Best of NewYorkinParis (so far)

Like those precocious poptarts who put out a “Greatest Hits” album after a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it career (I’m anxiously awaiting yours, Ke$ha!), I’ve decided to make a list of NYiP’s best posts over the past two years. Because a lot of readers got sent here thanks to WordPress’ recommend—thank you, WP and readers!—I figure making a “Best Of” list of the 145 (!) posts I’ve written so far would save a lot of people a lot of slogging through the many less-than-interesting, navel-gazing entries.

As for how I define “best”? It’ll be personal favorites mixed in with posts that got the most (in enthusiasm or volume) response as well as a few useful links for anyone who may be visiting Paris.

Best of NYiP 2010:

1) My fave Japanese noodle shop in Paris and my current fave Korean

2) Back when I was oh-so-cynical about the President and First Lady of France’s relationship

3) Getting Carrie’d away (yeah, I stole the tagline from the movie, I know)

4) Working out in Paris, yoga to kickboxing

5) A must-see/read: J.K. Rowling’s Harvard commencement speech (yes, I love Harry Potter)

6) Marriage

7) Some recipes: Spaghetti Sauce and Meatballs; Quinoa controversy

8 ) I’m starting to enjoy the Paris marchés more these days

9) That day we voted O

10) My broken leg story. And to add something new to the rehash, I was told I was pregnant as they wheeled me into surgery (it’s not in the actual post b/c you’re supposed to wait 3 months to tell people… now that baby’s here, I figure it’s safe)

11) The bitchiest stewardess on the planet! Again, it isn’t in the post, but this hussy knew that I was pregnant as well. So think about that: She was hitting on a pregnant cripple’s husband! And right in front of her. HO!

12) Unhygienic crepes and rude people

13) I don’t know how to tip in Paris

14) You got questions? I got answers

15) Lily Allen and my advice to all the young ladies of the world

16) Mom

17) Everyone’s favorite: I LOVE BITES

And the one that started this particular post:

18) A handmaid’s tale

Thanks for reading. I hope I can continue to entertain, provoke some thought, help you navigate Paris and sometimes inspire, if I can. I love hearing all your advice, thoughts, encouragement and random meanderings, too. Keep it coming!

Mo’ Money, Mo’ Bourgeois Problems

I never grew up with servants or housekeepers or nannies or drivers or any of those things. Coming from an immigrant musician family who lived in the Philadelphia suburbs pretty much meant that I took care of picking up my own crap—or my parents did when they couldn’t take how infrequently I picked up said crap.

Fast-forward to life in Paris and I’m learning first-hand all about the discreet charms of the bourgeoisie. (Yes, that’s an inside joke.) ”Cleaning ladies” (the PC American term) or “maids” (what everyone calls them in non-PC France) are par for the course for nearly every household. Whether they come once or a few times a week, maid service is fairly affordable, so again, almost everybody has it.

Two years ago, it was a novelty that made me feel a little weird (though thrilled that I didn’t have to clean up constantly.) I was really embarrassed to tell the maid what she should do; who was I to order her around? Now, the novelty has become a necessity and I’m better about giving orders, though still not completely comfortable with it. My maid has also become a de facto nanny, as she’s a young woman in her 20s who loves babies and adores my Dae.

Now whether it’s because I didn’t grow up with household help or because I grew up in the meritocracy that’s America, I just can’t see people as “the help.” Once, when I was in India and staying at a friend’s house, I was given my own servant. Seriously. My friend’s mom insisted I call my servant at any hour if I needed the littlest thing. He would bring me my meals and stand there until I finally realized one day that I had to dismiss him or else he’d wait to see if I needed something else. At the end of my trip, I bought him a Polo shirt as a thank you gift—to the amusement and chagrin of my hosts. “Now all the other servants will want Polo shirts, too,” they only half-jokingly griped.

