Dear God, It's Me, Yehudah

("And I have this annoying American next to me on the plane...")

We've all had bad flights before. I am the first person I know to vomit on Orthodox jews mid-flight.

Initially, I was pleased with my seat. Toward the front. Window Seat. I sit down and open my Vogue. My neighbors, who we'll call Yahudah and Abraham open the Talmud. They've barely hit puberty and look just adorable in black and white as they store their hats in the overhead bin.

Everything's going well, until it hits me. I realize that because of the time change, I should be taking my birth control, about...now. I discreetly reach into my bag and attempt to pop it out of the container into my hand that's in the purse.
On the way to my mouth, I drop it. Like a cokehead diving after the last bit of blow, I frantically start searching around my skirt and purse area. No luck. I start flailing my arms and making little panicky noises as I search.

"Did you drop something?" Yehudah asks. "NO! I mean, no, no, I'm fine," i mumble. More flailing of the arms and searching. I find the elusive fucker and continue casually flipping through my magazine.

Then a wave of nausea hits me, much like that time I downed multiple pitchers of Sangria at Bar 10. Urgent, Strong, but...sober this time? Strange. I think I was a solid 12 years old the last time I booted during the day. (There were all those benders when I was 11, but that's a different story)

Trip 1 to the airplane toilet. Goodbye meals of the day. I mumble apologies to Yahudah and Abraham on the way back to my window seat.

10 minutes later. Turbulence. Oh God. I try desperately not to curse on the way to the toilet, lest I hurt their Y and A's (peot)-protected ears. I pass out from exhaustion for a little bit, thinking how much shittier vomiting is when you're sober.

When I wake up again, after the foolish mistake of trying to drink water, except now, everyone's asleep. It's urgent this time. I mumble Excuse Me to Y and A, but they're long asleep.

Then, my stomach starts to rebel. It's now or on their black pants.
"PLEASE DEAR GOD MOVE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MOVE MOVE MOVE!!!" I start screaming as do an awkward tango over their laps (they jump up...i'm guessing they weren't a big fan of the vomiting-girl loin on theirs...)

No good. An Air France stewardess is bent over, ass against the Toilet Door. Naturally I start to hit her side with my free hand. (A gentle tap, she assured me later), and I reacquaint myself with my new bff, the Air France toilet.

Move over, Mile High Club, "Vomiting constantly" is the new "Sex on an airplane."

Yours Awkwardly,
F

SPRING FAIR by the numbers

The first of my Super American Vacation! posts...


3: Entire days spent at Spring Fair

1: of these days that Baltimore was issued a Flood Warning.

12: Number of Hours spent consecutively drinking on Friday

100: Percent of meals on Friday that were based around "pasteurized cheese product" thanks to Spring Fair vendors
(think: Philly Cheese Steak, Cheese Fries, etc. etc....groan...)

20-30: Percent of people that looked completely confused to see me.

95: Percent of these people that I didn't like anyways.

1: Time I actually ducked behind a stranger to avoid seeing someone.

28479412798: Hug-Tackles received in Beer Garden (awww)

85: Percentage of people whose first response to seeing me was, "YOU'RE BLONDE!" (guys, I've been blonde on the inside for a long time)

15: Minutes spent in PJs (just about enough)

75: Times A***** W*** had to be convinced not to beat up a Sophomore that had insulted her
(Or as she screamed.."SOPHOMORE WHORE!")*
*postscript: The girl turned out to be a freshman, anyways

4: Perfect number of days to be back at Hopkins, before realizing that it's suffocating and I'm fine with not being here.

25: Of May 2006, When Commencement begins, and I'll be mentally with you guys. Mwah.


I'll post more post-US updates, including pictures, sometime very soon. Maybe they'll be funnier posts, maybe they won't. We'll see.

'Cause I'm (annoyed) to be an American...

I bit of introspection about my nationality:

Here's a short list of what it is to be American. Nowhere in here will you find the words "patriotic" "Bush" or "love my country," don't worry.

I am an American...
1. I am loud.
In vain do we struggle, but we just can't get ourselves to laugh like Japanese schoolgirls.

3. I cringe when I spot other Americans, thinking that, naturally, I look completely native. Even with a popped collar and sorority sweater.

4. I will kill you in a debate on American politics
You may THINK you know everything about the states because a friend of a friend studied abroad, or you took a week long "holiday" in New York, but you're wrong. Sorry.

5. We're not all ignorant.
Just the president.

6. Actually, I won't give you a blowjob .
I just need to get this out there. Please tell all the European male friends you may have. Some slut(s) have made it very hard for us.

