Behind the eight ball

Monday morning started off with another round of babysitting. I had been up the night before until about 2 a.m., watching Lost, because it was just so darn suspenseful. This meant that I was still asleep at 10 a.m., when my mom came down to wake me up because she was sick of waiting for me. She had to go do some shopping for Christmas (more food!), which meant she would be gone for about 4 hours. The little one asked me why she takes so long to go grocery shopping, and frankly I don’t know. But she still took the time after that to go visit her guy, which is where the conversation with the little one came up about why our mother sees him so often and that she’d rather it be less. In the mean time, we kept busy. At first, as it is with kids when you give them a choice, the wee one was stuck in front of the TV and didn’t want to eat breakfast. After some time I had enough and just plopped a (chocolate sundae flavored) pop tart in front of her, which she was willing to eat. Then she asked for a crêpe with Nutella. Sure, it’s not the healthiest stuff, but at least she was eating and it’s not like this was worse than anything else she normally gets.

When my mom got back, around two thirty, she thought it would be nice to go eat lunch at the little Italian place “downtown” (if you recall, this place is a hick town). Even though the french usually eat late, we were the last ones there and the kitchen was about to close. My mother knows the guy who runs the place and called before hand. She also warned me that he calls everyone “ma puce“. He also wears a hat all the time and pretends he’s a gondoliere. I absolutely loathe that (the puce thing). Not only is it belittling and therefore derogative towards women, but also: I don’t know this guy! It’s slimy and creepy and I hate it when someone I don’t know calls me pet names. People I do know, know better than to do that. It reminds me that my moms guy calls her “ma poupée“. Beurk. But everyone in there was calling each other “bébé” and what not, so I tried to ignore it. It didn’t help, though, that as we were leaving he said I should come back Friday, when they have a dance, and he could introduce me to a friend of his. To top it off, this guy was my moms age and he thought I was 17 (are you kidding me?!). Double beurk. Since we had had a kir as an apéritif and red wine with the food, I really had to hold back to not throw something in his face. Here comes the rage again. These pitiful french men… wannabe machos with the look of a mommasboy. Argh!


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