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You can scroll the shelf using ← and → keys
The last time I posted something on this blog was almost a year and a half ago, in what was a detailed account of a gluttonous jaunt throughout New York City. What a time that was! Crowding around with people on the Brooklyn Bridge on the way to the best pizza in Brooklyn, lining up for cronuts in Soho without any social distance, lining up for giant cookies on the Upper West Side without any social distance (a lot of my close-contact-with-other-humans involves consuming large quantities food; I am not ashamed).
I love New York, and after going there again only two months after the food-fest, I was thinking that in 2020 I would definitely need to go there again. Maybe in late Spring! I thought. I’ve never seen New York when everything’s in bloom…
Things obviously took a horrible turn not long after this springtime daydream, and New York, like so many other places around the world, has been going through a terrible time. Meanwhile, we’re about 6 weeks into the quarantine in Canada, and the main theme for many of us who are sheltering in place is how lucky we are, with a focus on giving back where we can (if you can spare it, check your local food bank as they probably take donations online!). Then there’s the gratitude, for all those essential workers who are doing the most to keep things going and help us find our way out of this. There’s also some degree of fear, but I’m sure you’ve all been dealing with enough of that yourselves, so I’ll skip that part.
The luck, gratitude, and fear is something that remains in orbit throughout the day; it’s there when I wake up, and it returns when I begin to fall a sleep at way-too-late of an hour.
The rest of the time though, my quarantined days have been marked by: consuming content (I recently watched American Graffiti–hot Harrison Ford barely had any screen time, false advertising!), taking on new cooking feats, grudgingly exercising due to consuming aforementioned cooking feats, being less-petty-than-pre-quarantine, but nonetheless a little bit petty still (as is a requirement for my existence), writing, engaging in more video calls with friends and family than ever before (a paradox of horrid and nice), trying to find the humor in things so I don’t go totally nuts, but then also self-examining and analyzing more than ever, resulting in a slow but inevitable descent into madness, hooray!
If you’re on social media, the normal way to experience the summary I’ve described would be to watch one of those clever videos, where people just talk to themselves and then edit themselves, so it looks like they’re doing many things in a humourous way. That’s a very cool way to go about it, but have I ever struck you as cool? If the blog itself wasn’t enough of an indication, my extreme deficiency in coolness is plastered all over the dorky way I just described the life of the video comedian or TikTok star, or however the fuck you would describe the current era of bite-sized humour.
I am, in fact, extremely old school, and in 2020, what is more old school than writing out a list of thoughts in completed sentences, on an online diary called a blog? (perhaps you would say “Well isn’t using a feather quill and parchment more ‘old school’? Hmm?” And to you I would say, shut your mouth with the smart-ass comments…)
This old school vibe now brings me to a list, a list of things I’ve been doing or randomly thinking about, ever since they told me to stay inside and wear pants with elastic waistbands.
And so, without further adieu…
Things I’ve Been Doing (And Crazily Thinking About) In Quarantine
Let’s get the embarrassing stuff out of the way first.
(Upon reflection, none of the below items reflect a total lack of embarrassment, but alas, we must proceed)
I’ve been doing a lot more personal video calls. Before Quarantine (B.Q.?), there were only one or two friends with whom I felt comfortable enough to share the full-frontal, uninhibited view of myself on a video call. I’m of course referring to the ‘triple-chin‘ view, we’re you’re reclined on the couch or in bed, and your phone is at that angle where it accentuates the most chins possible. Since quarantine, that tiny of circle has now expanded to several friends, all of whom have now been treated to the ‘triple chin’ view. There remain certain friends who don’t have access, and for them I will still sit upright in a chair, and for that I will not apologize. Frankly speaking, the ‘triple chin’ look is still somewhat private, and if society has any chance of recovering from this mess, some things must remain sacred.