7. If you're French, don't even try to speak English to me.
My French is probably better than your English.

8. If you're British, your English is better than my English.
Keep talking. The bag over your head only makes you look hotter and your accent stronger.




(accepting submissions...apparently my nationality isn't that well defined)

Quit le bitching!

Looking at the Paris student riots of 1968, I always thought to myself, 'wow, how exciting..students..actually getting excited about some thing, wreaking havoc, etc."

Turns out, student protestors are really damn annoying.

I'm about to get my own personal billy club if the anti-CPE riots don't stop. Read, er, this if you think a CPE is a Crappy Parisian Excuse to protest.

There's rumors of us holding a vote as to whether to "go on strike" from school next week.
( Wait..students can go on strike...from school? Bad ass! Should've done that in middle school)
The vast majority of uni's in France haven't been in school for 2 months or so.

As nice as that may seem, this is bordering on absurd. Damn socialists.

I may be turning slightly conservative with age, but I just don't care. Goodnight.
Oh!

And a pic-y from Dublin from St. Patrick's Day with Keith! Rest are on el facebooko.

See, 'cause in Dublin, when they gather in large masses they drink and dance and sing a lot. Bless their hearts.

The crotch of France is beautiful.

Back from break! Emily was here! It was fantastic! We spent a few days in Paris, but, notably spent a few days in Arles and Avignon and the viscinity in the crotch of France.

And, funny the sun DOES shine there, unlike other crotches. Okay, enough already with the crotches.

Pictures worth scrolling down for:

Emily at Centre Pompidou. Yes, this is The Artsy Shot.
















DOESN'T THIS PLANTER LOOK AN AWFUL LOT LIKE A POPSICLE??! (still in Paris....)















IN ARLES, WALKING TO OLD ROMAN ARENA:















SAINTES-MARIES-DE-LA-MER
(yes the city names has THAT many hyphens in it and there are TWO holy marys they pay homage to.)
















WHICH BORDERS THE CAMARGUE, FRANCE'S SWAMP. Without alligators, though. Instead?
Flamingos and Ponies. "Like a Lisa Frank wet dream."
















SO THEN WE RODE PONIES. Because you can't ride flamingos. Unless you're in a Disney Movie.
These pictures only include my pony's head, because I got the dumb one, that insisted on remaining 50 paces behind everyone else. Fucking Mistral. At this point in the ride we decided,
"It's like we're in a bad Shania Twain video"















Riding white ponies on the Mediterranean is pretty sweet. The pics from Avignon will have to wait for another posting. The spirit is willing, but the laziness is stronger.

Your moment of zen.

I seriously couldn't eat it. It was too cute. And yet, tragic, that it missed it's calling as an extra in a Sir Mix A Lot video.

The letter and the gnat.

I slept a lot through High School French.

I realized this recently during one of my six essay-exams in French. It's frustrating when you can talk for hours about International Law in a foreign language, but you're sitting there at the start of the next paragraph thinking,
"Fuck! What's the best connection word between these paragraphs? WHY did I throw away that hand-out?!WHYY!!!??"

Again, at the prefecture of Police today, when I officially decided to end my status as a visa overstay/illegal alien, my lack of attention span in High School came back to spite me. Now, I'm not only a little late with my application, I'm oh....3 months late.

Sitting in front of a surly Martiniquan woman, I had to answer a question I didn't really have an answer for: "So why did you wait 6 months to apply for your residence permit?!"
Possible answers included:
"I did nothing but drink the first two months here before school started"
"I'm completely lazy" or, even,
"Landlord tried to suck my blood, have had to bat her off with a broom for the past few months" (which is true)

Instead of beating me while during a ritualistic dance of the bureaucrats, It turns out, I only had to write a letter in front of the Martinquan fonctionnaire.
YES, a LETTER saying I was sorry and why I was so late turning in my dossier. So, I start out and write some complete bullshit about having difficulty finding the necessary documents, etc. etc. Then I get to the end. The French add some sentence at the end of every letter before the signature that is some variation of

"Let me lick your ass and offer you my best sentiments" or, for more severe letters,

"Lick my ass and give me your the assurance of your best wishes!"

I blanked. I had no fucking clue how to write this. In the ONE opportunity where someone stuck a piece of paper in front of me (outside of High School) and said, "GO! WRITE AN IMPORTANT LETTER IN FRENCH!" I couldn't perform. Damn you, IB French. Damn you attention span similar to that of an ADD gnat! Damn, damn, damn.

On the plus side, I'm a little less illegal today. I'll drink to that.