Better be Barbie.

Snapshot no. 374

Today we bought a used barbie doll for 50 cent.

Marty (fingering our new friend): These aren't real undies! They're part of her body!
...
Marty: She's got a butt crack though. We can do lots of stuff with that!

Later, same doll...

Marty (poking the doll's butt in Mousse's face): She likes it that way! She likes it that way!
Mousse (defending herself): No, Marty, it's not right. Talk to her face.
Marty (still trying to connect the doll's butt to Mousse's face): No, she likes it that way! She likes it that way!
Mousse (taking the doll, bending her to upright position): There, now talk to her face. Her face!
Marty: No, she wants to talk to you! With her butt! She likes it that way!
Mousse: But it's wrong, Marty!
Marty (impersonating doll): I like it that way! I like it that way!

Better be tolerant.

This weekend we had parts of my family living in our home. It was exciting. But as I am still a bit sad about their leaving, I won’t blog about it.

We met up with a conversation partner today. A French girl wanting to improve her spoken Swedish and two Swedish girls wanting to improve their French. A truly brilliant combination.

This is part of the French convo...

Frenchie: So, do you have boyfriends (copains)?
Marty: Yes, we have boyfriends (copains).
Mousse: No, we don’t. Or... Do we?

Frenchie patiently explained to us that she meant copains as in boyfriends, and not friends in general. She then repeated the question.

Frenchie: Do you have boyfriends (copains)?
Marty (still desperate not to come off as lonely): Yes! No, wait! I mean... I have a girlfriend (copinne)!
Frenchie: You have a girlfriend?
Marty: What?
Frenchie: You know, it’s ok if you are homosexual.
Marty: Merci.

(Marty later blamed this incident on the, as she put it, extremely potent hot cocoa she had.)

We then moved on to discuss the prospects of adultery, the ages of parents, and exactly how humble the cathedral in Lund really is.

It feels special to finally have had a conversation with someone who isn't repellant, or a possible employer, or the gas man. A real person, voluntarily talking to Marty & Mousse. Now that's something.

Better be yourself.

Yesterday Mousse used all her connections, i.e my slightly repellent boss (why not call him Sugar Daddy from here on now?), to be introduced at a bar which was hiring...

Upon entering the bar:

Sugar Daddy: I told him you'd worked at a bar in Sweden, so if he asks.... you know.
Mousse: Um... okay.

During the introduction:

(after the prospective employer laughed at Mousse's past as a caretaker at a cemetary):

Employer: So you've worked in a bar before, right?
Mousse: No.
Employer: You have no experience?
Mousse: Nope.
Employer: ....
Mousse: Or, I mean... No.

Afterwards Sugar Daddy had a little pep-talk with Mousse about honesty, and when to be less, shall we say, sincere. Meanwhile, I got 16 € for last night.

..........................................................................................................

I guess I'm not the only one who lacks the ability to be suave.

Better be different.

Another penniless weekend has passed and we've spent it well. For the first time, we had more than half a glass of wine for dinner. We had several. We had so many we got a bit drunk. Yeah, three or so.

However, we had a good reason. Our mission: To post 131 ILLEGAL ads, ILLEGALLY all over Paris. We felt illegal. Very illegal. And it was night. It was late, at least. Half past ten. Did I mention illegal? Because it sort of was. Marty's still slightly repellant boss, who entrusted us with the mission, said it was...

"Ne parlez à personne! Personne!"

We trust the man.

See, he gave us chocolate. We call it hush chocolate. Other people might call it Swiss. He called it Catholic.

(By the way, this, what we're doing right now, is not talking about it. Because that would be breaching of trust.)


The morning after...

I wake up early and decide to take a shower. Need underwear from Marty's room.

Marty (waking up): H-WHAT?
Mousse: I'm taking a shower, need underwear.
Marty (wheezing): You're such a dirty girl.
Mousse: Go back to sleep, Marty.

And another pointless convo...

Upon watching the Sunday morning cartoons.

Mousse: Where did Bruce Wayne get all his money? Did he inherit?
Marty: I believe so. Also, I'm pretty sure he invests.
Mousse: Hm.
Marty: You know, factories and companies and all.
Mousse: Speaking of, is this even Batman we're watching? I mean, where is he?
Marty: Charity. Shaking people's hands, writing cheques, you know.
Mousse: Oh.

Snapshot no. 96-733

As money disappears, our obsession with food grows stronger.