Today, I asked the maid/nanny to come for a walk with me and the baby. It was a fairly nice day in Paris and I thought it would be good for all of us to go out and get some air. We ran errands and I found myself asking about her life, her dreams, her problems and so on. Needless to say, her life isn’t easy; in fact, far from ideal. She told me about her isolation here in France, her troubles with her boyfriend (who she moved here with), the lack of fun and socializing in her life. The girl has no friends. We stopped in Starbucks where I got us both Chai tea lattes (her first) and some sweet treats. It was nice and I know it was special for her because when she left, she told me that it was the first time she felt like she was having a real Paris life.

It made me sad.

First, because it stinks that she’s an attractive, sweet young woman who comes from a poor country that would pay her far less as an accountant (what she studied in school) than what she makes cleaning houses here. Second, because life clearly isn’t a lot of fun for her. Third, because she has romantic problems, which always tugs on my heartstrings. Fourth, because a simple stop at Starbucks could make her so happy. And fifth, because I don’t know if I can really be a friend to her since I’m her employer.

I know that there are boundaries that should be maintained, especially since she’s also helping to care for my daughter—wouldn’t it be weird if we became friends and yet I still had to tell her to vacuum and iron? At the same time, it’s hard for me not to care about a person who’s helping take care of my family and who I see nearly every day.

So what am I supposed to do? (Strangely enough, there was an article in the NYTimes today about how to talk to one’s nanny. Not super-relevant to my bourgeois problem, but close.) I wonder, too, if my own loneliness as an American transplant makes me predisposed to helping her and/or pursuing a friendship. I mean, if this were New York City, with all my friends and overflowing lifestyle, would I even think twice about the cleaning lady’s business?

Anyway, I guess Biggie had it right.

My Lame Superpowers

I love that Seinfeld episode where Jerry and George are talking about how George has like super-hearing—”I can hear a cotton ball touch wood!”—because I kind of feel like we’ve all got these superpowers which aren’t particularly exciting (like telepathy or shooting laser beams from your eyes), but that are useful nonetheless. And yes, I did read too many Marvel comics as a kid.

Here are mine:

1) Controlling the opening of subway doors
No matter where I am (New York, Paris, London, DC, even LA), I seem to have this magical ability to always have the subway doors open where I am standing. Dman mocks this ability, but let me tell you, when it’s rush hour and you don’t have to jockey for position to get into the subway, it’s pretty great. Because you’re the first one in, you’re pretty much always guaranteed a seat, too. Not so lame now, is it?

2) Thinking of someone and having them contact me
I know lots of people have that sixth sense or whatever it is that might let them know if a close friend or family member is the one calling them when the phone rings. My lame superpower is a bit more powerful, dare I say. I think of someone and it can be the most random thought of a person I’ve met once, or haven’t talked to in months, and within 2 to 24 hours, I will undoubtedly get a phone call or an email from said person. (Coincidence? I think not.)
I’ve been trying to determine if it’s because I’m a strong “sender,” where my thought of them compels them to contact me or if I’m a “receiver” and I’m picking up their thought of contacting me. I’m leaning towards sender, but really, I’m not sure how I would verify that. This power is not that useful. More like a parlor trick. But perhaps I just have to hone it to truly harness its power!

3) Clothes Visualization
This really comes in handy when I’m shopping or dressing for a night out. I can look at a piece of clothing on a hanger and see exactly what it will look like with whatever else I have in my closet (including accessories) and how it will hang on my body. You may scoff at this ability, but it saves time when you have to figure out what you’re going to buy and subsequently wear. Picturing an outfit and how it will look on you instead of having to actually put it on is a true timesaver. However, this power has weakened considerably since my body has changed from pregnancy. Now I have to try on clothes like other mere mortals. Sigh.

This ability is closely related to…

4) Sniffing Out Chic Bargains—Immediately
If there’s a sale, I can literally run my hands up and down overstuffed and disorderly clothing racks and pick out the perfect item, in my size and at rock-bottom prices, almost instantaneously. This is why sales don’t discombobulate me like they do a lot of people I know (like my sister). What’s great about this power is that it extends to whomever I’m shopping with. I can pick stuff out for you, too! This is how my lame superpower helps the world. Sort of.

