Dear Random Stranger,

My chest is not public domain. Passing by you on the sidewalk is not an invitation for you to grab me. So, next time keep your paws to yourself, sicko, or you'll find your weak-sauce hind parts in the filth of the Parisian gutter.

Sincerely,

Sarah

A couple of years ago,

I had a conversation with a friend of mine that had a really big impact on me. I honestly don't remember what it was about. But the one thing I remember about the conversation was that he didn't ever (seriously, not even for two seconds together) acknowledge or consider my opinion. And we were talking about ME, so I was kind of surprised and annoyed by that.

I remember enough of the conversation to tell you that I was explaining my feelings about something--and not politics, or business, or anything globally important, but just feelings about things in my life that were personally affecting me, and my opinion about how to react.

I can still recall exactly how frustrating this conversation was to me, because I expressed how I felt, and then he responded in a way that completely ignored everything I had said. I felt like he hadn't even listed to what I just finished telling him. So I tried again, really trying to emphasize what I thought were the important feelings I was having and the decisions I was making.

And once again, he completely ignored what I said and just restated his opinion of what he thought I should do or how I should react. But in a really "oh, aren't you a little slow on the uptake today?" kind of way, like I was apparently having a really hard time wrapping my mind around it.

I felt like I was talking to a wall of chauvinistic superiority.

I absolutely think the world of this friend of mine, but I could never date or marry someone who treats me that way, even inadvertently. (Especially then, because then he wouldn't even know he was doing it).

I feel like I should somehow come with a disclaimer that says something to this effect:
If you can't give me enough respect to acknowledge the things I say, even if my opinion or my approach is different from yours (or if you think you 'wear the pants' in the relationship and therefore have a more weighty opinion or more of a say about MY LIFE), then I can't respect you enough to give you my time at all. You don't have to agree with me. I don't always have to be right. Just don't treat me like I'm stupid becuase I have an opinion of my own that doesn't happen to align perfectly with yours.

Does that make me sound bitter and cynical? Sometimes I think I am bitter and cynical, but then I remember that I deserve to be with someone that I can have a mutually respectful, cooperative, loving relationship with where we are both willing to listen and compromise.

That's not too much to ask, is it?



And yes, if you read the other post I just did, they are absolutely related.

Walk Like an Egyptian (or just go out with one)*

So, yesterday I went out with an Egyptian-Italian guy. We went to a cafe and had some Coke (me) and mint tea (him) before my French class, and then the plan was to go get Lebanese food after my class was over.

But, poor guy, all things conspired against him, and one thing after another went wrong. So, we ended up at a random sandwich/crepe joint in the Bastille area. Ending up at a sandwich shop didn't bother me in the least.

What DID bother me was that he told me I could choose anything I wanted, and then when I picked a ham sandwich with egg slices and vegetables, he asked me if I was sure I didn't want a salad.

Ummm. Yeah, I'm sure. I saw the salads, and I don't want one.

Me: No, a sandwich is good.

Him: You're sure? You could get a sandwich and a salad...

Me: No, I'm fine.

Him: You're sure? Salads are really good for you.

Me: No way, really? I'm 28 years old for crying out loud. I know what salads are. I know they are good for me. But I'm really [insert favorite (pseudo)swear] sure I don't want a salad. (Okay, so this part happened in my head. But if I spoke French well enough he would have felt the burn of my sassy sarcasm.)

Me: (Out loud) No, I'm fine with a sandwhich. *Encouraging smile.*

Him: Okay.

And he ordered a panini. No salad.

___________

Stay tuned for more awkward conversation snippets.

*This post is obviously not intended to portray Egyptians, Italians, or sandwich joints in a negative light. I'm absolutely not inferring that this is a widespread character flaw in people of any culture, I'm just talking about this one person.

Got in a Fight With a Bus Today. The Bus Won.

But I, hopped up on adrenaline and completely in shock from being smacked by public transit:

1) told everyone I was fine

2) refused to let them call the paramedics, and

3) went to my phonetics course, where I attempted NOT to burst into tears for an hour while replaying the scene in my mind over and over and over. (Luckily, I was successful. It was my first day, and what a horrible impression to make...)

I battled hysteria in both its comic and tear-filled forms for another hour or so while I tried to think of the signs of shock and concussions so I could keep a watchful eye on myself on my way to Institute.