.

Walking down our own street a couple of days ago...

.

Marty (aghast): Oh my God, a perfectly good onion, carelessly thrown on the street!

.

30 meters later...

.

Mousse (pointing at a strange puddle): Marty, look! That must be soup!

Marty: Oh, it smells divine!

Mousse: And what volumes! It must be a liter.

Marty: More!

.

Today, walking home after having done groceries (a much beloved chore, may I add)...

.

Marty (sighing): A lonely egg on the sidewalk. It’s terrible how people treat their food around here.

.

Snapshot no. 733

.

Our toilet lacks locking abilities.

.

Marty: If you ever come in while I’m there, I’ll kill you.

Mousse: I know.

Marty: No, listen, I would really kill you.

Mousse: I know. I would never do that to you, and you would never do that to me. It’s about trust.

Marty: Do we have that?

Mousse: We should have that.

Marty: Or we could buy a lock.

.

.

Better be love.

It’s Valentine’s Day and Mousse doesn’t want to snuggle.

.

“Aiiih, noo! Actually, this is kinda cosy.” Mousse receiving hug at breakfast.

.

Marty: “Agh, you don’t wanna snuggle!”

Mousse: “You’re not clean.”

.

Marty showers.

.

Mousse: “You’re too close! You smell nice, though.”

.

“Aïe, I hurt myself on you!” Marty snuggle-attacking Mousse with bad results.

.

“Det handlar om respekt, älskling.” Marty to Mousse, yesterday at bedtime. Reason forgotten, words forever imprinted in our minds.

.

Snapshot no 68

.

Our French is improving. Today on our way home from the métro:

.

Mousse: Donc... et voilà. Donc?

Marty : Havre-Caumartin.

.

Later at home:

.

Mousse: Donc, et voilà. Donc.

Marty : Havre-Caumartin?

.....

.

Marty: Havre-Caumartin.

Mousse: Donc, voilà!

.

For those of you who don’t know, Havre-Caumartin is a métro-station.

.

______________________________________________________

Last Friday we met a seemingly dubious man outside the American Church who offered me a job. It resulted in me vaccuming for an hour and a half in a dusty renovation area, borderline banlieue. Mousse came with for safety reasons and ended up conversing with my newfound and slightly repellent boss, eating his cookies, enjoying non-working.

.

Mousse (watching me work): "I could help you, you know. But you wouldn’t make as much money. I mean, as it would go faster. M-hm."

.

But all’s well that ends well: I made 15 € and didn’t even have to take my shirt off.

.

I don't know if any of you (2 readers, right?) appreciated that input, so we'll end this with another snapshot.... no 301

.

At dinner tonight, we were drinking wine and listening to Tracy Chapman's For My Lover:

.

Mousse: "This song is about us. You and me."

Marty: ...

Mousse: " They don't understand us, Martina. They don't understand our love."

.

.

......................................................................................

.

Everyday I'm psychoanalyzed

For my lover for my lover

They dope me up and I tell them lies

For my lover for my lover

Better be downhill.

We’re still highly unemployed, and money i.e. time, is running out. We’ve realized that we might have to go home at the end of March. Realized, not accepted.

.

Yeah, it’s been a rough couple of days. This state of blue started this last Thursday and it is best explained by us presenting a three-part snapshot.

.

Snapshot no. 399.1

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It’s Wednesday evening, we’re discussing tomorrow’s job rendez-vous...

.

Marty: It said “test” in the ad. What do they mean by that? A test!

Mousse: Nah, they won’t test you. What could they possibly test? It’s a cleaning job!

Marty: It also said ironing. Ironing and cleaning. I can’t iron.

Mousse: How hard can it be? Everyone knows how to iron. Cool down.

Marty: I cannot iron.

.

Snapshot no. 399.2

.

10:55 Rendez-vous at Adomo

.

Employer: So you’ve never cleaned houses before?

Marty: Only my own.

Employer: But you have ironed.

Marty: Yes. Yes, I have ironed ...in the past.

.

Snapshot no. 399.3

.

At a café not too far from Adomo, Mousse was enjoying her coffee when...

.

Mousse: What!?

Marty (newly arrived, shocked): They made me iron!

Mousse: What are you saying?

Marty (hysterical): A test! In ironing! And I failed!

Mousse: What are you saying!?

Marty: I CANNOT IRON!

.

11:07 we’re on the métro home, still jobless, and it’s official - Marty can’t iron.

