I bought a grocery cart from the BHV. A maroon, two wheeled beauty with a slight squeak as it rolls down the street. (squeak, squeak, squeak). I’ve wanted one since I got here but I didn’t want to be one of those people that jump on the grocery cart bandwagon. I wheeled it back home. It isn’t as easy as one would image, especially in the crowded streets of the Marais (squeak, squeak, thump thump) “oops pardon Madame.” I’m apologetic and embarrassed when I run over someone’s shoes but after about the 3rd time I start to get pissed off at them- “Get yer shoes out from under my grocery cart beotch- yer gonna mess up the wheel alignment”. You can say "beotch" because no one knows what it means except the English speakers and they know they are being beotches so it’s cool.

Kelly and her friends come home and they make fun of my cart. They say it isn’t cool but I ignore them. What do 20-somethings know from cool- they think 80’s music was hip- they wore Uggs.

As I wheel my cart to the Monoprix (squeak squeak squeak) I can’t help but notice that only old French ladies have grocery carts. I feel as though I’m getting looks of distain from the French guys- as though my grocery cart is effeminate. If a French guy thinks it’s effeminate then it must be pretty goddamned gay but I don’t care- I like my cart. I don’t really need anything from the Monoprix but I want to fill 'er up, take 'er on the road and see what she can do.

I walk off into the sunset- just a guy with a dream and a grocery cart. (squeak squeak squeak)

Photo: Ponette warily checking out the competition for my affection