Hey, guess what everyone!? I’M NOT DEAD. YAY. I know you were worried. Except if you follow me on Twitter, you’d know I absolutely was not dead, but have continued tweeting complete nonsense that has no value in any way. Oh hey, self-deprecation, you’re here, too! It’s a big ‘ol reunion. We got self-deprecation, inconsistent blogging, and CAPS LOCK! It’s good to know I’m still me.

So, what has been going on? A lot actually. Like, maybe prepare to have your mind blown. Unless, of course, you follow me on Twitter (again) then you already know all of this, which is to say, your mind will not be blown, but maybe just pretend it is for the sake of my fragile ego, ok? Great.

Over the past however many months of blogging silence, I have gotten engaged, met Rob Lowe and, launched an iOS app. Let’s break it down, y’all.

Engaged: Back in Paris, my love and I decided it was time for us to start the visa process and get hitched. We’ve been together over a year and, believe you me, this man is the love of my life. Not sure how that even happened because he’s sort of the opposite of who I envisioned myself with, but oh dear, the heart wants what it wants and wow, does it surely want this man. After we decided to get married, we headed over to the Champs-Élysées where he proceeded to buy me a beautiful engagement ring from Swarovski. It was romantic in that it was as non-traditional as we could get. No big scene. No diamond. Just two people walking along the most famous street in Paris, totally in love and totally excited to spend the rest of their lives together.

Met Rob Lowe: The other day, while having dinner with my family in Santa Monica (Oh, yeah, I’ve been back in California for a couple months. That happened, too.), we looked over and saw Rob Lowe (ahem, Chris Traeger) walking into our same restaurant. I started to get the Starstruck Shakes and stalked him watched him as he sat at a table alone. That was my chance! I marched into the restaurant, walked up to him and said, “ROB LOWE: I NEEDED TO COME OVER AND SAY HELLO I READ YOUR BOOK YOU’RE FANTASTIC OKAY ENJOY YOUR DINNER MY NAME IS JAMIE NICE TO MEET YOU BYE.”  And then he told me to, “Keep watching Parks & Rec!” Yeah bro, like I could stop watching Parks & Rec. COME ON, ROB LOWE.

Launched an iOS app: Do you like wallpapers that don’t suck? How about ones that compliment you? How about an inspirational quote every time you hit that lock button? WE GOT YOU COVERED. Paper’d was launched on Monday of this week and bitches, in the words of Randy Jackson, we blew it out the box! In our first week, Mashable did a huge feature article on us, then we were featured on the App Store’s official Facebook page, then the actual times one million App Store featured us as a New and Noteworthy app. Needless to say, I AM FREAKING THE EFF OUT. We have haters already! WE HAVE ARRIVED!

Paper’d is the brainchild of Nicole and I. We had the idea to make an awesome wallpaper app about two years ago and it is FINALLY released. It has been a process and I couldn’t be more proud of Nicole and I (and our development team, Xhatch!). I’m not sure how Nicole or the guys of Xhatch, David and Adam, didn’t murder me in the process of creating this app, because, hey, did you guys know I was a raging pixel perfectionist? But, I guess the perfectionism of the entire team has paid off, because we’ve had over 22.6k downloads IN FOUR DAYS.

So, if you haven’t already, download it! It’s just for the iPhone and iPod touch, so if you have one of those, grab the app. It’s free! Then, rate it, preferably as 5 stars, because then we would be very happy and Apple will be very happy and it will make you happy to make a lot of people happy, so it’s a win-win-win.

And, if you’re interested in the full process of how this app came about, check out the infographic we put together in order to explain how insane this process has been. Share it, love it, do all the things! ALL THE EXCITEMENT!!

Every single time I tweet about how I’m having a bad day, there are always a few people who reply to me saying basically the same thing: “You live in Paris! How could you ever have a bad day?!” How could I have had a bad/frustrating day? Oh, let me count the ways: I’ve been to a grocery store. I’ve spoken just, at all. I’ve been on the metro. I needed Epsom salts. I needed aspirin. I needed to get somewhere fast. I needed something done fast. I needed to recharge my monthly metro pass. I needed to find walnuts. I needed something normal, but instead almost bought tongue.

To me, there is nothing more intimidating/frightening than the meat/things-that-used-to-be-living-but-now-can-be-eaten aisle/stall at a grocery store/outdoor market. Americans are clearly not very inventive with their animal proteins or it seems that the French will eat any part of an animal, no matter what animal that actually is.