I wanted to ask the other people who were in the Metro if they were freezing to death, too, but I didn't want them to think I was psycho. (Look at me being all prideful in my distress. I'm lame, I know.) I ate most of a sandwich from the corner bakery, thinking that maybe it would help alleviate the nausea. Not so much.

Then I went to Institute and burst into tears as soon as I got to the bathroom.

And don't worry that it was totally my fault. I was in an area of the city that I'm not very familiar with, and after looking for oncoming traffic, I started into the street. Unfortunately, there was a street behind me that I didn't check, and SMACK went the bus into my left shoulder and leg. CRASH went I, onto the sidewalk on my right shoulder.

The site of the accident. The ladies crossing the street are standing right where I was...

I am grateful:

-that neither the bus nor the sidewalk made contact with my head or spine
-that the bus was coming to a stop anyway, so it wasn't going fast enough to do serious damage to my bones
-for the church--I have no idea how else I would have made it through today. I don't know anyone here, so being able to go to Institute and get a blessing, comfort from friends, and a referral to a doctor all in one place helped alleviate a lot of my trauma. :)
-that the only injuries I have (assuming I'm not bleeding internally anywhere, which is HIGHLY unlikely) are a sore back and a scraped ankle
-that my wonderful friend Agenor had very kind things to say to me that helped me put this little incident into perspective
-that I could learn this lesson while retaining the use of all of my body parts


Feeling blessed tonight. Also feeling a little stupid. But not stupid enough that I refuse to write about it here. Because what's sharing it with people who already love me, when about 50 random people in Paris saw it happen?


Yeah, I think I'm going to take another route to class from now on. Also, is it weird that the buses (busses?? shoot. I used to be able to spell. Oh... now I feel better.) now scare me? I think I'm going to have to start taking the bus to get over that as quickly as possible.


(P.S. Welcome to my stream of consciousness. I know it's chaotic.)

Crisis in the Stairwell

Tonight when I got home from school, I dropped my bag of new school supplies on the bed, and practically turned right around and left again.

I took my little grocery chariot and my ginormo purse, and headed out to the grocery store. I hesitated out on the landing for a second.

Me: Should I take the elevator?
Devil: This chariot-thing is kind of awkward to carry down the stairs.
Angel: But that's so lazy to take the elevator DOWN the stairs. Plus, you always get annoyed when you're just about to get in the elevator but someone calls it up so they can come DOWN to the lobby.
Devil: But... this thing is annoying to carry. It will be so much easier to take the elevator.

Well, the devil was partly telling the truth (the chariot is kind of awkward to carry down the stairs), but ultimately it was all a BIG FAT LIE.

I got into the elevator (no easy task, mind you. Elevators here are made to hold two people at a time max. Maybe 3 if they're children. Getting my big purse, my grocery roller, and myself in there all while holding open the swinging guard door open was awkward enough that I should have just changed my mind and taken the stairs.).

I hit "0" for the Rez de Chausse or Ground Floor. The elevator was about 6 inches from the ground floor when... CLUNK!!... it stopped altogether. The inner doors opened, so I figured everything was fine and pushed the swinging guard door open. Well, I tried anyway. It was locked. I was stuck.

See, the elevator has this safety mechanism that won't allow the swinging guard doors to open on any floor where the elevator is not currently present (this is a safety no-brainer). However, it's a problem when you're almost to a floor, but the elevator won't recognize that fact.

I turned myself around in the miniscule space to read the "in case of a breakdown" instructions. Basically:

1. Push the alarm button continually until...
2. Someone from the elevator safety surveillance company picks up the phone, and
3. Try to figure out everything he says, even though he says it in French at the speed of light over a crackly PA system that's installed overhead.
4. Panic, because you don't know if anyone is ever going to come rescue you, and you don't dare call again because they might get put out and leave you there on purpose out of spite.
5. Recognize to yourself that someone, eventually, will see that you're stuck.
6. Panic again. What if that takes a long time and you have to go to the bathroom?
7. Almost cry at that thought.
8. Show gratitude for the fact that you could have been stuck 4 floors higher up. If the elevator "plunged" 6 inches down, you might get a bruise, rather than the broken bones you'd have after falling 4 floors in a glass elevator.
9. Put in your headphones and just try to enjoy the time you've now got on your hands.