I’ve been doing a lot more professional video calls. The company where I’ve been freelance copywriting is doing all their work remotely. My smaller team has a catch-up meeting every day, and our larger team does a meeting once a week. All of these meetings are conducted over video call. When I would go into the office on a normal day, I would be my usual normal self, and my normal ‘going outside’ persona is: some hair product, some makeup, and a consciously thought-out but casual outfit. Basically we’re talking about full-on glamour all the time. Or maybe a B-minus fashion grade. Whatever. So that was the outside look, but from the first video call and ever since, I haven’t been doing any of those things (except for that I still wear clothes, which are now usually hoodies etc.). The first time the larger team saw me on a video call, I’m pretty sure I witnessed some actual shuddering, or maybe the video was shaky (she tells herself). Or maybe I’m overanalyzing and they never even registered my appearance; like am I really so full of myself to believe they even think about me at all? ISN’T IT FUN TO OVER-ANALYZE IN QUARANTINE?! Just in case they were traumatized, when I see them in person again I’ll make sure to compensate with fake eyelashes, that ‘contouring blush thing’ the Kardashians do where it looks they have a different face, and perhaps a full-length wig. TBD.
I watched that Gal Gadot ‘Imagine’ video and almost puked. It’s been a while since it happened, but I’m still traumatized by the fact that a bunch of celebs got together to sing “Imagine a world with no hunger or possessions” as a way to make the lowly peasants feel better. Ugh, I’m still not ready to talk about it.
I almost spent $800 on a digital piano and leather bench. Hear me out. This was one or two weeks into quarantine, when I started to realize that this stay-at-home thing wasn’t ending anytime soon. I started to think about my lifelong bucket list, and while a lot of my travel dreams have been checked off the list (a list that will go on forever–I miss travelling!), I remembered that one of my grown up bucket list items is to learn how to play the piano. I know it’s a lot harder to learn as an adult versus learning as a child, but I’ve always been told that I have long fingers (why have I been told that at least a hundred times? That is creepy as fuck!). So I ask you, who am I to let these long dangly sausage fingers go to waste? That was my logic for being on the Best Buy website, and browsing an array of grown-up sized keyboards. The deeper I got into the rabbit hole, the more I decided I needed “weighted” keys, and so my searching progressed to the fancier ‘digital pianos.’ As I browsed this new niche of products, I decided that I needed a digital piano with one of those accompanying ‘gas pedals,’ or whatever those foot thingys do. I also needed somewhere to sit while I played, so obviously I added a sleek-looking leather piano bench to my online shopping cart. Once I was done, I moved to the next screen where it calculated the cost with tax, and that’s when I finally took a deep breath and realized: the economy is very uncertain right now, so maybe I shouldn’t be buying an $830 digital piano package. At least not right now. Someday though…these dangly fingers will finally get to play…(gross)
I’ve been cooking all kinds of things, and it’s been really therapeutic. I refrained from beginning this list by talking about food, lest you end up thinking I’m a one-dimensional food whore. The items mentioned above have obviously proven otherwise (a piano, wow, look how complex and worldly she is), and so, since it’s now crystal clear that my dimensions are vast, I can now get on with my favourite topic. When it comes to quarantine cooking, I totally understand why a lot of people haven’t been able to cook during these stressful times. It is certainly not a mandatory hobby, as each of us can only do what is best for ourselves (or the family, if you’re currently residing in a chaotic home that includes children). For myself, my stressed out brain seems to calm itself by diving in head first to cooking I’ve never tried, to deliciousness I’m craving, or to the science and thrill of wondering whether a recipe will work out great or taste like trash. My stress-therapy experiments have included making fresh ravioli for the first time, making baguettes (yep, I am one of those bread-making basic bitches), making chicken tikka masala flatbread from scratch (possibly my fave!), poaching an egg for the first time (it wasn’t easy!), baking a dark chocolate olive oil cake, and most recently, making fried chicken, biscuits and waffles. I almost screwed up the baguettes, and I had to wear gloves when I was frying the chicken because the droplets of oil felt too hot. Yes, I am a weak-ass little baby, but everything was flat-out delicious. You can see the full highlights on Instagram, and thank you to all who’ve been joining me on the Instagram-Story-Quarantine-Cooking-Adventures (your comments have been fun to read, and tomorrow is Chicken Tinga Taco Night)!
