Imposter C is a nice kid, I was finishing my breakfast when he came in. I was too american to get up and serve him, but I pointed out where the bowls were, the spoons, the milk, the microwave. I had a bowl of that chocolaty cereal again; they're shaped like frosted mini wheats, but they're not wheaty, they're chocolaty, and I think there's some chocolate inside. I also had a lot of tea. I forgot about yogurt again. Also, I kept slicing off a piece of sausage, a sliver at a time.

We hung out until lunch time; watched Polly et moi with Ben Stiller, Jennifer Anniston, Deborah Messing, and Hank Azaria. Lunch was grilled sausages with pasta and some kind of potato pea onion buisness. It was good. Pasta in France is not as hearty and robust as I remember it from Italy or the US, it's more smooth.

After lunch I took a nappy nap because J was late in picking me up. We went to Carrefour, which was unnecessarily stressful, mostly because J said "I'll meet you here in 20 minutes" It was packed with people strolling, a fish vendor was on the mic, hawking his whatever, there were samples everywhere, and on top of that, they were in the middle of renovating a section in the very center of the grocery store, so it was noisy. The French are used to outdoor markets, so maybe they expect a certain degree of chaos in their grocery experience. They must also expect long lines at the checkout stand. That's where I learned that you're supposed to weigh your veggies first before going to the cash register. I'll need to stop by the casino around the corner tomorrow morning before I start cooking.

Anyway, we dropped our stuff off at home and then it was back into town. J and I split up; I bought myselff a d�nner kebab with viande hach�, an orangina. I also found myself a IHT and a book of book of traditional provencal short stories, probably for children. Then I had a cr�pe sucre citron. That was all I wanted, but I needed to sit down to kill time, so I bought myself a scoop of dulce de leche and a scoop of tiramisu from the Haaagen Daas at the Cours Mirabeau.

Met J and A at the cinema and saw "Traveaux" a film about an immigration lawer who hires illegals to rennovate her flat in Paris. It was light and funny and a lot of accents to understand. Theoretically I speak Spanish, Italian, and French, but it was sometimes tough to switch from heavily Spanish accented French to heavily Italian accented French. Note: someday I want a big space with would floors and bright colored walls.

J drove me home; I wrote a dedicatiion in English for the Guide Vert J bought to replace the cherry soaked one. Dammit I hate cherries.

Last night I was thinking about how my mama and dad always manage to irritate me right when the movie is getting good. There is now way to explain to them how inconsiderate I think they are, which is why I just should never rent movies when they are around. My mama will want to talk money durring the death scene; my dad will wait until the crucial moment of redemption to start the dishwasher or turn on all the lights. But telling them they are being inconsiderate only makes it worse.