingly gay festivities. If they had started playing "It's Raining Men" I think I would have really lost it.

Why is it that I can wear the same makeup, clothes and shoes in Atlanta, but in Paris I feel glamorous and beautiful? Now who ever heard of a better argument for moving than that?

More later, kids.

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