When I haven’t been cooking, I have eaten a shitload of chips. I think I’ve eaten at least 6 bags of chips in the first 6 weeks of quarantine, along with 2 bags of kettle corn (different categories!) Two of the bags of chips were ‘family size’, but in my piggish defense, I’m convinced that ‘family size’ bags have gotten smaller in recent years, whereas I’m highly suspicious that the price per gram has increased…I need Mulder and Scully to look into this. In the meantime, have you seen the new bags of Cool Ranch Doritos? They have extra seasoning, and it’s amazing.
Because of all the cooking and chips, I’ve been grudgingly finding ways to exercise. The original plan was, that 2020 was gonna be ‘a new decade, and a new me.’ I got myself a personal trainer and everything! He was great, and the long-term sins of pasta past were finally being abolished. And then the pandemic hit. To reference my thoughts at the beginning of the post, boy am I ever privileged and lucky, if one of my concerns isn’t seeing my personal trainer (you bougie bitch!). I recognize this, and I also recognize that with all of the cooking and consuming, and the bags of chips that I refuse to stop eating, if I don’t find a way to exercise, I will never be able to wear denim again (unless it’s in some sort of poncho form). My amazing trainer has been sending me exercises I can do at home, and I’ve also been doing some virtual classes, which I must confess, I was worried about at first; like if the tyrant can’t see me doing the moves, why would I even try? I’m just gonna eat this ravioli instead. Somehow though, the thought of all the bags of chips has made me haul my ass, so I am grateful. I’ve also gotten myself a skipping rope, and let me tell you, it was a harsh reality to learn that skipping for ‘cardio’ is a WHOLE lot different than casually skipping as an eight-year-old. Why didn’t anyone tell me that skipping on the spot for three minutes straight would practically break my legs? Rude.
I watched Ozark season 3. And I still haven’t recovered.
I’ve been writing. Since this blog post is turning into a full-length book (oops), I would certainly put it into the “writing” category, and I’ve also been adapting a screenplay of mine into a novel. This adaptation was not in my original 2020 plans, but with all this extra time, I’ve had the chance to re-discover how fun it is to write in narrative form. I love actually getting inside the character’s thoughts, and adding background colour I couldn’t include in a script. I don’t have anything snarky to say about this, I’m just geeking out on writing and it feels pretty good!
I made my friends sing me ‘happy birthday’ on a video call. This forced act was exactly as horrifying and awkward and as off-key as you would imagine, but if you can’t make your friends awkwardly sing you ‘happy birthday’ in the midst of a pandemic, then what’s the point of having friends at all?
I’m fascinated by Instagram influencers trying to be sexy during quarantine. So…what do you do if that perfectly curated outfit is irrelevant in these quarantine times? It’s a tough question for a lot of Instagram influencers, those for whom the norm is to pose in the street in different outfits every day, but I’ve been fascinated to see how they’ve adapted. A lot of them have been trying to make loungewear seem inventive and hot. Like I never knew jogging pants could be so provocative and sexy. It’s inspirational.
I ordered a 1,000-piece puzzle of my favourite Van Gogh painting. This is possibly my favourite thing on the list, as the painting in this puzzle has a lot of sentimental value. Before I ever set foot in Paris, I ordered a print of this Van Gogh painting of a French café at night, and I would stare at it all the time. During those lengthy stares, I had no actual plans to ever go to France or Paris, I just hoped that maybe one day, after all the staring…I would just fall into the artwork somehow. In a way, I did. And many, many times after that. I can’t wait to geek out on this puzzle, but I can’t decide if I’ll be more efficient with several cups of tea, or with several glasses of wine. I guess I’ll just try it both ways and see.
