La Mom’s Dirty Little Secret

I have a little confession to make. I don’t wash my hair.

Ever.

OK, just to clarify, I haven’t gone totally Frenchy. I do bathe once, if not twice, a day. And when I lived in the States, I absolutely had to wash, condition, and blow-dry my hair on a daily basis, come hell or high water. So what happened to this former Breck girl?

It’s simple. Kids.

I don’t know about you, but I’m not too keen on getting up at 5:30 a.m. before the morning madness begins just to make sure I have squeaky-clean cheveux. Anyway, given Paris’ cold, humid winters, it’s inevitable that my hair will end up in a fuzzy aura around my face as soon as I walk out the door. In fact, there’s no better frizz fighter than a little French grime. I’ve discovered that the longer I go between washes, the smoother my hair looks.

For all you moms who cut corners like me, I can assure you that Paris’ top hairdressers agree there is such a thing as too-clean hair. Sometime around 2000 B.C. (Before Children) I actually prepped to get a trim at my fancy-schmancy salon. I’d been submerged at work and hadn’t washed my hair in ages. I was terrified to show up with nasty hair and two-month-old roots, so I grabbed a box of L’Oréal and made a beeline for the shower.

When Frank, my fab stylist, examined my tresses, he was totally confused. “Mais vos cheveux sont tellement propres,” he said with a disgusted grimace.

Leave it to the French to turn clean into a dirty word.

Some Days You're the Dog, Some Days You're the Hydrant

Well, in this case, you're the pooper scooper, if not actually the hydrant.

Yes, it looks like the mayor's "Clean Up the Crap" ad campaign (see post: Clean Up the Crap from September) isn't working très bien. In fact, the city has recently put these nifty signs up in my neighborhood which read "I love my neighborhood, I scoop."

Yeah right, like these signs are going to make Parisians scoop up the poop?!

Oh wait, if you read closely, you'll see that dog owners are threatened with a 457 EURO fine (that's about $600). Maybe the city thinks the fine will scare everyone into poop scooping?

Guess again.

I calculated that the city of Paris could have made at least 2285 EUROS from the five dogs who pooped next to the lamp post in front of my building this morning between 8am and 8:40am. That's 57 euros/minute! Too bad the mayor of Paris doesn't have the smarts to send the Poop Police to my block. If you think about it, they could make at least 6855 EUROS per day if the Poop Police patrolled after breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Hey wait, I may be onto something here...this blog pays nothing! It would be much more financially beneficial to pretend to be a city employee (or the police) and fine these offenders myself!

Some days you're La Mom, some days you're the Poop Police!

Oh Ex-Girlfriend, Where Art Thou?

In Paris.

On my street.

It hit me like a ton of briques the first time I walked past her in front of my apartment building. The beautiful, blonde, young 30-something, Parisian babe walking towards me was George Clooney's ex-girlfriend!

C'mon, you remember her, don't you? Her name is Celine. She's the French barmaid who George plucked from the Barfly restaurant about ten years ago and brought back to L.A. to live with him and his pig.

In Paris a barmaid one day, hitting the red carpet with the cutest actor in Hollywood the next day! Not bad for la petite parisienne!

Very bad for me though as I've become a stalker mommy.

My mission after spotting her was to figure out what building she was visiting and whether she lived there or if she was rendez-vousing with someone famous. I figured out which car she drove (a Smart) and I even peeked inside (spotless).

How sad is that?

But it got worse.

I was walking next to her with the French Fries one day (she was literally arm's length from me) and I said to Big Fry (in English and a bit louder than normal), "So are you excited to take the airplane to America tomorrow? We're going to visit Grandma in Malibu."

As I slyly looked at her from behind my sunglasses to see if it registered that we were going to her old haunt, she continued walking looking dazed and confused.
I am SO lame, je sais!

Once I knew which building she was visiting (the beautiful and very bourgeois one) I had to know who lived there. So I thought it would be easy to walk up to the front door and look at the names posted on the interphone. Well, not so easy. Either the concierge was polishing the door knobs or one of the couple of mommies from Big Fry's school who live in the building would be coming or going. I didn't want them to think I was a weird American mommy stalker (which of course I am).

So what's a stalker mom to do?

Well, I got my confidence together one day (helped by a very cute outfit, a blowout, and a shopping bag from Dior) and sauntered up to the door as if I lived there myself. I slowly read the names on the interphone and had the biggest let down because I thought I was on to a scoop and I was ready to call the French gossip mags (except they probably wouldn't have taken my call because George's ex is a Z-list celebrity in France)....

Her parents Monsieur & Madame live in the building!