I had a lovely weekend, thank you. I'll probably gush about it for most of the week. Let me know if it gets old.
It actually started out with a sputter. The train ride there was horrific. But I'll post about that another day. Let's start off with something positive.
The last time I went to Paris was in the summer of 2005. Husband and the boys and I spent 10 days in a friend's apartment in the Bastille neighborhood. We had a great time.
But spending time in Paris with young kids is very different from spending time there with a girlfriend. Even more so because she likes food and wine and coffee as much as I do.
And everyone knows that being with a friend, someone who really knows you (and in this case, has known me for nearly 20 years) is like coming home.
So, basically, it was like a fabulous weekend at home with a very close friend, but with better food and a perfect setting.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Drink wine, eat, sleep, repeat.
I'm going to Paris this weekend. Sans enfants et sans mari.
I'm sure I will miss them. But not enough to wish they were coming with me.
B, an American friend who is currently living in Spain, has invited me to spend the weekend with her in Paris. Our plans for the weekend? Shopping, flirting, dancing? Non, non, et non. We haven't seen each other for over 5 years and our lives are such that we don't get to speak on the phone very often and we're both crap emailers. So we have a lot to catch up on. Our tentative plans go something like this: wine bar, restaurant, café. Hotel to sleep. Café, pastry shop, park bench, restaurant, hotel to nap, wine bar, restaurant, café. Hotel to sleep. See where I'm going with this?
I'm sure I will miss them. But not enough to wish they were coming with me.
B, an American friend who is currently living in Spain, has invited me to spend the weekend with her in Paris. Our plans for the weekend? Shopping, flirting, dancing? Non, non, et non. We haven't seen each other for over 5 years and our lives are such that we don't get to speak on the phone very often and we're both crap emailers. So we have a lot to catch up on. Our tentative plans go something like this: wine bar, restaurant, café. Hotel to sleep. Café, pastry shop, park bench, restaurant, hotel to nap, wine bar, restaurant, café. Hotel to sleep. See where I'm going with this?
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Look at me! I can link!
I had to go back to see the osteopath. Remember this guy? The experience this time was no less kooky.
My back was bothering me, my knee was bothering me and of course my head had been pounding for days and days. I figured I'd try the mechanical path before consulting a doctor who would probably just prescribe something.
Boy2 was with me, he sat silently on the osteopath's swivel chair and read a Little Brown Bear magazine while I was suffering on the table. And I was suffering. Osteopathy doesn't usually hurt. But this did. He fixed the back thing. He fixed the knee thing, which was the most painful moment I've known since childbirth. Then he put his hands on my head. After a few seconds he said, "Have you been having headaches?"
You could say that.
Then he pushed HARD on something on my neck and then really hard on my solar plexus. And voilà. My head stopped pounding. Magically. Or at least it seemed like magic to me.
He told me I was blocked. Ok. He told me the left side was "acting up". Ok. He told me I needed to massage under my left collarbone every day. Why? "Because all of your past is stuck right there ." Ok. At least I know where I've filed mine away.
Where've you filed yours away?
Maybe I should go for the drugs next time.
My back was bothering me, my knee was bothering me and of course my head had been pounding for days and days. I figured I'd try the mechanical path before consulting a doctor who would probably just prescribe something.
Boy2 was with me, he sat silently on the osteopath's swivel chair and read a Little Brown Bear magazine while I was suffering on the table. And I was suffering. Osteopathy doesn't usually hurt. But this did. He fixed the back thing. He fixed the knee thing, which was the most painful moment I've known since childbirth. Then he put his hands on my head. After a few seconds he said, "Have you been having headaches?"
You could say that.
Then he pushed HARD on something on my neck and then really hard on my solar plexus. And voilà. My head stopped pounding. Magically. Or at least it seemed like magic to me.
He told me I was blocked. Ok. He told me the left side was "acting up". Ok. He told me I needed to massage under my left collarbone every day. Why? "Because all of your past is stuck right there ." Ok. At least I know where I've filed mine away.
Where've you filed yours away?
Maybe I should go for the drugs next time.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Some words may hide others.
Last night, headache still going strong, I went upstairs to take a shower. Husband said he would take care of dinner for the boys. I was dubious, but, whatever. My head hurt too much to argue.
When I called down a while later, Husband said, "They're all set."
Imagine my surprise when I walked into the family room.