I love random humour when I’m in quarantine. I pretty much love random humour all the time, but somehow it’s even funnier during these stressful times. My latest discovery was an EP from the hilarious comedian Chelsea Peretti. She’s actually released 5 well-produced songs with the most ridiculous and yet relatable lyrics. Mostly the songs are just about coffee, and it’s divine. One of the songs is called Oat Milk, if that’s any indication. Anyway, it’s amazing.
I’ve started feeding a squirrel. Since quarantine started, I looked into fostering a cat, but each time I tried to get myself a furry friend, it fell through. The failures felt like a sign, like maybe it was the universe’s way of trying to say: why don’t you instead feed this squirrel that probably has rabies? He’ll burn through your premium almond supply, but he will never show you a single ounce of gratitude. Isn’t that something you could use in your life? It started as the universe’s sick little joke, but now I’m in too deep. Now my squirrel will continue to get six premium almonds a day at the pre-determined time. Except…is there two of them? THAT’S RIGHT, last week I noticed TWO black squirrels scurrying around, so now I don’t actually know if I’m feeding the original squirrel, or if the second squirrel FOUND OUT about the almonds and took over. Has the second squirrel stolen the first squirrel’s lunch? Is he the bully on the playground? Am I enabling squirrel bullying? (Isn’t it fun to over-analyze during quarantine??!?!)
Phew! Okay, is anyone still reading this or am I just talking to myself? I mean, the latter would be pretty on brand for quarantine, so it’s fine. What I wanted to say to you, or to myself, was that I started this post with the intention of telling the fun and random travel story from that time I went to Slovenia (since this is pretty much a travel blog these days). It would’ve been fun to reminiscence, but the topic went a little sideways, and now this post has long overstayed its welcome.
Maybe next time…
The last time I wrote about Paris, the tone was necessarily grim, and though we all remember November 13th, “joie de vivre” stays strong. This resilience is one of the many reasons why Paris is so inspiring, so thank you for that, great city!
Speaking of Paris…six or seven months ago, I was told of the existence of a Paris half marathon in March. I was also told that we should and could and would run it. My response was laughter, followed by “yeah sure,” and an eye-roll that Whatsapp couldn’t see. It was one of those crazy schemes you talk about but hopefully forget, because who actually wants to run 21 kilometres?!
Before 2015 ended, I was reminded of this promise. Had it actually been a promise? Is laughing and rolling your eyes while sarcastically saying “sure” considered legally binding? Apparently so, because the Paris half marathon is 34 days away, and yes I have officially registered.
In the grand scope of the world, a half marathon is only a “half” marathon, and the people who run a “full” one are the people who are actually crazy (42 kilometres?! You’re a PERSON, not a Honda Civic. Take a seat).
In the smaller scope of myself however…I am not a runner by nature. I mean…I guess most humans aren’t, unless they’re being chased, but I don’t actively seek out opportunities to run, at least not for longer than twenty-five minutes. I also don’t use a Nike running app to share on social media, so everyone can know how I’m way more active than they are, and in turn feel guilty about their twelfth Oreo cookie.
Though I haven’t yet used an app to athletically shame others (key word being “yet“), my routine has required a brisk and harsh change since signing up. I’m one of those people who loves theories like “interval training,” where you can actually get a good workout by sprinting hard for two minutes and walking for five, then multiplying that by four, and being finished your entire workout in twenty-eight minutes. I’m also one of those people who owns the T25 workout DVDs, where you can actually get an amazing workout with only 25 minutes of effort! (which by the way is insanely hard, and I always have to stop and take water breaks when I’m doing it). Oh, and in case you were wondering, yes, pictured here is my tantalizing T25 workout DVD collection. I mean really, how can anyone say “no” to the shirtless man with the sixteen-pack abs, who’s telling you to “GET IT DONE”?