5) Winning Email Battles
Anyone from Dman to various family members to major corporations will tell you never, EVER to get into an email war with me. Because I will win by lexical evisceration. It’s not pretty, I’m ashamed to admit—and I must apologize to whoever has thrown down with me via email. (I am sorry, but you asked for it.) Since this is clearly an evil power, I have tried not to utilize it in recent times. It doesn’t jive with my loving-kindness resolution.

6) Memorizing Numbers
I have the ability to memorize numbers (phone, social security, bank accounts, credit cards) rather effortlessly, sometimes with just one pass at the number. However, I do have to concentrate a little to do this. And this may be a genetic trait as my sister says she can do this, too.

Anyway, these are the powers that separate me from ordinary human beings. Sure, it’s not X-ray vision or Hulk-like strength, but I enjoy my superpowers, lame as they are. And I know that plenty of you have secret abilities you’re keeping from the world. You don’t have to hide them anymore!

(Just call me the Professor Charles Xavier of totally lame superpowers.)

Fake Plastic She’s

I know I’m not the only one who’s been following the mutilation transformation of Heidi Montag with horrified fascination.

For those of you who are lucky enough to have no clue who she is, I’m sorry to have to end your blissful ignorance. Basically, she’s a reality TV person (The Hills) and one-half of the publicity-whoring duo known as Speidi (her hubby, Spencer Pratt, makes up the other half.)

Anyway, she’s been making headlines for the past couple of weeks for a major plastic-surgery overhaul she undertook—10 procedures in one day. This after having already gotten her nose and boobs done a few years back and making the tabloid rounds with that groundbreaking “story.”

So here’s the before and after:

Crazy, right? Especially when you consider that she’s only 23 years old. In interviews, she’s talked about how she feels plastic and can’t move her face. Well, no shit, Sherlock. (It’s been pointed out that messing with her face like this just makes her look closer to 30 than 20, too. That doesn’t seem so “perfect” to me.)

I remember when plastic surgery was for rich old ladies’ facelifts and rich young teenagers’ nose jobs. The point was to look younger or less ethnic, I suppose. Now it seems to be a means to even out the playing field in Hollywood. After reading about Heidi, I came across these photos of Kim Kardashian and Jennifer Lopez:

Is it me or does everyone seem to have the same alien, tight-skinned plastic look to them that makes you wonder if you’re seeing a person or a wax-figure replica?

Real people or wax figures?

Not saying that all these stars have had work done, but they’re suspiciously similar-looking—especially for people ranging in age from 23 to 40. Obviously, they’re all beautiful but it’s a creepy, extra-terrestial kind of beauty that’s kind of scary. Scarier, perhaps, because you have people like the non-genetically blessed Heidi trying (and failing) to emulate it.

And this isn’t an anti-plastic surgery diatribe by any means. I’ve done things like chemical peels and laser resurfacing (for a NYPost article) and if after popping out a couple kids, my body goes to hell, Dman’s already promised to foot the bill for whatever nips and tucks I need.

But I can’t imagine completely altering the face and body you’re born with—and when you’re only in your twenties, when your skin and body are at its natural best. That speaks to some serious problems with both our society and Ms. Montag’s mental health.

Either way, it’s perfectly sad.

P.S. That is the real Brangelina and not Mme Tussaud replicas. Did you guess right?

Say You Want A Resolution?

Well, you know…

I can’t believe it’s 2010 and I haven’t visited the Club Med space outpost on Venus yet! (Actually, that would never happen because I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Club Med.)

Anyway, it’s a new year and despite all of Dman’s snarkiness about resolutions, of course I’ve made a ton—some I’ve forgotten already, others are tired and trite, and still others are possibly achievable.

So here goes (in no particular order):

1) Get my PRE-pre-baby body back. Because the body I had before the body I had when I got pregnant is the one I want. Circa three or four years ago when I was doing this crazy bootcamp thing at 6 am, 4 times a week. Oh, the good old days…

2) Go blonde. Dammit. I got turned down when I was in NYC by two stylists, but I’m determined to be blonde (or pink or red) again at some point this year.

