Euh ben oui.

So, here I am. Dating my Frenchie since September, and still trying to find a map to find myself in this relationship. It's work. A lot of it. And since we've been apart for over three months, and our interactions are limited to conversations, it's been a lot of hard work. I mean, I used to spend five minutes explaining the joke I made, and that "You're such an ass!" wasn't really offensive, but rather playful... He spent ten minutes trying to explain that when he said "You should see a doctor for that acne, your skin is breaking out," he really wasn't trying to be mean, but rather sympathetic. We would look at each other, hug it out (or have make up sex), and everything was okay again. 


Now, thousands of miles apart, he tells me "I have a lot of work, and we don't have anything else to say to each other." I reply to his comments with "Shut up!" And we sit there and sulk. In silence. Over the phone. Or to make it more awkward, over Skype, as I paint my nails, and he stares at the floor. I wish I could say my relationship was shit and end it, but it's pretty amazing. It's just that simple communication is out of the window. But hey, I finally learned something none of my professors taught me in college -- patience. 


And I really think it's key. Patience. (Fuck you, Jonathan. My first boyfriend told me, "the key to happiness is having no expectations,"which really did not make our relationship any better, just made him less guilty about forgetting our dates after having smoked too much pot. Oh, college.)


Ok, I'm full of shit. I'm still learning, but at least I know I should be more patient, which is more than what I could say about my other relationships. And like a Ladurée macaron au chocolat, he is totally worth the work. Which again, if you know me at all, is so much more than what I could say about my other relationships. (I stopped going to the gym as soon as I met my ex). 


What I love about dating Frenchie (aside from his own personal qualities), is that being French, he comes with his idea of a woman. And I can't say I disagree: six months into this relationship, I still wear make up, paint my nails, own pantyhose (and panties) by which my grandmother would be embarrassed.


Today, I sat across from a girl whose armpit hair was long enough to braid. This girl is the reason why I had to pay on three of my first dates. And before you stick your finger in my face bitching about women's rights, I say, stop confusing them with societal standards. She's no more of a woman than I am, she just went back a few centuries of culture. Frenchie keeps me from becoming that girl. Ok, maybe I could never be her, but I definitely am not comfortable enough to come out in a Nutella stained tshirt. (If you're wondering, there are quite a few of them in my hamper.)


Not sure how often French girls shave their pits, but they do offer a lot of competition with their effortless femininity. Challenge accepted, armpits shaved. 

Je suis americaine

So, we’ve been together for a few months now and things are going really well. However, there is a certain disconnect between how he’s feeling and what I’m thinking. He says, “I really love you. I just feel so comfortable around you,” as I’m dying of gas pains, starting to feel razor-burn in places I’d rather not, and still wearing make up so I don’t look like a hag while we’re lying in bed. Real comfortable. Usually by this time in relationships I’m past the point of trying to maintain sex appeal all the time, but for some reason I just can’t relax. Which makes me wonder- what is love anyway? How can I say that I’m in love with someone, yet be afraid they might discover that I’m actually human (and by human, maybe I mean American)? How do French women do it? Do they just get used to feeling uncomfortable all the time? Does it really help to keep the romance alive?

Another thing that makes me feel uncomfortable: who pays?

One of the luxuries of dating American guys is that if you find a good one (meaning one who’s employed and not a tight-wad), he always pays for dinner and he always drives you there. However, after a recent conversation with my Frog, I have come to understand that French men see things differently. The conversation began with him telling me about how his ex-girlfriend was very demanding and ungrateful, expected gifts and trips all the time and how nothing he did was ever good enough for her. I sympathized, but let him know that I have certain expectations too. The ensuing exchange of words progressed slowly and cautiously. Apparently, French men see the American way as being out-dated, too traditional. They seem to think that it’s OK for the girlfriend to pick up the tab and drive the guy around. This is when I realized that those times that he let me contribute to the bill and drive us to the next place were going to become common occurrences unless I put my foot down. Fucking feminists ruined everything, or rather, men just think that they can pick and choose when women should be entitled to more “equality” with men. Anyway, the conversation ended relatively smoothly, with both of us agreeing to make some compromises: for now (until I graduate college and find a job in the next four months), I’ll just pay for the tip (maybe because, being French, he still doesn’t quite understand how that works) and he’ll offer to drive more. I smiled, “At least the sex is good,” to which he responded, “At least the sex is free.”

China Slim

This story needs to be told in order to preface my relationship and all of the ridiculous and embarrassing things that occurred(and continue to occur).This happened in Paris, before we started dating. And I’m surprised that he wanted to keep seeing me after this, well, highly uncomfortable situation. Also, I’m not sure why M and I had such horrible luck with Parisian doors. Why do the French need to make everything so complicated?

I will never understand how I could have thought this was a good idea, but let me try to explain.

So, in my efforts to remove the build up of croissants, sandwichs avec fromage et jambon, and nutella crepes from my body and start a new diet of salads, cigarettes and espresso, I decided to ask Mineh for some of her powerful China Slim tea. She told me that if I drank it around 11pm, that I would wake up around 7 and just…go. She warned me to not take it too early, because I’d be running to the bathroom at the crack of dawn. I had some work to do and wanted to get up early, so I made the tea around 9:30pm and locked myself in my room for the night (or so I thought). I let the tea steep until it was a dark, amber color and drank it as I put on a facemask and did my nails. Then, he sends me a message on Facebook: “Come over.” We only lived 15 minutes away by foot and at this point we had been seeing each other quite a bit.

“I don’t want you to get sick of me.”

“It’s not possible,” he insisted, “come over.”

“I could come over, but I’d have to leave reaaallyy early and I don’t want to bother you. It’s probably better if I just stay home.”

“No, I really don’t mind.”

“By early, I mean about 5am… I have a lot of work to do.”

“Just come over, I’d really like to see you.”

Thinking that I would wake up early enough to make it back to my place to use the toilet, I decided to wash off my facemask, put on some cute lingerie and go to see my Parisian lover. I tip-toed out of my madame’s house and tried to close the giant door with three locks as quietly as possible so that she wouldn’t hear me and get up to bolt the door from the inside. My Frog met me at our usual spot on the bridge where the Bastille market is held and we walked back to his place. We had great sex and fell asleep with our bodies close. Around 2:30am I woke us both up with a hard, loud, single-clap fart. Immediately I froze, my heart started racing and I stopped breathing.

“What was that?” He asked. I couldn’t speak. She said that it wouldn’t happen until the morning! It’s only 2:30! Oh. My. God.

“Are you serious? You’re not supposed to wake me up like that,” he laughed awkwardly.

“I have to go…”

“What? If you have to use the bathroom, you can use it here.”

“No. Ok, let me explain… I drank this detox tea that my friend gave me and nothing was supposed to happen until the morning, I dono… I just… I gotta go.” I couldn’t tell if I wanted to laugh or cry. It almost felt like an out of body experience; it was pure comedy…except not, because it was happening to me. I got my stuff together and walked home, cursing and farting. Unfortunately, when I reached home the door wouldn’t open. My madame heard me leaving had bolted the door from the inside. At this point, I really had to go. And, being in Paris, nothing was open 24-hours. So, I texted my Frog.

“I can’t get in, the doors locked from the inside.”

“Come back then, the first door code is 1680. I’ll leave my apartment door open.”

I walked back to his place, used the toilet and showered. “Guess I’m not going to be seeing this one anymore… oh well,” I thought to myself. I got back into his bed and he moved closer to me. I moved away, which he seemed to think was funny. “Bon nuit.”