What was I saying? Oh yeah…running for over two hours? Or however long it takes me to struggle to the finish line?
It’s mad I tell ya, mad! The only time I was thrilled with lengthy exercise was during a day of hiking in Switzerland, and only because it contained the most beautiful views I’d ever seen in my life.
But wait…there is a flip side.
The flip side to choosing a challenge beyond one’s skill level is…being a competitive person, and accomplishing it out of spite. Once my competitive nature takes hold, any challenge is suddenly realistic. After that, my Aries nature takes hold, and I picture my astrological symbol of the ram crushing the competition with metaphorical horns. That’s all it takes, baby.
And so…I am excited. Very, very excited.
As an added plus, the training thus far has not been as horrible as I’d imagined, and with each incremental workout, I’m enjoying running more and more (oh god, I’m about to become one of THOSE people…). Even so, I’ve been training on a treadmill, and I seriously need to get outside. This of course means that two weeks from now…rain or shine, I’ll be pounding the Paris pavement, and seeing how closely I can follow the recommended training schedule (which I started five weeks late, no biggie). All I know is that I seriously need to catch up, because the last seven days have included the stomach flu, a hacking cough, a clogged nose, nasal drip, and absolutely zero running.
But that’s okay! Because today is the first day of the rest of my training life, and I’m clearly super excited about it:
If my own competitive nature isn’t enough to help me finish the race, my friends and I are running on behalf of the British Red Cross. I really respect the Red Cross charity and all that it does with swiftness and transparency, so much so that I sent out donations in people’s names instead of Christmas presents this year. Everybody was really thrilled about that, because any reaction aside from being thrilled would’ve made them seem like assholes (entrapment!). Little did I know that a few months later I’d be making my own appeal to others, but here we are, which brings us now to the five ascending pressure stages of fundraising:
After this post, I will have completed the first three items on the list, and despite the expected paltry success rate of 0.5 percent, our team of three has actually gotten some donations! For that, I thank you, but we are only 18% of the way there. Furthermore, while I may limit my level of hustle when I’m trying to sell my books, there is no upper limit to how shameless I’ll be when I’m hustling for a worthy cause.
That’s right guys, I’m comin’ at you with items #4 and #5, so you might as well make it less awkward by donating in advance! Here’s the link: http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/team/FootstepsinParis
See you in Paris,
PS: I offer my sincere thanks to anyone who’s able to donate. We’ve all got our own priorities, and charities are a personal thing, so I greatly appreciate any amount you’re able to give!
PPS: I’ll be back in Paris from mid-Feb to mid-April, to train/try new hangouts/finish a script, so expect regular updates on this blog and on instagram! (“Paris is always a good idea“—> quote from my coffee mug, est. 2013)
My relationship with mannequins has been nothing short of tumultuous over the years. First, there was my confusing childhood crush on a grown man/mannequin hybrid in Jeff from Today’s Special, and then, growing up, the realization that a mannequin’s painted-on eyeliner was so superior to my own. For a brief moment things turned around, when a movement began to eliminate hair and faces on mannequins across the board, in favour of the polished and uniform faceless look. I suspect this was done to accommodate the fact that many prospective shoppers don’t have porcelain skin and horse-hair locks of gold. It was definitely a strategy to improve race relations, and recently it went a big step further when mannequins started having no heads at all. It was a bold but intelligent move, since as an ethnic minority myself, there’s nothing I relate to more than a decapitated likeness of a human in the latest and greatest fashions…
A few weeks ago though, things went horribly wrong. It happened on Toronto’s bustling Yonge Street in the downtown core. My friends and I (it’s important for bloggers to “character drop” friends into their posts, to eliminate the stigma that bloggers have no friends, even if the “friends” in question are fictional, and in my case they are, but no one needs to know that except myself and the readers (aka my REAL friends! Are you all eating Cheetos in your pajamas too?)…oh wait, I forgot what I was saying. Oh yeah, so my friends and I were strolling along after a fabulous dinner, a skip in our step from splitting two bottles of vino—friends are great for sharing the vino in a dignified way, as opposed to drinking the bottle alone in your pajamas after binge-eating a bag of Cheetos—when we came across…THIS.