3) Write my dating handbook for all the single ladies, all the single ladies. And some single gents, too.

4) Get my French driver’s license and get used to driving stick in Paris traffic. Oy.

5) Eat healthy. Again, like the good old days. I mean, Dman and I actually ate Mickey D’s TWICE this month. Seriously, seriously gross.

6) Yoga. Pilates. Physique 57. And meditation.

7) Get this freakin’ metal plate and 9 screws out of my leg!

8 ) Perfect my French. Learn Spanish. Get better at Korean.

9) Get better at piano. Ditto guitar.

10) Be a good mom, wife, friend who practices loving-kindness.

11) Stop reading vampire books! (Once I finish all the Sookie Stackhouse.)

12) Score a movie or two. Write more songs. Perform in France.

13) Spend less time doing useless things on the internet like reading PerezHilton and obsessively checking Facebook.

14) Get a little more culture (museums, theatre, etc) in my life. I live in Paris, after all.

15) Pick up a hobby of some sort.

And there you have it. I could go on and on because I’m a resolution-making junkie, but I should probably quit while I’m ahead.

Although I am open to suggestions…

Lost In Translation

My French is pretty good. After fours years of it in high school and another year in college, a semester of which was spent in Paris, I speak well enough that people say, “Wow, your French is good!” Anyway, the point of these two sentences isn’t to congratulate myself on my good French; it’s to underscore the fact that no matter how good my French may or may not be, I’m still an American who speaks English first and foremost.

A couple of months ago, I stopped into Zara and spotted this cute mariniere (which is basically a white shirt with navy or black stripes)—what French sailors wear (wore?) What I especially liked about it was that it read “I love bites” and looked kind of vampiric, which fit my New Moon fever mood.

So I’m happily wearing my “I love bites” shirt, thinking of it as a sly tribute to everybody’s fave vampire, Edward Cullen, when Dman finally asked me, “What is up with that shirt? What does that say? I love bites?”

“Yes,” I answered defensively. “It’s cute! And very vampire. Like Twilight.“

“Babe,” he drawled with exaggerated patience. “Bite means cock in French. You know that. You’re walking around with a shirt that says, ‘I love cocks.’”

Oh. Whoops.

I suppose that’s not the message I want to convey as a married mother of a 3-month-old. But then again, that means the shirt isn’t necessarily saying something that’s not true. Lol.

And even though I bought it in a French Zara (those employees must have had a good laugh when they pulled that shirt out of the boxes), I haven’t worn it again in Paris but did bring it to NYC with me.

Everybody say it with me now, “I love bites!”

To Breastfeed Or Not To Breastfeed

That is the question. Or rather, that is the question in France.

I breastfeed. Never imagined that I wouldn’t. Especially not after seeing my sister nurse her four babies. It just seemed like the easiest, most natural way to feed your child.

But then I got pregnant. In Paris.

And everyone and their mother, husband, sister, boyfriend, cousin asked me if I was going to breastfeed or allaiter. Mais oui, I’d answer. And this is where everyone’s opinions started making them an asshole —or did I just mix up my metaphors there?  I heard about how difficult it was to breastfeed. It was painful. It wasn’t easy. Terribly inconvenient. Unnecessary—perhaps even unhealthy (what?!)—after a few months. So on and so forth.

I was shocked because I’d never even known there was some sort of controversy about it. Then again, I’d never been pregnant before and I’d lived in the States, where most everyone seems to agree that breastfeeding is best for the first year.

Truth be told, I found breastfeeding to be fairly easy. My baby latched on soon after birth. I had some issues in the beginning with thrush and clogged ducts (TMI and a big huh? for everyone who’s never breastfed, I know.) But that cleared up and there’s really nothing simpler than feeding and comforting my baby by putting a boob in her mouth. Not to mention, as this NYTimes article did, breastfeeding helped me lose nearly all the pregnancy weight (about 40 lbs.) in the first month—without dieting or exercise. Two months later, I’ve got about 4 lbs. left to lose and figure at least 2 lbs. of that are my now-big breasts. Newfound cleavage is another perk!