Today in my French class (I know this seems like a harsh transition, but believe me, it's related) we read an except from La Vie Mode d'Emploi (which I assume to mean roughly... Life: A User's Manual, or A User's Manual for Life) by Georges Perec.

In the excerpt we read, he talks about the depressing monotony that takes place in every urban apartment building. How each person barricades themself in their own apartment and lives this solitary life, while all of their neighbors are participating in all of the same little gestures as a part of their day-to-day lives: turning a faucet on and off, setting the table, doing the laundry. And yet, as neighbors, the only things we know about each other are the little echoes we hear through the wall, or the occasional sterile "hello" in the stairway. He talks about how the stairway becomes almost a hostile place, but it's the place of the most "activity" in the entire building (at least the activity that everyone can see).

In general it seems like everyone in my class felt like it was impossible to be friends with your neighbors, even ones that live on your same floor, simply because everyone has this general feeling of distrust and automatic annoyance for their neighbors (at least this is the perception by my fellow students). People just aren't willing to go out of their way to make an effort, for whatever reason.

I found that to be horribly depressing, but I had that whole discussion on my mind when I was stuck in the elevator. I kept wondering to myself if my neighbors would help me, even though I've never met any of them, or even seen a single one of them a second time after our first passing.

About 15 minutes after I got off the PA with the security company, someone finally came into the lobby. It was a woman who looked about my age, and she was pushing a stroller.

"Oh, please let her be nice!" I thought to myself, and asked her if she could help me. I explained that I had called the emergency service, but I didn't understand what they said to me, so I didn't know if they had explained how to get myself out of the elevator, or if they were sending someone, etc.

She, to my complete and utter relief, was incredibly nice.

"Oh, you poor thing!! How long have you been stuck there? 15 MINUTES?? That's terrible!!" (Well, yes, I thought it was quite annoying, but I didn't actually expect that much sympathy for so little time. Now, if I had been stuck for an hour...)

We called the emergency service again, and she clarified with them that they had already dispached a technician, who should be there in another 10-15 minutes.

"Oh, 15 more minutes!!" she seemed so distressed on my behalf, which I have to admit made me really like her, even before the next words out of her mouth. "Do you want me to get you anything? Well, not much will fit through the grate, but do you need anything to eat?"

At that I had to giggle a little on the inside. I thanked her and told her I thought I would be okay. She continued into her apartment right off the lobby, and before she shut the door I could hear her explaining the whole situation to someone...

"There's this poor girl stuck--I mean completely stuck--in the elevator, and she's been there for 15 minutes! And they said they won't even have someone here for another 15..." click.

Two or three minutes later I hear feet on the stairs, and then I hear in the cutest little girl voice(little kids speaking French is just darling, in my opinion) say, "Oh, mom! Look! There's a lady trapped in the elevator!! Mom! Mom! Look at her!! How sad!"

"Yes, honey. I see her. It will be okay."

They finally made it down all of the stairs that wind around the elevator and into the lobby. The mother made sure I was okay and that there was a technician on his way, at which point he actually walked through the door.

I was out, lickety-split, took my chariot, and went on my grocery-getting way.

Getting my 35 pounds of groceries UP four flights of stairs in my wheeled chariot is a different story altogether, though not one that's interesting enough to tell. It was just awkward and sweaty.

Note to self: next time the elevator is broken, just eat out for a couple of days.

After the Orsay

I stopped at a cafe right across the street for some late lunch. It was snowing...

...and I was starving.

I looked over the menu, and since I haven't been eating much meat, I decided to go for it and order some sausages. I ordered my saucisses and fries, a Coke, and some caramel custard.

When my order came, I almost threw up right on the spot. Saucisson is apparently the word for real, hearty, delicious sausage. Saucisse (what I ordered) is just a regular ol' HOT DOG. And apparently a boiled hot dog. Truly foul. But, knowing how well "oops, can I exchange this for something edible?" would go over with my waiter, I ate it anyway. With no ketchup, since that's not a big thing here unless you're at McDonalds or some other kind of McDo knock-off joint. Ew.

So, I forced down the "reject-meat and various and sundry other animal parts" dogs and looked forward to dessert. Which ended up tasting like it was bathed in liqueur, so I had about two bites and decided that flavor wasn't normal.

All in all, not the best meal I've had since coming to Paris.

My Bed

... is not the most comfortable of creations.

For my first two weeks here, I slept in a crater that was wreaking havoc on my SI joints. It's one of those lovely little IKEA-style mattresses that must just be cotton balls stuffed inside heavy canvas.