Your eyes do not deceive you; those, my friends, are anatomically-disgraceful INVERTED knee-caps. We weren’t sure if our eyes were deceiving us either that night, so I took the picture, let it sit for exactly one month, and didn’t look upon it until today, only to find that it wasn’t a sick joke. I mean damn, like it wasn’t already hard enough to relate to blonde mannequins, or twenty-inch-waisted mannequins, or decapitated mannequins, but now you’re telling me the basic structure of my human form is no longer worthy of wearing the dresses in the shop window? It won’t be long before women start getting elective knee-inversion surgeries, just like how there’s procedures to elongate legs, or a recent rise in butt implants, or the newfound obsession with having a thigh-gap (did you see that episode of Dr. Oz? Better yet did you see Beyoncé’s photoshopped thigh-gap from that day she was playing golf?).
The fact that this blog is supposed to be about Paris reminiscence (and there’s so much reminiscence I haven’t yet shared!) should tell you how this issue has been weighing on my mind. I even went back and changed the post’s title to reflect this disturbing topic.
Due to my current state of distress, I think I’ll leave it at that. In other news, since I haven’t blogged for two months, I never shared that Ted Talk I did in November re: following your dreams. Well here it is! (I’m also working on a butt-load of writer stuff, but it’s still too early to mention it yet…just know that I’m using the full 10% of my brain that we humans use!)
It starts with the beginning of a brand new year. For people who indulged too much over the holidays, this means an end to the guiltless consumption of chickens stuffed in ducks stuffed in turkeys (it’s called turducken and it’s real), and the beginning of joining a gym so you can buy into the Richard Simmons lie, the supposed promise that your legs could ever be as toned and oily as his, or that silky striped short-shorts are available en masse.
For those of us who are pretty much the same weight all the time and pretty okay with that—isn’t it cool how I sound like a zen person who never even wrote about a weight-conscious protagonist in her first book?—we’re thrust into reality in different ways. There’s less sweat and less “trying to like kale” involved in this latter case, but it’s equally likely to exhaust you and stimulate your gag reflex.
I’m talking about those of us who managed to embrace our dreamer selves in the year just past, floating under the radar of “I’ll settle down and straighten out in 2014, don’t worry.”
And now, my friends, it’s January 2014 (dun dun dun!—>it’s hard to convey dramatic music in text, which is why I regard writing as the most inferior of the arts; I wish I’d learned to play the piano, but this is what I’ve got, so I will pimp it like a hooker with an enormous bosom).
While living in Paris last year, I was surrounded by dreamers all the time. They would come and go but the theme of our journeys was the same; we’d left something secure for the quest of something different, which manifested itself in many ways: inspiration, enlightenment, and a high concentration of connecting with incredible people.
But then we all left that world, and hanging on to our inspiration HERE makes us seem like we’re “koo-koo for Cocoa Puffs.”
Luckily the new year offers up a slap to sort us out, along with the encouragement of family, which most recently sounded like this: “Send your resumé to a bank; even if you don’t like the job at least you’ll be making money.“. Right, the money lie. It’s so much worse than the Russell Simmons lie, because unlike the oily toned legs of a sixty-five-year-old man, the signs of money are everywhere. Don’t let that statement confuse you; I’m a huge fan of money. I mean how the hell do you think I got to Paris in the first place? On well wishes and group hugs? I even cheer whenever the Canadian dollar drops in value, because my book royalty checks are in US currency (hopefully by cheering heartily for Canada in the Olympics I can right this wrong).
Yes, I’m a huge fan of cold hard cash, but the difference between some of it and a lot of it is usually happiness. Some people make a good amount of money and are also really happy. I mean of course they are, because it’s not like their constant Facebook updates about how happy they are represent a lack of satisfaction that can only be cured with the validating power of the “like” button, of course not!
