The Real Au Pairs of Paris

It occurred to me the other day as I was hungover and eating sandwiches with Matt and Caitlin on Rue Cler, that my life would make an excellent Bravo reality show. We could be the Real Au Pairs of Paris. We'd have awesome catchphrases like

"I'm not as innocent as I look."

"I may not have much money, but I always get what I want."

"Children are my life. Except on the weekends."

Then "Kathleen" in blue letters or something floats under my face as I unlock V's door, while upbeat indie pop plays. As I'm unfolding the ironing board and sighing dramatically (as I do) my phone rings and I put it on speaker so that everyone at home knows that I'm getting a call from one of my equally fabulous and broke yet extremely well-dressed au pair friends. 

"Hey girl," I say, laying out some age-3-yr pajama bottoms.

"Heyyy. So we're going to Batofar tonight."

"That costs like 10 euros, dude," (although I'm pretty sure I'm getting paid plenty by Bravo at this point it's important to keep up the ruse that I'm actually broke).

"Whatever, you're young once. I might be bring Pierre actually..." (Pierre may also be being paid by Bravo).

"Oh my God. Well then he can pay for my entry."

We laugh. I say something like "Bye, bitch," and hang up. Cut to confessional interview with me in which I say something passive aggressive and backhanded about my friend who I've just finished talking to. Probably something mean about Pierre, who we've already established is basically a plot device.

At this point everyone at home has established whether they prefer me to my imaginary phone friend or vice versa. After this interaction airs I receive hundreds of hate/support tweets. 

Later in the evening Sophie, Matt, Caitlin, and I are getting ready to go out in my apartment, which means that we're playing lots of pop music really loudly with the windows open. While I'm in the shower the guardienne comes up and informs my friends that she's already called the police because of noise complaints. Oh and it's totally inappropriate that there's a man here with three girls. The fact that he's gay doesn't seem to matter. She's also called V, who calls me and tells me not to worry and that she's already fixed it by calling off the police because she happens to know the Paris police chief, but if I get any more noise complaints they may kick me out of my apartment. (This event actually happened on Thursday. But in the reality TV version, we all blame each other in the confessional interviews. This event will also cause me an unreasonable amount of stress that will stretch for at least a few episodes.)

Later in the evening somebody cries, and the episode ends with whoever the appointed "bitch" of the group is making fun of the crier. 

I'm totally pitching this to Bravo. 

Sweet Home Chicago in Paris

As everyone in Paris surely already knows because I all but hired a plane to write in in the air, Matt and Caitlin are here! Friends from home! Chicago friends! Making new friends is great, and I love all of the people I've met here in Paris, but there's something really special about seeing people who have known you for years, who not only know about but were present for many of your most embarrassing escapades, who have comforted you when you dissolved into an-entire-bottle-of-red-wine-to-yourself-and-then-some sobs, and who despite it all still love you.

I told them I'd pick them up at Gare du Nord, where they were arriving from London. As soon as I saw them I immediately lost all sense of dignity, screamed, and charged at them. My friends!! After the requisite hugging/crying/hugging, I took them for falafel (I don't call it obsession, I call it devotion), and then I had to dash off to work. Ah if only they'd had the good sense to come during the weekend like Cat. 

It's actually worked out pretty okay though. They have a tourist agenda which they accomplish while I'm playing play-dough with Le Petit, and then I get back and we hang out, or drink, or drink and hang out and have a sleepover. And yeah, V was maybe a little bit right, my bed is not exactly equipped for three people. Imagine Caitlin falling off her side of the bed, Matt falling off his side of the bed, and me trapped between them, on my back with my arms sort of awkwardly pinned on top of my breasts and my feet sticking out from under the one blanket which doesn't really cover either of them.

Their first day we did a Champs de Mars picnic (I should get more creative with my tourguiding I know) and last night we went out with my only Parisien friend, Thibault. One of the great things about Thibault is that he truly appreciates my need for cheap, and knows the maybe three places in the whole city where truly cheap is truly possible. He led us to a packed student bar near Cardinale Lemoine with 3 euro pints of Bud where we crowded around and tried to understand each other. This went surprisingly well considering Thibault doesn't speak perfect English, I definitely don't speak perfect French, and Matt and Caitlin took German and Spanish in high school respectively.

And today is the 4th of July. What exactly does an American do in Paris on the 4th of July? There will be no fireworks. There will be no watermelon, or barbecues, or parties by the lake. The best I think I can hope for is cold beer, although this will probably be drunk in a crowded Parisian bar surrounded by Europeans who don't feel quite as fondly for my homeland as I do.

Oh well. At least I'll have my American homies with me. Maybe I can convince the DJ to do some sort of dubstep remix of the Star Spangled Banner. Or at least lead the crowd in a rousing a cappella rendition. I'll let you know how that goes.