SAUCE CANNOT COVER UP EVERYTHING, FRANCE.

And don’t even get me started on the oceanic area of an outdoor market. There are things I didn’t even know existed in the sea and definitely some of them do not look edible. How do these people understand how to cook a weird shiny white fish/shrimp/clam/thing? Is that a clam? A mussel? A barnacle!? What are you, weird sea creatures that are oddly edible! I’m amazed and horrified by you! Stop looking at me with your dead, open fish eyes. Why is everything served either raw or still intact in France? Who’s a girl gotta blow around here to get a fish without its eyes looking up at me before I tear open its flesh to nourish myself?

Also, why are you eating raw hamburger meat with a raw egg on top and CALLING THIS A DELICACY? This is disgusting, unhygienic, and really fucking lazy. The French are known for their cooking AND YET one of their most famous dishes is uncooked meat aside a plate full of fries. OH YOU GO GET DOWN WITH YOUR BAD COOKING SELF, FRANCE. I could nevvvvvverrrrr master raw meat.

Steak tartare? How about steak throw the eff up in a wine carafe?

Although, I will say something. Goddamn you France and your goddamn amazing damn baguettes. And the pastries! And the macarons! Stop it. And your insistence on me drinking Perrier, which fuck you, I LOVE. Now, I’m paying money for fancy water and I feel like a huge asshole. There are people in Somalia who don’t even have water and here I am, Miss Prissy Pants, drinking her Perrier with a lemon wedge. A LEMON WEDGE? REALLY.

Are you happy now, France? Somalia hates me. I’m spending half my budget on fancy water. And one of your representatives who works at the metro station shouted at me in front of fifty other people because I was stupidly attempting to get information from the information window.

At this point, I don’t even know who I hate more: you or myself.

Today, it was a slightly chilly morning and I decided to head up the hill to the little grocery store. I have an obsession with these little pre-packaged coffees, mainly because it’s the only time, besides paying exorbitant amounts for Starbucks, that I can have an iced coffee. But, the grocery store next to my apartment hardly ever has these coffees in stock, more likely than not because I buy them all in one swoop. What I’m trying to say here is that I end up going to Franprix every other day in hopes of, like an extinct animal, spotting one of my precious Caffè Lattes. (It’s Swiss! And delicious! I just Google searched it!)

So, I went today and, feeling optimistic, headed to the refrigerated aisle. And, as I rounded the corner, I saw, all lined up, fully-stocked, my glorious coffees! I covertly put eight into my basket, leaving two on the shelves, even though I didn’t want to, but thought it was dignified to do so. Oh, how I was so happy with my dignity. You just wait, guys. Spoiler Alert: I shoulda taken the last two, because my dignity does not stay in tact for very long.

I grab a few other things then head to cash out at the register. I pile my random purchases onto the belt and rush over to bag my own groceries. In France, generally the cashiers do not bag your groceries, so you’ll have to, all at once, unload your cart, pay, and bag your goods before the numerous people waiting in line kill you. Actually, that’s a lie, I really don’t know the patience level of the French. I’m guessing it has to be pretty high, since everything they do is painfully inefficient. But, I digress.

I start bagging my groceries frantically when, all of a sudden, one of the coffees slip from my hand and what ends up happening is that I chuck it so high and so far that I question whether or not my real job should have been professional softball player. This thing had some serious height to it and it lands with a splat, spilling all the contents onto the floor. I yell, “Pardon!!” as I look at the cashier, who has the most shocked expression on his face, as if in the history of Paris having grocery stores, he has never, ever, ever once seen a person spill even one thing ever, ever. He looks at me and I sort of shrug thinking, “Well, what the fuck do you want me to do now? I’M SORRY I’M SUCH A SORE ON THE BEAUTIFUL GRACE OF THE FRENCH.”

But, he just keeps looking at me like I’m the most hideous person in existence mixed with, “What do I do now? As you know, people never spill anything in France, so I’m unprepared for this moment.”

After he’s done looking at me with his disdain and confusion, I do a mopping motion once I’ve picked up the cup and lid and placed both in the trash. He leaves the four people in line and goes to find a mop, returns with one and then, instead of having one of his coworkers help him, starts mopping up the coffee while EVERYONE WAITS IN LINE, INCLUDING ME BECAUSE I HAVEN’T PAID YET.

