Poodling in Nice
Dad calls our hanging around "poodling," which means being useless and idle, like an old lady's French poodle, I guess.
As soon as we got to Nice, Dad dropped his new Mac on the marble floor by the fireplace in the apartment. The laptop was smashed up and Dad had his first south of France fit--a Riviera temper tantrum, where he smacked his own head and yelled at the top of his lungs.
Dad: God Damn it! HOW much do I have to spend to get my goddamned e-mails? A million dollars? Is that enough? It's all because of GREED! It's not enough to have a house in the Hollywood Hills. You have to risk getting on planes and having your HEAD cut off by Arabs! You have to go and spend a MILLION dollars so you can get an e-mail in FRANCE!
Then Dad started running around the apartment holding the computer high above his head, threatening to hurl it out of the window.
Mom: Shhhhh! The neighbors are going to hear you! Don't throw it out the window, maybe it can be fixed! Shhhhhh!
Dad: Let them get used to it! I don't give a goddamn who hears me. This computer can't be fixed. A brand new computer! This is what happens when you get greedy and have to get on line in FRANCE. We don't have a table, so I have to stand there at the marble fireplace and trip over wires. If we were at home, the thing would have been on a TABLE! It can't be fixed. I'm going to kill myself. Arg! HHHHHARHG! Why? WHY?!
While Dad stomped around the empty living room, which is like the size of the little dog park off Mulholland, Mom was able to fix the computer by gently bending it back and unbending the squashed plug so that it fit back into the computer port. It was like a miracle when she was able to turn it on.
The only thing that calmed Dad down was going out. We all got our coats on and walked to a store, where Dad bought some "poodle shoes." These shoes are made of exotic leather and are two-toned, with all kinds of crazy stitching on them. I don't know what the hell they are, but maybe they're made of special, extra virgin French snakes or unborn French mice or something, they're so soft. Mom says they look like pimp shoes but he looked so happy walking around the store in his "poodles" that she didn't discourage him by quoting the Euro/Dollar rate that day.
Then we all walked over to the Parc Massena. For a change, Finley wasn't dragging like a ball and chain. Finley was out in front, it was warm for a December day, Mom put her head on Dad's shoulder and we strolled down the Rue de France to watch the sun go down over the Bay of Angels.
On the way home, I peed on three different historical monuments.