...in my left hand. Because someone decided that metal pots with metal handles would make a great invention. And then some other equally brilliant French woman decided they'd make a great addition to her kitchen. And then her effing genius of an au pair got second degree burns on her left hand because she forgot to get a towel before picking up the pot by its metal handle. Why should I have to get a towel before using a handle that by name is designed to be touched with your hand? WHY IN GOD'S NAME would someone make, or buy, pots with metal handles? Probably because, let's be real, it's not like she ever uses them anyway. Let the hired help burn themselves; at least her pots look nice.
Like my childhood friend Alexander, I am in a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mood. There is exactly 1 month before I hop on a plane and traverse the Atlantic back to my home turf, and I think this is a sign. I had to settle for a quicker-than-usual 2 mile run because The Mom wanted me to come in early to help the boy with his summer reading homework. Of course, coming in early didn't mean leaving early, it meant staying 7 and a half hours. Oh, and did we mention that by "help him with his homework" she meant "read the book to her 13-almost-14 year old son because he's too lazy/retarded to do it himself"? I guess we just did. So I read, out loud, 3 chapters of To Kill A Mockingbird to this spoiled pampered overweight brat of an adolescent so the poor dear wouldn't risk straining his eyes or getting papercuts or something ridiculous like that, because he claimed he understood it better orally. Of course, when we got to the actual assignment of summarizing the setting, characters, and plot of the chapter it was made fairly clear that he didn't remember anything of any sort of importance so he had to read it again, himself this time (oh heaven forbid he do something himself) while I sat there babysitting him, because reading and summarizing is just too gosh darn complicated to do on his own. Is this not embarrassing to him? Or better yet, to his mother who allows him to go through life like this? Because it's really pathetic to me. I really don't know how these people survive in the world. According to the whole survival of the fittest thing, shouldn't somebody have shot them by now?
I doubt it's a coincidence that on the 1 month mark I once again start fantasizing about the things I'd like to say to these useless excuses for people when I say goodbye for the last time. If they ask me any more of these stupid questions like "so did this year make you really want to have kids?" or "will you come visit us when you come back to Paris?" or "will you miss us?" I guarantee there will be no more side-stepping and sugar coating, but instead a cold, flat "hell no" with a smile and a wave. Or at least a "good riddance" murmured under my breath. No, maybe I take that back. The Mom really is quite nice. It's just the bratty children she's raised horribly that I can't stand. And my useless, blistered left hand is not helping their case in my book.
Rant over. I also don't think it's a coincidence they haven't put next year's au pair in touch with me. I think they know.
On the bright side, I have finally finished the Oreos. I'm really much better off without them, they are bad for me and my milk doesn't last long enough when they are here. So a big thank you to myself for taking one for the team and eating them all, otherwise they'd still be sitting on my shelf tempting me.