I try to find an ally, so I look at the guy behind me in line and do my signature charming shrug of the shoulders that conveys universally the sentiment of, “Oh, how silly life is!” And, this man who is buying four bottles of wine at ten in the morning says something to me in French that I think roughly translates into, “Is this your first time in the world?” Which, I think is the equivalent to, “Were you fucking born yesterday you American idiot? I hate you, I just want to buy my wine and go daydrink in peace, goddamnit.”

So, no ally, the cashier is MIA mopping in a way that makes you think he’s never mopped a day in his life before and, here I am, with all my groceries bagged and all the French people in line staring at me like I’m wearing a dunce hat that has the word “DUMBASS” written on it.

At this point, I was tempted to mop the coffee up for him but, I was so mortified and had lost so much of my dignity (see? told you…) that I just grabbed my change and ran out of there like I was being chased by angry drunk Frenchmen.

Needless to say, I’m going to stay inside my apartment the rest of the day and try to recharge whatever is left of my dignity and use whatever excess energy there is to plot for the destruction of all people who are total dicks.

PRODUCTIVE!

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Today, I had an hour Thai massage with a thirty minute hammam bath. Now, I did this mainly because I saw a LivingSocial coupon for it and thought, “Hey, that’s a good way to spend an afternoon.” Except, I didn’t really research what a “hammam bath” actually is because I (mistakenly) thought it was very relaxing and, well, bath-like. As in, I soak in water that is warm, sort of like a hot tub, but with less chlorine and semen. Oh, but why wouldn’t what should be a relaxing afternoon turn into another installment of the hilarity that is my life? That would just be like screwing with the general order of nature and we wouldn’t want to do that, would we?

Our story begins in a little Thai massage parlor in the deuxieme arrondisement. The first thing they gave me were plastic flip flops, extremely small “panties”, and a robe to wear while I walked to my “bath.” We walk downstairs and she leads me into a room that has a shower in the right corner and what looks to be a steam room ahead of me. She hands me a glass of water and then tells me she’ll be back in thirty minutes.

??

What the hell do I do now?

I undress and then take a shower, unsure of the order in which I’m meant to do things. Shower first? After steam room? Shower in between steams? Shower after? SOMEONE GUIDE ME.

After my shower, I grab the towel and seat cushion they provided me and head into THE HOTTEST ROOM EVER IN THE HISTORY OF HOT ROOMS NOT JOKING YOU THINK I’M JOKING AND BEING DRAMATIC? YOU’RE WRONG. SO HOT.

I sit there on my seat cushion that is made of leather (leather! too hot for leather!) and start toweling myself off, because I’m already sweating out my entire body’s supply of water after just two minutes. Wait, I’ve only been in here for two minutes? Holy shit. What do I do in here for thirty minutes? I’m going to die. Do people die in here? Is it possible? I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? Is it getting hotter? THIS IS TOO MUCH STEAM. 

As I sit there contemplating my imminent death, I think back to when I thought this was going to be a relaxing mineral bath of some sort. I wonder how naive I could be to believe such lies. Hammam BATH? Did you mean, bathing in your own sweat? Because, yeah, that’s more accurate.

Like, I’ve been in steam rooms and saunas before, but this one takes the hot, steamy cake. I was sweating within seconds. And, after five minutes, I wondered why the hell I had this seat cushion only to realize it was probably a pillow. So, I laid down, hoping that maybe I would be less hot in a more horizontal position, but quickly realized that all the sweat pooling on my face was now going into my eyes and so I quickly sat up, hoping that there was not a security camera that was watching me sit my ass on a pillow and then, upon realizing my mistake, then blinding myself with my own sweat.

Nothing about this blog post is attractive. I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE RELAXING.

To be fair though, when I eventually exited the death steam trap, my skin felt like the softest, most exfoliated version of whatever the fuck my skin was before. I then took a very cold shower, sending my body into, I’m sure, some sort of shock, exfoliated even further with the shower salts, and then put my robe back on and waited for the next installment of this very interesting experience.

I was then escorted into my massage area, where I was given what was actually one of the best massages I’ve ever had. Right up until I turned face up and the woman took off the towel from my chest and started to massage both my stomach and boobs while she was hovering over me, positioned not beside the massage table, but actually on top of it. I couldn’t open my eyes for fear that if I caught her eyes while she’s massaging my breasts, I may actually die from awkwardness and embarrassment. It was sort of like a time when you were having sex with someone you didn’t want to be having sex with and all you’re thinking is, “DON’T MAKE EYE CONTACT. WAIT FOR IT TO BE OVER.”