But forget the ones who have it all…what about the ones who have to choose? How do you choose between doing what you love for most of your awake hours, vs. doing what’s expected of you so you don’t make people uncomfortable because your path isn’t easy to explain? Or easy to brag about? Or easy to not be embarrassed by? (again, I am referring to the hooker career choice).
I am now at the six-hundred word mark of this post, and I’m wondering if I’ve inadvertently written a glowing endorsement for prostitution.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, there’s no balance and routine and security to being a dreamer, so the sensible thing to do is just stop, especially when you’ve already had a taste of what it could be like; that should be enough, ya know? Hang on to the memories, kid!
Or you could be insane and keep reaching for insane goals, because there’s one thing you know how to do better than any other thing, and expressing yourself in that way, and connecting with others in that way is essential to your existence. So you just keep going, even when there’s no clear path, even when you know there might not be many more days to do this if something big doesn’t happen, and even when it means you might go back to a job you don’t like at some point, while you brainstorm revisions to your strategy for happiness.
Well, I have to go now, ’cause I’ve got big honkin’ plans and there’s lots and lots to do.
[You may now decide which path I’ve chosen and imagine what happens next:
1. bank teller
3. lady of the night]
There comes a time in every person’s life, when he/she must order an econo-pack of ball-enhancing pills at three a.m., from one of those home-shopping channel thingys.
In real-life terms, I am a girl and the ball-growth is symbolic only of courage, as opposed to any latent desire for a sex change.
My symbolic balls sprung forth when I decided that with whatever money I had (the money that was supposed to pay for a house, or an eventual big fat Indian wedding–oops) , I would move to Paris for however long I could afford it (six months tops), and quit my job so I could FINALLY hold the title of full-time author/writer/dreamer!
I’ve shared the news with my conservative Indian parents and the response has been surprisingly accepting, but intermingled with questions like “I think you’re lying about writing. I think you’re moving there to be with a man; is he Polish?” (how do you get Polish from Paris?). Despite the parental skepticism, this move has nothing to do with a man, because helllllo, it’s 2013, and the world does not revolve around “guy acquisition/retention,” am I right ladies? (if someone could do a *finger-snap* here I’d appreciate it).
Instead, it’s all about me, it’s all about writing/publishing book three in my “Year of the Chick” series, and it’s all about blogging twice a week from Paris, to confess all my highs, lows, and encounters with people and places. I’ve already been setting the stage, by joining two groups on Meetup.com. One is a group about Ex-Pats in Paris who seem like they LOVE to have fun (that’ll definitely inspire some blog posts), and another is a French/English language exchange, where the group meets in pubs or cafés, and you’re paired with someone trying to improve their English or French. Conversations in each language ensue, followed by freestyle, ohhh yeah! Stay tuned for that. Then of course there’s the whole “having no friends,” living on the Left Bank, and interacting with strangers to see what happens. Overall, these “Confessions of a Chick in Paris” will eventually become a memoir/travel guide that I’ll publish as well (after adding fifty-percent of never-before-seen stuff, wow!), but for now please enjoy the free content beginning May 2nd! (I’ll also be focusing on screenwriting while I’m Paris, after an encouraging 7 out of 10 review from the Black List, with scores on 8 for both Character and Dialogue. Now it’s all about improvement and perfection!)
In the meantime, I’ll probably blog again before I leave, to discuss how one transitions from a full-time job to stressfully packing for six months in Paris…it will likely be dramatic.
By the way, if you’re reading this post from a phone or something, go to your web browser or iPad or what have you RIGHT NOW, and check out my brand new blog theme, heehee! (Yes, it makes me giddy, and it even has a post-slider, oh my! Fear not though, all my old posts are still there, and I’ve even filed them for you in the menu bar, enjoy!)
Write you soon,