So I spent way too much money buying way too many red fleece blankets to help even out the mattress.

I also bought this awesome (and also way expensive -lame!) heating pad that's practically the size of my whole back (as pictured below in the middle of my bed).

Last night was the trial run, and I think both of these DIY-changes helped quite a bit. We'll see how tonight goes. I still miss my body pillow, though. Not sure where I can find one of those here (or if I even dare cart it around on the Metro with me).

Ahhh... my room. It's big, yeah? I'll post more pics of the apartment sometime this week. That will include a better glimpse into my room when all of my bedding isn't draped ove the back of my "office" chair.

My laundry

is taking forever!! And it's not like there's even a dryer here--it's just the washer. Then there's the matter of hanging my clothes up to dry right next to the shower that doesn't have any kind of enclosure (that's right... no door, and no shower curtain... just a really absorbent bath rug).

I'm pretty sure the load that is in the washer now has been there for an hour and a half at least, because I put it in before I showered, got dressed, let my hair AIR DRY, made myself lunch and ate it, and straightened my hair.

That's it. I'm washing the next load by hand. My landlord's over-the-top fragranced laundry soap residue in the washing machine makes me want to gag anyway.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do-oo...

...even when you're not really dating.
Plus in this case it led to some really awkward sight seeing that I could have done without.



Ready?



As you know, yesterday was supposed to be the big pseudo-breakup day. I don't want to get into too many of the gory details, so I'll try to help you visualize it with a little outline/script. Just picture this:


-Me missing two calls while I was in the shower.
-Me ignoring one call because I didn't know what to say.
-Me missing at least one, maybe two more calls because I was in the Metro.
-Not having the courage to call back.
-Me hoping he'll call one more time before I go to bed so I can get it over with.
-No such luck.
-Me going to bed at 10:30 (finally a normal bedtime!!!).
-Waking at 12:30 to my phone vibrating. Thinking it's 8:00 already and my alarm is going off.
-No such luck.

"Hello?" (I have been asleep for two hours and have fallen into deep slumber. I am incoherent, and the man on the other end of the phone is speaking in French.)
"Hey, why aren't you answering your phone? Didn't you get my messages?"
-Me, (because I'm a coward, AND because I shouldn't have had this conversation at English in my state, let alone having it in angry French) choosing to answer the easier of those two questions: "Um, I didn't even get any messages on my phone."
-Him, angry: "Okay, so this is it then? This is how things are going to end? So, we're done then."
-Click.


-Me, groaning. There goes my good night's sleep.
-Two texts to him, a couple of emails to friends later, I finally fall asleep at 3:30 in the morning.

This afternoon at around 5:00 my phone rings. It's him. I'm not going to lie--I'm surprised.

-Me, hesitant: "Hello?"

-Him: "Hi. How are you?"

-Me: (Thinking, "Are you serious?") "Uhhh, I'm fine. How are you?" (You're the one who hung up on me, remember?)

-Him: "Good. Can I come by your apartment?"

-Me: (Thinking, "What is the deal with this? Didn't you get the point?") "If you want to, but only as my friend."

-Him: *Sighs* "We'll see."

We'll see?!?!?! Dude, what about our annoying half-conversation at midnight don't you remember?

So he came over, and I told him I wanted to go take pictures somewhere, but I didn't know where so I wanted a suggestion. He suggested taking pictures under the Eiffel Tower.

We started walking up the street, about an arm's length away, and I am asking him questions. "So, what about this, what about that"... and then... nothing. A big, fat, awkward silence. A lot of it.

"So, this is what it's like to be friends," says he. "There is no in between."

Lovely.*

After nearly 5 minutes of that I just about turned around and went home. But instead, because I'm punishing myself for my bad decision, I decided to continue on. So, after several silent, no eye-contact metro rides, we got to the Eiffel Tower.

I snapped these:

(So not worth it)

-He took me to the Metro, double and triple checked to make sure I knew they way home (because even if he's not the guy for me, he is truly a gentleman), and we went our separate ways. For good.

So, here's to making friends and breaking friends in the Metro. (Cheers.)

*But I'm not going to let you manipulate me into dating you just to alleviate any negative tick marks to my conscience. So stop it.