Not that that’s ever happened to me.

Never.

Uh.

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Today, I am breathing fire. Part of it is that today I want to strangle a person, but the other part is just that some days you wake up really angry, you know? I have no idea what that’s about or how you accumulate anger while sleeping, but it happens and it happened to me last night. I woke up on the figurative wrong side of the bed. However, circumstances of the day have not helped in easing my fire breathing. In fact, they’ve incensed the fire.

Take Exhibit A: Today, I needed a break from all the time I spend in my apartment because I work from home. So, I got on the metro and headed to Starbucks. I don’t care if you think that’s crazy to go to Starbucks in Paris; they’re the only place that serves iced coffee drinks and? It’s delicious. When I get to Starbucks, I order my drink, which I have ordered enough in France to now know how to say it in French perfectly. But, being the efficient machines that they are, the French run Starbucks like it’s an unruly farm. Woman takes my order and does she write it on a cup and hand it to a barista? No, she yells it and hopes the barista hears her. This is clearly more intelligent than the American way of writing the order down and putting it in the line with other orders. Yes, yelling, across twenty feet of counter space. Genius.

Then, I have to tell my order to the cashier, but I leave the “iced” part out, because it’s just not necessary. It’s the same price. After I pay, I go to wait in the clusterfuck that is the line of people waiting for their drinks. I hand my receipt to the barista and she gives me a hot caramel macchiato, which is wrong. I say to her, “Glacé! Pardon!” and does she say, “Désolé!” and make me a new drink? No, she glares at me with eyes intended to make me whimper and drink the hot coffee I don’t want. She yells something to the poor cashier that didn’t even take my order and sighs audibly while pouring out the macchiato into the sink. I can actually hear her eyes rolling in complete and utter disgust and annoyance.

In under two minutes, my drink is remade correctly. God, it’s not like I asked for a caramel Frappuccino and then for her to sing me Happy Birthday while she handed it to me. When my drink was finished, I watched it for at least three minutes just sitting there, waiting to have a lid on it. This annoyed, put-out barista reached for drinks behind my finished drink. She waited for other drinks to be finished and doled those out. She didn’t so much as look at my drink until an amount of time had passed that said, “I hate you, stupid American.”

Finally, she finished my drink, added the lid and, as she handed it to me, said in a faux confused voice, “You didn’t tell my friend over there that you wanted this iced.”

Which is funny, because I was confused, too. Starbucks didn’t tell me they were hiring total bitches. Girl. Twinsies!

I, then, explained to her that I told the first woman that took my order that I wanted it iced. To which, she slung back at me, saying that the woman must not have understood. Subtext: clearly, you’re dumb. At this, I grabbed my drink and walked away before I got really out of control and went behind the Starbucks counter and smothered this woman in a fucking Frappuccino, all the while yelling, “I SAID ICED, BITCH!”

Whoa. That was violent. When did I become so hood?

I need deep breaths and my happy place. My happy place being America with air conditioning and the complete absence of mosquitos, the French language and just people, in general. (Except you, I like you.)

The end.

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Today, I bought jeggings, the legitimate kind that have the elastic waistband. The “front pockets” and “zipper” are quoted because they exist only for show. The back pockets could actually hold something, but I will never put a single thing in there for fear that the weight of even just my iPhone will bring my jeggings to my knees. If my iPhone pantsed me in the middle of the streets of Paris, I’d have to retire. Retire from what? Oh, life.

I guess like every other woman in the world there’s always been a part of me that just wants to wear pants with an elastic band. I’m sure I’m not the only person that, while looking through a sales rack, came across some comfortable, yet awesome clothes that turned out to be maternity wear. It’s disheartening when this happens, because you can’t very well buy the maternity clothes when you’re not pregnant, even if the shirt would fit your boobs perfect. You just can’t be a person that walks around wearing clothes that have MATERNITY stitched into the label.

Yet, with the invention of jeggings, you have all the comfort of maternity wear without that damning label. You can strut in your very tight pants that never feel tight because they are so! stretchy! You’ll do yoga in your jeggings. Why not? I know I will. Or, I would, if I did yoga.

I just spent five minutes trying to think of things in my everyday life that require flexibility. There’s surprisingly not one thing, except a “game” I play with my boyfriend, but I wouldn’t wear my jeggings to do that. Ahem.

 This just got awkward, didn’t it?

