"It's Like Buttah"

First I would like to give a little shoutout to all you Streisand fans who can read the title of today's entry with a perfected Flushings accent!

My Unexpected Caller

As I promised earlier, I consider it my duty to keep you informed of all happenings and life changes that occur in Paris. This brief entry is, therefore, an attempt to inform you of an acquaintance who is visiting rather often as of late. His visits are never thoroughly planned and occur most frequently in the early morning and late at night. And while after the fact I often wish his visits were not so often nor so unexpected, the truth of the matter is that I am completely bewitched during each visit. Of course, my attraction to said visitor is not surprising considering his extremely appealing features to the female sex. This, consequently, provides it own set of dilemmas, one primarily being my uncomfortable rank as "one of the many."

He has been an object of desire for many women throughout the years and is, I am most certain, currently visiting several women in Paris and abroad at these ungodly hours. So why is the attraction so infatuating for us all? We all know and agree that his visits provide only ephemeral comfort and gratification and that the negative results are much more abounding: weight gain, addiction, guilt, ect. YET we, the guilty figures who form the most degrading of titles ("the many"), are neither in a state of mind to end said visits nor do we plan to ever be in such a state. But before you judge us too harshly, please note that you too may be an involuntary member of "the many," as many of our most afflicted members are. (It's ironic, I know.) This unexpected visitor, this vagabond of the nights, this villain of the female will-power is none other than Mr. Nutella.

Casanova of La Cuisine

After consuming a croissant complete with nutella yesterday afternoon, I was feeling very French and hastily began reflecting on my speedy accomplishment of intergrating into French society. However, I soon came to realize that these rather lofty reflections had little validity considering that it was off-brand nutella and that the croissant came in a thrifty multi-pack of ten: proof enough that the cheap American still lives within and is doing my shopping...shucks.

This morning I rushed to finish my breakfast (croissant and [n]utella) while walking down the stairs, but was sure to finish BEFORE STEPPING OUTSIDE. Consequently, I began to experience a sense of pride at having adhered to the Parisian social rules (it's frowned upon to eat outside and on-the-go). My two-block walk to the metro was, therefore, more of a Parisian promenade. It wasn't until I got off the metro at my final destination that I realized I had remnants of nutella-breakfast smudged on my face for all of Paris to see and know that I had eaten on-the-go while descending the stairs of my apartment building. *SHAME*