.

Snapshot no. 578

.

Two weeks ago, hunting for a two-room apartment...

.

Mousse: This would be so much easier if we were lovers.

Marty (dreamy-eyed): Yeah.

Mousse: We could rent a really cheap studio with one bed and make love all day long.

Marty (even more dreamy-eyed): Yeah.

.

Snapshot no. 88

.

Yesterday, in a very, very, very crowded métro...

.

Marty (aiming for her mouth, hitting her chin): Maybe this isn’t the ideal place to eat pears.

.

Snapshot no. 11

.

It was last Monday, we had just returned from grocery shopping and scored gold. One kilo of pears and one kilo of bananas, for less than 1 € each.

.

Mousse: This is a good day, right?

Marty: Yeah, not entirely fruitless.

Mousse: Ha.

Marty: Ha.

Mousse: HAHAHAHAA

Both (desperately): MWAHAHAHAAHHA MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA WHAAA WHAAAA HAHAHAHA

.

.

Let’s just say that panic and despair, as well as great joy, is always close and strangely intertwined this very uncertain time of our lives.

Better be cheap.

Snapshot no 132

About a week ago we were shopping for cheap food, as usual, and complaining about the over-priced vegetables, as usual. Suddenly, a revelation. Endives. For 1€79/kilo. Or a bag of endives (also one kilo) for 1€49.

"We should buy the bag, it's cheaper."
"But endives? We don't even know what they taste like."
"But they're everywhere! People must love them!"
"A kilo? What if they taste awful?"
"They can't be disgusting, look it says on the bag you can even eat them raw."
"Eh...?"
"Yeah, I'm buying these."

Later, Mousse trying her endive casserole:

*Silence* (Walks over to the trash can and throws the remaining away)

"It's kinda bitter."

Snapshot no 16

On the way here (Dune, our favourite café, free wifi and water) today, we tried to find a place where we could use a printer. The first place said the printer wasn't installed, the second simply "sorry". The third:

Mousse: "Do you have a printer (l'imprimeur)?"
Man: "Do you mean printer (l'imprimante)?"
Mousse: "Sorry. Do you have a printer (l'imprimante)?"
Man: "Sprechen Sie Deutsches?"
Mousse: "No."
Man: "Ok. Well, I'm sorry, the printer is broken."

It could be paranoia, but I think we might well be discriminated against.

Snapshot no 628

Our Swedish playboy blonde, the apple of our eye, Victoria Silvstedt was yesterday spotted as decoration on a French televised game-show. Her job was to smile, stand and point.

She spoke once.

Gamehost: "Do your thing, pretty girl! ...what was your name again?"
Victoria: "Victåååria!"

Moving in party chez Marty & Mousse!

Place: Ours

Time: Sunday Febuary 11th at 1900 hrs

Dress code: Casual/nude/casually nude

Bring: Tea bags, pillows and old newspapers (for papier mâché fun!)





God, how we wish we actually knew someone in Paris. Anyone. At all.

Or do we?

Better be Thursday.

Snapshot no. 456

Yesterday I made a new attempt at getting that ever so alluring job at Soup & Juice. I called. I spoke. In French.

It all went well until, once again, my French skills were brought up. All the while I thought I was being complimented. I think it went something like this:

"How is your French coming along?"

"Thank you!"

"Um... It's ok?"

"It's ok. It's working."

We said goodbye shortly after this, but, after less than an hour, he called back and I, Mousse the Slick, now have a real-life job interview on Thursday. Or so I believe.

Snapshot no. 3901

"EEEEEEEEEK WHAAAAAAAAAAA WHAAAAAAA EEEEEEEK OH MY GAAAAAWD!!!"

- Marty, after having had sex. With me. Mousse the Slick.

Ugh. Sorry, all non-readers.

For real this time:

- Marty, today, after having called a man about a job and, despite terrible French mixed with giggling and confusion, gotten a rendez-vous. Also on Thursday.

.

Snapshot no. 15

.

"You're peeing right now, aren't you?"

-Mousse, to Marty, sitting next to her, eating dinner.

Snapshot no. 53

Parisian traffic is confusing. Especially crossing streets. Apparently.

"Help!"

Alone and miserable, Marty stands frozen on the sidewalk, trying to think of a way to cross the street, while Mousse, standing in the middle of the street, in front of a car whose driver is waving for us to cross, waving encouragingly to Marty and using her sweetest voice:

"Come now, Marty, you can do this! Come on, honey! Yes, yes! YES"

"Victory's mine!"