I mean, to be honest, I don’t know why I’m writing about jeggings. It’s like I’m telling a joke that everyone in the world has already heard eighteen bajillion times. Jeggings are so, what? 2010? And I’m just now making fun of them? What next? Cracking jokes about people who wear leggings as pants? Or hipsters who wear Ray Bans, even though Ray Ban stopped being cool in the 80′s? Or how the 80′s are cool again and that needs to stop immediately, although I’ll take the side ponytail and crimped hair, but I need a crimper and I doubt I can find that in Paris?

How do I get from jeggings to crimpers? What is the human brain? It’s so weird. Now I’m trying to understand biology? Is someone going to stop me from just continuing to type nonsense? No? Uh. You guys?

Hello?

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Today, I think it’s important for me to make a list of all the things I live by, many of which have been shaped, formed and invented over the course of the last six months. Everything in my life has changed and I’ve welcomed it some days more than others. Today, I write a mini-manifesto to sort through everything that’s been swimming in my brain, all the things I haven’t written for one reason or another. This is what I’ve come to understand about life:

1. The best way to feel like a fool is to make a plan. To be even more foolish is to believe said plan will actually go according to – well – plan.
2. The key to happiness isn’t more money, more love, or more smiling (though these things don’t hurt). The true key is flexibility, the ability to adapt and acclimate to change, to disappointment, to your plans being shoved into the fire to burn as kindle. The better you are at adapting, the more likely you’ll be happy, to enjoy what’s in front of you and not live within the regret of what could have been.
3. Before making any big decisions, ask yourself one question, “Will I regret doing or not doing this thing in one month?”
4. One month is about the amount of time it takes for the dust to settle or for the excitement to wear off.
5. Love makes absolutely no sense. Rationalizing it will only kill it. Hate is not the opposite of love; logic is.
6. There’s always enough time for the things that truly matter. If the time isn’t there, the thing doesn’t matter.
7. The hard part isn’t getting what you want; it’s deciding what you want in the first place.
8. A contented life can feel boring and a chaotic life can feel exciting. Both feelings are untrue.
9. Love can come unexpectedly, sure, but let’s not kid ourselves: we are/were all looking for it.
10. Listen freely to everyone’s advice, but trust only your intuition.
11. Break all the rules. Do what feels right, even if it’s stupid or crazy or ridiculous. Forget everything people tell you that you can’t do.

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Today, I saw Rise of the Planet of the Apes and it was surprisingly very good and entertaining, but this isn’t Rotten Tomatoes, so let’s get to the heart of the story, shall we? We shall.

The only time I feel smug while living here in Paris is when I see an American film in version originale. It’s the one time in Paris that it serves me well to be a native English speaker and truly the only time I can actually be happy about that fact. Because, no matter what, the translated version of a movie is never as good as the original and there are plenty of times where I’m one of only two or three other people that will laugh at a very funny joke that, clearly, didn’t translate well. Oh, the superiority I feel at that moment! To have the advantage by speaking English! It’s a joyous occasion! Joyous, I tell you!

I look around at all these people coming to see an American movie in its original version and I think, “Oh, you guys make fun of Americans sooooooo much, but here you are watching our films and, by god, enjoying it.” I feel like I’m looking at all the Frenchies’ dirty laundry, uncovering their secrets and exposing the complex dichotomy they experience when it comes to America. Love, hate, love, hate, love, hate. I hear all the American music playing in just about every store or restaurant I go into, Paris. I see all you Frenchies at Starbucks and McDonald’s. I see you at my movies. I see you wearing American Apparel, hipster Frenchies. I AM ONTO ALL OF YOU.

I also feel very pleased with myself that, for just those two hours sitting in the dark with a bunch of strangers, I understand everything. I want to stand up on a chair and yell, “I UNDERSTAND ALL OF THIS! I DON’T FEEL LIKE AN IDIOT! FOR THE PAST TWO HOURS, I HAVE BEEN SAFELY INSIDE MY COMFORT ZONE AND GUESS WHAT!? COMFORT ZONE IS COMFORTABLE!”

Because, do any of you know what it’s like to live in a foreign country for six months and still not know the language? To walk around in basically a fog, knowing that you can’t easily strike up a conversation or eavesdrop on one? To talk to people who need your food or drink order in a shy, halting hybrid of your native language and the few words you know of the language of the country you’re in? It’s humbling, but also it makes you feel like sort of an asshole.

