Thanksgiving in Paris was lovely this year. As our American network expands, we find ourselves with the privilege of attending several Thanksgiving feasts much to graciousness of our lovely friends who open their homes up to us. While I have so much to be thankful for, there is one thing that literally has me doing pirouettes in my living room when I think of it... It all started in September, I was having a bit of a crisis in regard to my life and what the hell I was doing with it. It was the second year that I had signed up to teach the little ones English, with the addition of the vile teen-age boys on Wednesdays. Feeling like I did not have enough hours in the day for the demanding to-do list that I methodically tend to each day, my guardienne cornering me once a week to advise me to start a family now before it's too late, and having the mothers of snot-nosed teen-age boys contact me with worthless texts that there thirteen year old boys aren't eating enough (which was somehow my fault), I cracked.
In a moment of absolute hysteria, I decided to relieve myself of the little guys that I meet with four times a week and gave my proper two months notice to the families who appeared to be genuinely sad to lose me.
In hindsight, what the hell was I thinking? I love the little ones.
It was around that time that the Wednesday families started adding tasks outside my job function like walking the dog, picking up their dry cleaning, and preparing three-course meals on the stove.
I haven't picked up dry-cleaning for a boss since I worked for Kelly Cutrone. And that was Kelly Cutrone. Not some random French family in the 11th. With the pressure of knowing this would be my sole income, I did it. As for the dog, I asked the boys who take the métro alone and hang out at French cafés with their friends to walk their own dog. Am I wrong here for thinking that this is the responsibility of a teen-ager? Aren't children supposed to look after the family pet? Or am I old-fashioned here?
Upon asking them, they laughed and pretty much told me to fuck off. "On s'en fout!" they said before heading downstairs to hang out on the street. With the door slammed in my face, standing in the empty apartment, I turned around and there she was, Rachel, the little Cavalier King Charles Spaniel looking up at me with her big eyes. It wasn't her fault that her owners were total assholes. Why should she have to suffer? Clipping on her collar, on a crisp and sunny autumn afternoon, the pup and I took a stroll around Place de la Nation. As expected, Rachel relieved herself on the sidewalk where an older man irritatingly pointed to the sign that reads "Je ramasse"; a Parisian campaign reminding dog owners to scoop up after their dogs. Prepared with three bags, I waited for Rachel to finish her business and much to my discontent, it was not as solid as I had hoped and found myself scrubbing off the unexpected thick goo with the remaining bag. So not my fucking job. With the final trace of Rachel up and off the sidewalk, I saw that I had two missed calls and text messages from all of the parents. All of them. Oh my God, the boys are dead, was my first reaction. But no. "Where are you?" "The boys are locked out and they can't find you." "What's going on? You are not where you are supposed to be!" "Qu'est qui se passe?"
N'importe quoi ! With my hand somehow smelling of dog shit, enraged, I charged back to the apartment. As I was walking in, they were walking out, again, laughing. "You guys are joking, right?" I asked, as Rachel pranced circles around me, tangling her leash around my ankles, "You all knew where I was, you also have my phone number so why did you need to call your mommies?" Contradicting their motive to call their parents, they exited the building, once again brushing me off as some kind of inconvenience. That night, I received a lecture from the parents. Citing that they practice open communication with their children, they shamed me for allegedly refusing them the right to call their parents. Those little manipulators of course knew that was not what I meant but took the opportunity to play their mothers too.
That night I went home and drank vodka. In an Absolut haze, I knew we all could not move on from this. The boys had gone way too far and knew what had to be done. This Thanksgiving, on top of everything I am truly grateful for, I am most thankful that I will never have to see those little punks ever again in my life. (Queue in the pirouettes.) I'm also thankful that my job with the little guys was still available. While I have taken many steps back professionally just to live in Paris, that doesn't mean that I need to deal with shit. Literally.