I Love You For The Man You Used To Be

No, that has nothing to do with this post. It has to do with Me and my relationship with Mousse. She's changed.

Oestrogen.

It's not for everyone.

On a brighter note, we are presently sitting in a bar/café with internet (the wireless kind, boys and girls. Yep, that's right. Livin' large in the CITY OF LIGHTS.) sipping expensive wine and watching the inspiring profile of Frank. Confused? Well, you're not here, are ya?

Snapshot from walking down Our Beloved Street earlier today:

"This must surely be the new bohemian quarters? I mean, it looks cheap, kinda dirty, lots of struggling artists, us included..."
"Yeah. Apart from Monoprix and all the halal butchers this is so turn-of-the-last-century Paris."
"Oh yeah."
"Yeah..."

Otherwise it's been quite an eventless day if you discount Mousse completely ruining her chances at working in a fantastic soup & juice bar (what a combination! Am I right people?...person? anyone?) by saying she wasn't sure if she could take a soup and juice order in French... in French. Meanwhile, I sat terrified and trembling in the bed after the stress of someone actually calling... What if they had wanted to speak to me? It's a terror I'll never forget...

I needed cookies, and cookies I had. It all ended well.

Another damn good day in the CITY OF LIGHTS!

Better be woeful...

People have requested more woe and misery, snapshots from our Paris.

Let's see...

Snapshot no. 1.

Tiny tried to apply for a bartending job today. They asked for someone "cool and motivated". Tiny tried. Oh, how she tried.

Marty loudly composing application:

"I consider myself somewhat of a poet."

Later: "I once dislocated my shoulder."

And then finally "I like soup".

I later rewrote her application so that she came off a little more suave.

Snapshot no. 2

Three o'clock, one hour after we've consumed our lunch, we're lying in bed, resting:

"So what are we having for dinner?"

Thirty minutes later:

"How about a snack?"

Snapshot no. 3

This happened about a week ago, as we had just left our prospective future apartment and politely said our goodbyes to the landlord who we thought went the opposite direction. Upon discussing electricity bills, Marty loudly exclaims, in English:

"Where are we gonna get that kinda money!?"

Closely followed by:

"Nude pics!"

Closely followed by: Our landlord strolling past us. It was awkward, but apparently he doesn't mind such business since he later decided to rent us the apartment. He's a humble man.

Snapshot no. 4

This morning...

"Marty, I know where that strange and penetrating foot odour came from. It was from my legs."

Conclusion: I will now try and make my personal hygiene a daily habit.

Snapshot no. 5

We're looking at an apartment. Marty is in the bedroom while Mousse is small-talking with the owner's friend. Owner: not present.

"We are really interested. But I suppose they all say that, right? Right?"

"Um... No, of the forty who's been here only four left their dossier (necessary papers)".

"Oh, really? Well, we are really really interested, aren't we, Marty?"

"Yeah, totally", says Marty while checking out the porn flicks, the black satin sheet-covered matress and the tasteful oil-paintings depicting naked women in various postions.

We didn't get the apartment, but Marty, being impressionable, still walks around mumbling about soft anal massages, as promised by some DVD cover.

Snapshot no. 6

In the métro...

We're in the process of moving our extremely overweight suitcases, Marty is struggling to get down the stairs with hers and Mousse, carrying only a backpack at the moment, is walking unworriedly behind her, speaking English:

"Are you gonna fall? You are! Aren't you? You're totally gonna fall. And break all your legs. You're gonna bleed. Bleed all over the stairs. You disgust me."

"Do you need help?" A friendly French guy has taken pity in the tiny girl with the giant luggage and her unhelpful friend. Mousse gives him the evil eye and Marty has to decline the offer and stumble down yet another set of stairs. Alone.

Snapshot no. 7

Last week...

Mousse has suddenly decided that she wants to try out the walkie-talkies acquired. With a little help from verbal abuse, she forces Marty to go out from the hotel room with the mission of finding the shower.

12 minutes later...

Marty, out of breath: "What happened?"

"Oh... Right, I forgot to turn mine on. Sorry."

"I was down in the freaking reception, making an ass of myself!"

"Jeez, I said I was sorry. Get over it."

(Marty falls silent, suffers, binge-eats cookies.)




_______________________

We are happy.