wine and cheap perfume

I've been in Paris for five days now, and my mother has managed to embarrass me more than I ever thought possible. And I've spent a considerable amount of time wondering if it's hyper-sensitive, adolescent me reacting, and have arrived at the decision that no, actually, she's truly and thoroughly embarrassing. Like how she and my dad had this couple over for dinner tonight and my mother ranted and raved for about an hour about how all we had today to eat was a "sandwich fromage!" and the couple, who were american, couldnt have cared less and were mildly perturbed by the fact that she referred to the cheese sandwiches as "sandwich fromage!" in a heavy, heavy french accent about a half dozen times before we finally sat down to dinner. She also congratulated me ten or eleven times on my "delicious" salad that I made, as if I was a mentally challenged eight-year old who had contributed to a family meal for the first time ever. I kid you not when I say that I took lettuce, cucumbers, and tomatoes and cut them up and put them in a bowl. I didn't even make dressing--she did. She also bragged to her friends about how I got straight-a's in french class in high school (they couldn't have cared less. p.s. I'm twenty-five years old and six years out of high school) and quickly changed the subject when I mentioned that I had worked at Curve magazine, a big lesbo publication. We saw the new Woody Allen movie today, "Match Point," which doesn't come out in the states for another couple months. It SUCKED. Like, truly bit. I hate to say it, because he's an idol, but Woody Allen pretty much bites the big one these days and I have a feeling that won't change before he kicks the bucket. But we'll see. As George Michael once said, you gotta have faith. Speaking of faith, I have a hacking cough and strep throat and have spent the past three days of my paris vacations eating buckets of clementines in bed, guzzling cough syrup and generally feeling sorry for myself. I need to stop doing that. My first day here I came back to our apartment early as my parents stayed out to shop for wine, and I couldnt get the door open with the key they had given me. So I decided the best thing to do was to start wailing like an infant and fling myself on the doormat outside their door, only to fall fast asleep drooling on myself. Keep in mind this is in one of the ritziest apartment buildings in Paris. I was awakened by a plastic-looking 70-yr old french woman scolding me and clutching her gold lame robe closet. I looked up at her, embarrassed, and said, "Sorry. Je ne pas parle francais."
She said, in a heavy french accent, "you have the key?"
I said, "yes, but it doesnt work."
She said, "give it to me."
So I gave it to her and in one deft motion she opened the door. With my head hung low and little bits of leaf and trash clinging to my coat and scarf, I shuffled through the front door and thanked her.
She said, "You have to be a little bit strong sometimes."
This may be the smartest thing I've ever heard.