Drama

I think my "friend" is under the impression that he's my boyfriend. So tomorrow I think I'm going to have to have the "I think you're great, so let's stay friends but just be friends and nothing more" talk. How did this happen??

Seriously. I don't do drama.

But I'm gonna hafta tomorrow. Because I have a feeling my "friend" doesn't do "let's be friends." I wish they sold Dr. Pepper in France because it's going to be a long day. Maybe some Orangina and a lovely crepe and panini dinner will help salvage the day.

Maybe. You guys will still be my friends even if I break up with my Algerian-Parisian pseudo-boyfriend tomorrow, right?

Subconscious Anxiety and Its Physical Manifestation*

Last week I emailed my landlord in Paris to tell her what time I was going to arrive and get her phone number so I could call her when I was almost to the apartment (she has to leave work and use her lunch break to let me into the apartment and get me my key, etc.).

After 5 days, I hadn't heard anything. I was slightly worried, but not to the point of it creating any nervous ticks or anything**. I had the numbers of two families in the area who said they would be willing to help me out with anything I needed upon my arrival in Paris. I figured if I was stranded without a place to live for a couple of days, that might be covered in the blanket offer to help.

However...

Today before church as I was getting ready I noticed that my forehead was totally scrunched into a perma-worrywart wrinkle-fest. Wow. I hadn't even noticed my forehead was in a knot until I looked into the mirror.
During church I was just calmly minding my own business, listening to the speaker, or singing a hymn, when I realized my shoulders and next were so stiff I might as well be a marble statue of a Greek god (minus the awesome musculature... and stuff). My shoulders were hunched up to tight around my neck I probably looked like a turtle. :) I had to consciously take some deep breaths and focus on relaxing my body.

Less than an hour later I found myself clenching my jaw like there was no tomorrow, only noticing when I was actually in pain. I finally realized that I was FREAKING OUT on the inside but completely suppressing it so no one could tell. I must have been sunconsciously wondering what I was going to do with four suitcases and freezing temperatures if I couldn't get into my apartment and my "helper" families weren't answering their phones.

Of course, some of you might have already picked up on the fact that I'm freaking out a bit. My doomsday attitude ("Ummm... I think I have cancer," or "Okay, I don't have cancer, but I think my plane is going to crash.") might have tipped you off. I think part of me is terrified that after all this preparation and effort in making this dream a reality, something is going to go horribly wrong.

As it turns out, my landlord (who I heard from today) didn't respond earlier because she was out of town for 8 days helping with a family emergency.

So, all is well. But I still have a migraine (which I thought was from lack of sleep, but I'm sure my shoulder-hunching, jaw-clenching, worry-wrinkle-forehead subconscious wasn't helping). Good thing I haven't packed my economy-sized bottle of Excedrin*** yet.

*Doesn't this sound like a term paper for some kind of psychology major? I would totally volunteer myself for a study.
**Or so I thought.
***Excedrin is truly a wonder drug.

Snow Day

I wish I could take the day off of work and curl up in an armchair with a great book. I would spend the day reading and watching the snow fall out my front windows. Aaaaah.

Trees covered in snow are some of the prettiest things to me. They look delicate like lace, but pretty (unlike lace).* I also love the look of the Rockies covered in the snow and reflecting a golden, pink, or purple sunset. I hope I get to see that a few times before I go. Especially because there are no mountains anywhere near Paris.**



*I'm guessing none of you know this about me. I hate lace. I think it is ugly, with only a few rare exceptions. I'm more of a minimalist, and so lace just looks gaudy and over-embellished to me. Though there are rare instances when I think it is beautiful. Rare instances.
**I don't know how I'll ever be able to tell direction. You can click here to see a panoramic shot taken from the top of the Eiffel Tower. It's got a lot of distortion, but you can at least see that there are no mountains. :)

Moving Pros and Cons

Pros:
-getting rid of crap I never really needed in the first place
-throwing away things I should have junked a long time ago but didn't
-change is good
-a fresh start (whenever I move, I feel like I have the opportunity to completely reinvent myself)
-not having a house payment, HOA dues, utilities--I kind of feel rich (that feeling will go away rather quickly once January comes around, I'm sure)
-benefiting from the awesomeness of others and their willingness to serve

Cons:
-not being able to find anything in my huge pile of boxes
-Dexter whining his head off the second my alarm goes off in the morning (No snoozing allowed, apparently)
-feeling far away from my neighbor-friends
-no covered parking (Boo for scraping windows)

It's ggggGREat!