There are of course some downsides. Leaking milk is the one that annoys me the most. Followed by not being able to leave the baby for extended periods just yet because, yep, I’m her food source and nope, I haven’t been able to pump a gallon of milk yet. I’ve gone as long as four and a half hours away, but she’s so small, I don’t really like leaving her for long, anyway.

Now that it’s obvious I’ve chosen to allaiter, I keep hearing from Frenchies that I only need to do it for 3 months. Or that nursing a baby of a year is abnormal and uncivilized. And that to be thin again, you have to stop breastfeeding. My friend T. had a French doctor tell her, “Only Africans breastfeed for a year,” after she mentioned her intentions to nurse her daughter that long. I mean, seriously?! This is what doctors here believe? And they’re racist, to boot?

A friend’s mother told me, with heavy sarcasm in her voice, “Oh, that woman (name not mentioned to protect the innocent and guilty) is a really good mother because she’s nursing her baby for a year. You know, that’s really unusual (read: weird) here in France.”

Like many things French, this is something I don’t understand or care to. And clearly, vice versa. I guess to that, I can only say, “Vive la difference!” and considering my baby girl is off the charts when it comes to her height and weight, “Vive la breastfeeding!”

P.S. I promised myself this wouldn’t become a baby/mommy blog—and it won’t! But I did have to point out this cultural difference between the American and French way of thinking. Promise no more baby stuff for at least a few posts!

Surprise Sales

I never know when it’s sale season in France. It’s something like January and June—and only at those times because sales are government-sanctioned here, apparently.

So imagine my surprise when I rolled the Dae-by into BHV (a department store near my house) and saw 40% off signs everywhere. Turns out this is the “sale before the sales” and they’re happening all over Paris for a week! Why didn’t I get the memo?!

Probably b/c I’m a new mom who doesn’t listen to the radio or watch French TV, especially now that I’ve got an Apple TV. (And that’s worth its own post; I’m hooked on Glee* now.)

Anyway, I’m almost back to pre-pregnancy weight, except for the boobs, so I felt like I could do some worthwhile shopping. Which I did. And I got 40% off everything!** Plus an added 12% off for the detax. Wheeeee!!

And Dae already seems to have a shopping gene. She smiled and laughed the whole time I was trying on stuff during the sale madness. That’s my girl.

* I actually auditioned for a role in “South Pacific” at Lincoln Center in front of the dude who plays the glee club teacher (and about 8 other men). Turns out he was the male lead of that Broadway production. Clearly, I didn’t get the part, which was that of a 17-year-old virgin—a stretch by any imagination. And what the hell was I doing at Lincoln Center auditioning for a Broadway show, anyway?! It was a strange confluence of events and horribly embarrassing, as auditions tend to be, but I seem to have a vague memory of him being nice and telling me I was “excellent.” So I like watching him play the nice guy on TV, too.

** Sales in France are no joke. It’s not like the States where stuff is “on sale” constantly and it’s not really a sale. Hence, the major madness when sale season arrives.

Mom’s The Word

Like most daughters, my relationship with my mom has had its ups and downs with the usual refrain of “Please don’t let me turn into my mother!” Complicating matters is the fact that culturally we’re pretty different: I’m American; she’s Korean, and (shamefully) I don’t speak Korean well (read: hardly at all). She speaks Korean to me; I answer in English. Oh, and my parents live in Seoul so I see them at most once a year.

These are not the ingredients that make for a close mother-daughter relationship.

Now the birth of my own daughter meant that my mom was coming to help me out, which I dreaded. I witnessed how stressful these grandma visits were for my sister when she gave birth (four times!) I wanted to avoid that at all costs and quite frankly, I thought her visit would be more aggravating than helpful. But Dman insisted that she come and see her granddaughter and since he was leaving for three weeks, it was the perfect opportunity to get some needed help with my newborn.

