OVERSEAS BRIEFING

Author: ANNABELLE CAZES

PARIS-Though the Monoprix - France's most unpleasant and aggravating excuse for an American grocery store - might have everything from Princesse Tam-Tam lingerie to Nutella, the aisles are too narrow, there are always too many people and worst of all, the checkout lines are never-ending. So why, might you ask, do I still patronize such a store if it is so aggravating?

It just so happens that it is the closest place to buy milk and wine near my flat - two essentials, which unfortunately cannot be accessed from the tap, as a friend once pointed out. As I stand at the checkout at the Monoprix, sandwiched between one man buying a ton of deli meats and another lady buying crates of specially formulated infant milk, I patiently wait until my order is rung up, when I pay and pack my bags. As I turn away from the register and head for the door, I notice that the formula lady has blocked my escape route with her shopping cart, making it impossible for me to pass.

Ever so politely, I employ perhaps the most common word in France: "Pardon," implying that I would like to pass. She continues to pack her bags as if she has heard nothing. I then clear my throat and repeat, "Pardon, madame." No reply. At this point it has become perfectly clear that she is doing this on purpose.

Before I know it, she has reached for a jar of some green puree, turns to her cart, but instead drops the jar on the floor. There is green goo all over my new jeans. She then proceeds to clean her own pants with paper towels, not even taking a second to "pardon" herself or offer me a piece of paper. I decided to skedaddle out of there without giving myself a second to get more frustrated.

So why am I sharing this little anecdote, if I seem indifferent to the result?

Well, this is just another example from my daily Parisian life in which I find that French women can be most obnoxious, and in a painfully iritating way. Many of them, though not all, have a way of picking the precisely perfect moment to exhale their deepest puff of cigarette smoke right into your face, be it in a café or just in passing on the street. Others will wander in mindless circles on a busy sidewalk, chatting on their cell phone with cigarette in hand, while at the same time staring down at their latest pair of pointy black leather boots so as to pretend not to notice that you want to pass. Others will chit-chat with their best girlfriend at full volume on the metro, so that you can have the whole story of what happened between Jean and Françoise at Friday night's cocktail party.

And then, of course, there are those who just cannot leave home without their little rat on a leash and must let the dog walk on the other end of the sidewalk so that the only way for you to pass is to either hop over the leash or limbo underneath it.

So, there you have her, la femme française. She's a piece of work, but c'est la vie.