I bought these today. I hate math.


Here's to preventing my brain from deteriorating completely.

I found a graduate program that I really like, but I have no idea whether I will be accepted or not (so I won't tell you which one it is {yep, I'm totally prideful}). I'll be studying for the GRE in the meantime, but actually applying to the school will go on the back burner at least until I'm back from Paris (which means I probably wouldn't start school until fall of 2010).

The Project of a Lifetime

Every so often I get sick of having "stuff."

I would say I am a mild pack rat, mostly because I worry about needing to refer to things later and I have tons of painting and craft supplies.

I'm currently in a "sick of stuff" mode. I get into this "give it away or junk it" mode every so often where I'll throw things away or give them to D.I.. But for some reason, this time I feel like it's more of a permanent shift.

I want my life to be less about "stuff" and more about learning: expanding my mind, developing and nurturing important relationships, deepening my creativity, and making beautiful things (whether that be through painting, taking pictures, writing stories, or any number of other avenues.)

So, I started a little project for myself last week.

I am going through all of my possessions to clear out the clutter I have accumulated over my lifetime. There are several reasons why this project is cropping up now:

-I sold my house and will be moving back in with my parents for a one month transition period before I move to Paris.

-I recently read an article about clutter and excess "stuff" creating/increasing stress. Hmmmm. No, thanks.

-In Paris I will be living in a miniscule apartment* with a tiny closet. I'll basically be living out of my suitcases for 5 months. So, I think this will be a great trial run for living the pared-down life.

-Many of these boxes simply contain papers from school that I wanted to keep either 1)Because they are a testament to the fact that I was, in fact, smart at one point in my life, 2) I wanted to use them in developing my own French course curriculum (papers that fall into this category I'll likely scan and keep), or 3) Back then I thought I "might need it for something later."

So, wish me luck. It's a really difficult process for me, because I'm so much a "what if" person that I can imagine realistic scenarios for needing just about anything later. I also feel horrible donating or throwing away anthing that someone gave to me.


I'll try to take pictures of the process so you can see what I'm talking about. It's going to be quite the project, but I can't wait to feel liberated from all of my junk. (And I think my parents will appreciate having a guest room that doesn't feel like it's about to topple over onto their sleeping friends/family at any given moment.)

As a side note, there's no getting around the fact that I'm going to keep 90% of my painting and art supplies and 99% of my books. I use those. This project is focusing on the stuff that is just taking up space and not contributing to my personal development or happiness (which is, in fact, most of my stuff).


*I don't have one yet, but let's be honest... it's a pretty safe assumption to make.

Whoever decided these were a good idea...

...needs to rethink a few things.

Drop crotch pants are not a look I can get behind. Truly horrible, and apparently pretty common in Paris, Moscow, and NYC. Yikes. Comfy, I'm sure, but seriously frumpy looking.

See circled information above. SERIOUSLY??

I'm obviously not the fashion police, but I am pretty opinionated about silhouettes, and this one just doesn't appeal. See other examples here.

Eucalyptus

Since about 1999, soon after I started working for a wholesale florist, I have detested the smell of eucalyptus. I had to handle large bundles of it every so often at work, and the oil from its leaves just clings to your skin like nobody's business. Not only does that mean the smell stays with you for hours, but it also leaves a horrible residue all over, like sap from a tree that seemingly never goes away.

Eucalyptus by Marc 50 via Flickr

As a result of this distaste for all things eucalyptus, getting sore throats and colds is even more annoying, because everything seems to have nasal-passage-clearing and sore-throat-soothing eucalyptus in it.

No, thanks. I'll take those pseudo Vitamin C candies that they sell by the throat lozenges.

Eeeeeeeew! Creepy Alert!

So, as it turns out I'm not taking EITHER apartment.


#1 rule of any online transaction = Google everything about everyone.


I Googled the username of the person I was getting ready to sign a contract with, and Google kindly led me to this:



If you can't actually read it clearly, it's some creepy guy looking for a WIFE! Ew! Ew! Ew! He also had a profile on some other grody website.


So, I'm going back to my original plan which is having all of my friends from Paris contact friends, family, ward members, and the institute president for available rooms or shared apartments.


Ew!! Need I say it again? Lesson Learned : If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.


Oh, and I also sent the creepy guy and e-mail telling him he was busted. :) Ick.