But, you guys, French is haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaard. And my boyfriend is learning English. I can’t very well be teaching one language but trying to learn another. And plus, French is haaaaaaaaaard. The exceptions! That phlegmy “r”! All the letters they don’t pronounce but of which are present in the actual word! Why are all those letters there! Why would “Louis Blanc” be pronounced “loo blah”! WHY! WHYYYYYYYYYYYYY. It makes no phonetic sense! Stop fucking with me, France!

How do you say, “I only speak English because your language is stupid and difficult and makes me feel like I am a small child with questionable retention skills and like I possibly have a tongue that is too big for my mouth,” in French?

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Today, I am going on the second day of being sick, which means I am currently the world’s least pleasant person to be around. I am writing this in between sneezes and crying in the bathroom, because I am pathetic and I don’t want Houssem to see just how pathetic I am. He keeps telling me, “Go to the hospital!” And I’m like, “Have you never been sick before?” And he looks at me like he’s thinking, “Sick!? Only weak people get sick! I am a man made of steel and have never so much as coughed before in my life.” And that’s when I retreat to the bathroom, because a person just cannot be given that sort of look when they are helpless and tired and sneezing so much that it feels like they did The One Hundred Hour Shred.

In my sickness, I have taken to becoming quite friendly with iTunes movie rentals. At first, I watched Source Code, which was trippy and interesting, but then I realized I wanted my movies to be lacking any depth whatsoever, since I was in no position to, I don’t know, think. Why is spellcheck telling me that “trippy” is not a word? Wait, now it’s only squiggly red underlined in one instance, but not the other. SPELLCHECK, I’M IN A GENTLE STATE, STOP FUCKING WITH ME.

Anyway.

Now I’ve taken to watching black comedies. So far, I have watched Jumping the Broom and How Stella Got Her Groove Back, both of which I cried genuine tears at. And, both of which star Angela Bassett in very similar roles. I’m not sure why I am on this kick or why I am feeling compelled to now rent Soul Food, but I’m quite enjoying my new genre of movie. Ever since I actually fell in love, watching the typical and mainstream rom-com has made me want to go slash faces and tires, especially because most of them include a person who cheats and it’s like, you know, I just don’t need that sort of shit swirling around in my head. I don’t need your poison, rom-coms. I’m done drinking all your damn Kool-Aid.

I like how I just wrote all of that, but sitting in my iTunes queue of rented movies is A Walk to Remember and the new remake of Jane Eyre. Long live Jamie’s inexhaustible hypocrisy!

I’m too sick to be accountable for the things I’m saying. Ignore me. I need to go sneeze until I can’t breathe and then rent another Angela Bassett movie to tide me over. Hold me, Angela. Hold me.

Flickr credit (It’s a picture of a tree made out of Kleenex. Get it? I’m sneezing a lot, Kleenex, oh you get it.)

Today, all I wanted to eat were tacos. I did my research, looked for the perfect taqueria that is marketed towards the homesick Californian transplanted into Paris. I boarded the metro, starving and excited for anything other than French food. I got to my stop, skipped up the stairs and down the street to El Nopal. I saw the little cactus on their sign and knew I had arrived at the right place. Licking my lips as I walked up, I was met with a cold, gray metal door with a little handwritten note, roughly translated from French to English as: “Closed for vacation until August 25.”

I took a deep breath. Setbacks such as this are normal in Paris, so I repositioned myself and headed towards the other taqueria I had heard about. I changed metros, got onto Line 4 and then exited, excited once again for Mexican food.

I skipped, yet again, happy for the joy in my step to have returned. I got to my destination to find, yet another, handwritten note that said, roughly translated from French to English: “We’re closed for lunch (for no fucking reason whatsoever). Come back tonight.”

You know what probably happened? They ran out of some ingredient and, instead of refilling at the nearest Monoprix (one block away, mind you), they decided to close. Customer service!? Ha! Who needs money?! Who needs customers!? We’re French! We live off cigarettes, wine and baguettes, all of which are, apparently, free!

Ok, ok, maybe I have too high of expectations? I know, it’s crazy to expect that a place of business will be open during their self-defined hours of operation. Alas, I am not the first American to complain about the crazy hours the French do or do not keep. But, it doesn’t make it any less ridiculous.

All a girl wants is some tacos. Apparently, this is a request far too great for Paris to fulfill. Oh, my life’s problems. Too grand, I tell you. Too grand.

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