The Euro pit
It was only our second night in France, we had just come back from a delicious mussel and frittes dinner and there was a note on the door from our neighbor, an old spinster who lives right under us. There was an "important leak" in her bathroom, which is right under our bathroom.
Mom ran into the bathroom to check it out and she flushed the toilet, which is older than the ancient lady downstairs. Then, brown goop bubbled up into the bathtub and two sinks. Dad was still in the entrance, trying to read the note in French.
Mom: Oh my God! There's shit in the bathtub!
Dad: What the hell is going on? What is this about?
Mom: There's shit in the sinks and in the bathtub! What are we going to do? It's a weekend! Oh my God!
Dad: God Damn it! Call a plumber.
Mom: You can't call a plumber on a weekend in France. They only work 35 hours! They have weekends off, it's not like the states; this is a Socialist country!
Then Mom started to cry.
Dad: Well that's what you get when you want TWO places to live. You get a bathtub full of shit. That's the way it's going to be. I'm going to work until I die and pay for a bathtub I don't need in FRANCE! A bathtub full of shit.
Mom: You hate it here, you hate France!
Then the neighbors all came over to see what was happening. They all smelled ok, no dangerous types, just weird. I didn't feel like biting any of them. They all told Mom and Dad in French not to worry. They knew a plumber who would come. Dad just stood there in the entrance surrounded by crazy people, all chattering in French. He looked like he does when Mom is shopping--shell-shocked and wobbling back and forth in one spot.
When the loud French neighbors finally left, we went to bed, Dad muttering about how he was going to start calling the apartment the Euro pit.
Finney and I like the Euro pit though. It's got really long hallways so you can run and slide from one end of the place to the other. Lots of good patrolling areas from the balconies. We can check out all activities outside and get a good look at all neighborhood dogs.
French dogs are small and walk funny, like they've got something up their asses. Pure-bred snobby types, most of them. A lot of puny, nervous little candy-ass Yorkies. At home, very few dogs ever walk right within biting range. I think I'll kick some little French Yorkie's ass in the morning. I am an American, after all. Dad'll take me. He can't wait to get out of his Euro pit.
Mom ran into the bathroom to check it out and she flushed the toilet, which is older than the ancient lady downstairs. Then, brown goop bubbled up into the bathtub and two sinks. Dad was still in the entrance, trying to read the note in French.
Mom: Oh my God! There's shit in the bathtub!
Dad: What the hell is going on? What is this about?
Mom: There's shit in the sinks and in the bathtub! What are we going to do? It's a weekend! Oh my God!
Dad: God Damn it! Call a plumber.
Mom: You can't call a plumber on a weekend in France. They only work 35 hours! They have weekends off, it's not like the states; this is a Socialist country!
Then Mom started to cry.
Dad: Well that's what you get when you want TWO places to live. You get a bathtub full of shit. That's the way it's going to be. I'm going to work until I die and pay for a bathtub I don't need in FRANCE! A bathtub full of shit.
Mom: You hate it here, you hate France!
Then the neighbors all came over to see what was happening. They all smelled ok, no dangerous types, just weird. I didn't feel like biting any of them. They all told Mom and Dad in French not to worry. They knew a plumber who would come. Dad just stood there in the entrance surrounded by crazy people, all chattering in French. He looked like he does when Mom is shopping--shell-shocked and wobbling back and forth in one spot.
When the loud French neighbors finally left, we went to bed, Dad muttering about how he was going to start calling the apartment the Euro pit.
Finney and I like the Euro pit though. It's got really long hallways so you can run and slide from one end of the place to the other. Lots of good patrolling areas from the balconies. We can check out all activities outside and get a good look at all neighborhood dogs.
French dogs are small and walk funny, like they've got something up their asses. Pure-bred snobby types, most of them. A lot of puny, nervous little candy-ass Yorkies. At home, very few dogs ever walk right within biting range. I think I'll kick some little French Yorkie's ass in the morning. I am an American, after all. Dad'll take me. He can't wait to get out of his Euro pit.
posted by Jinky at 11:50 AM
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