Mom arrived and I tried to be positive. But as the week wore on, she wore on my nerves. Everything annoyed me. She couldn’t figure out how our lighting system works. She kept insisting the baby and I were cold and should cover up. She seemed afraid to go outside and see Paris. Most annoying of all, she left wadded-up, wet paper towels all over the kitchen so she could re-use them instead of chucking them out. (What was annoying was that I would do that, too, and Dman pointed it out to me once, saying, “What is up with these used paper towels? Just throw them out!” All I kept hearing was, “You’re turning into your mother!”)

Anyway, after the first week, we had a huge fight about just about everything and I was ready to send the woman packing on an earlier flight back to Seoul.

Once again, my mom didn’t get it, I thought. She wasn’t the mom I’d wanted her to be since I was a teenager. Back then, I thought my best friend Lisa’s mom was the coolest. She could talk to us about boys and let us go out clubbing on South Street. She also didn’t freak if we drank (alcohol, duh) and let me sleepover so that I could extend my ridiculous 10pm curfew. In high school, that is the epitome of cool. When I married Dman, I also got a formidable mother-in-law who’s a movie director, travels the world, speaks three languages and was a cougar before the term (or Demi and Ashton) ever existed. For an independent New Yorker like me, that was again the epitome of cool.

My mom? Not so cool. Her career as a piano teacher was intermittent. She’s been married, not always happily, to my father for almost 40 years. She’s traveled a little bit, but isn’t the kind of free-spirited adventurer that I admire. She can be awkwardly timid around non-Koreans, which frustrates me because she can speak English—but always preferred us kids speaking for her when she lived in the States. She’s modest in how she spends money and wears clothes. And I don’t think I’ve ever heard her utter a curse word in my life. Basically, she couldn’t be more different from me and I was highly, highly critical of that.

Right after our fight, we went for a walk around the Marais with my sister (who was also visiting) acting as a buffer. At one point, my mom leaned over the baby carriage to coo at my daughter and suddenly, all of my hard, resentful feelings disappeared. Her open love for my baby made me realize how much she loves me and in that instant, I saw my mom for everything she was instead of everything she wasn’t. She’s kind and caring; thoughtful and resourceful; sweet and generous. And a fantastic cook, on top of it all.

Once I stopped acting like an adolescent whining about wanting a “cool mom,” I got my cool mom. I just had to give her a chance to show me or, more likely, I needed to grow up a little lot.

Mom cooked and cleaned for me everyday and took care of the baby so I could take care of myself for a change. She started telling me stories about her life in Korea when she was a young piano teacher (and mother) traveling between Pusan and Seoul to work when my father got laid off from his job. (I gathered that he was the stay-at-home dad, while she brought home the bacon.) She wound up giving a Korean cooking lesson to my chef sister-in-law and me—as well as making a Korean feast for my impressed in-laws. She even went out in Paris alone, doing the shopping because it was raining and she didn’t want me and the baby to go outside in the wet.

As for those wadded-up paper towels? The woman is totally green. She doesn’t waste a single thing. You should see how she peels and cuts up a mango—not a single piece of pulp left on the seed. Pretty amazing. What I used to see as parsimonious is actually pretty damn ecological. And yes, really cool.

So what’s my cool mom doing now? Heading to Phuket with her girlfriends for four days of beach and massage.

Mom, can I be more like you now?

P.S. I’ll be sharing her easy kimchi recipe in a post to come. It’s taken me moving to Paris and having a baby to finally learn the recipe!

I’m Back! (With Baby)

It’s officially two months since D-Dae; that is, when I gave birth to my 9 lb, 22 inch baby girl, Dae. Whoa.

In a nutshell:

1) The labor was long (3 days long!) and yes, rather painful
2) Motherhood is cool and completely time-consuming
3) Breastfeeding is… ditto no. 2
4) Lost almost all the pregnancy weight after 3 weeks
5) I’m completely in love with my baby

Will elaborate more as I find the time… which is not  easy with a newborn! And for a look at my constantly growing bundle, check out her first appearance in a magazine.