My boys, 3 and 6, eating at the coffee table. Ham sandwiches and pringles. While watching the Seattle - Chicago football game.
There are many things I miss from home. The NFL is not really one of them. Monday, Sunday, or any night football is not really one of them. Males eating pringles while watching NFL activities is not really one of them. Husband says American football is like a live chess game. I don't believe him.
The scariest part was the look on their faces. Mesmerized by padded strangers running into each other on purpose.
That's NOT what I'd call all set.
When I called down a while later, Husband said, "They're all set."
Imagine my surprise when I walked into the family room.
My boys, 3 and 6, eating at the coffee table. Ham sandwiches and pringles. While watching the Seattle - Chicago football game.
There are many things I miss from home. The NFL is not really one of them. Monday, Sunday, or any night football is not really one of them. Males eating pringles while watching NFL activities is not really one of them. Husband says American football is like a live chess game. I don't believe him.
The scariest part was the look on their faces. Mesmerized by padded strangers running into each other on purpose.
That's NOT what I'd call all set.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Seriously, still got my headache
I'm beginning to lose hope.
Don't you wish you could know when it's the last time? Or the first? So you could prepare yourself for it?
I remember talking to a friend about weaning Boy1 and how sad I was when I realized, a couple of days later,there wouldn't be a next time. But at the time, I didn't know it was the last time. Same with Boy2. It totally sneaked up on me. And we were done. I was happy he was weaned, in the beginning at least, but I would've like to treasure those last moments.
And he did it to me again last week, the little twirp. Husband's mother came to Laval last Wednesday to pick Boy1 up and bring him back to Nantes for a few days without us. He's been going there on his own since he was about 4, when he asked if he could. I figured Boy2 would follow the same schedule, give or take a month or two.
We were eating lunch and discussing what Boy1 had planned for his mini-vacation at mamie and papy's house. Boy2 said, "Mama, I will go to Nantes too." I said yes, on Saturday, with me when I was planning on going to pick Boy1 up. "No, I will go now." What? Now? But you realize it would be without me and without Papa for 3 whole days? "Yeah, yeah, I know, I know." He said that with a blasé sort of tone. Can you believe this? I'm getting tone from a 3 year old. Anyway, I explained it 12 different ways, he got it and was sure he wanted to go. So he went. I mean, I'm not that freaky of a mom, and I suppose you have to know when to give them some space. When I walked with him out to the car, he said, "You don't give me a hug, I will give you a hug and a big kiss." Which he did. Squeezed my neck hard and give me a sweet kiss on the cheek and told me I was a pink princess.
This weekend at lunch with family, someone asked Husband if I enjoyed my time without the kids. He laughed and said, "I couldn't really tell. She mostly just walked around in circles."
He was exaggerating, of course, but I did feel a little strange. The house was silent, which was wonderful, and things stayed neat for hours. Definitely a first.
Don't you wish you could know when it's the last time? Or the first? So you could prepare yourself for it?
I remember talking to a friend about weaning Boy1 and how sad I was when I realized, a couple of days later,there wouldn't be a next time. But at the time, I didn't know it was the last time. Same with Boy2. It totally sneaked up on me. And we were done. I was happy he was weaned, in the beginning at least, but I would've like to treasure those last moments.
And he did it to me again last week, the little twirp. Husband's mother came to Laval last Wednesday to pick Boy1 up and bring him back to Nantes for a few days without us. He's been going there on his own since he was about 4, when he asked if he could. I figured Boy2 would follow the same schedule, give or take a month or two.
We were eating lunch and discussing what Boy1 had planned for his mini-vacation at mamie and papy's house. Boy2 said, "Mama, I will go to Nantes too." I said yes, on Saturday, with me when I was planning on going to pick Boy1 up. "No, I will go now." What? Now? But you realize it would be without me and without Papa for 3 whole days? "Yeah, yeah, I know, I know." He said that with a blasé sort of tone. Can you believe this? I'm getting tone from a 3 year old. Anyway, I explained it 12 different ways, he got it and was sure he wanted to go. So he went. I mean, I'm not that freaky of a mom, and I suppose you have to know when to give them some space. When I walked with him out to the car, he said, "You don't give me a hug, I will give you a hug and a big kiss." Which he did. Squeezed my neck hard and give me a sweet kiss on the cheek and told me I was a pink princess.
This weekend at lunch with family, someone asked Husband if I enjoyed my time without the kids. He laughed and said, "I couldn't really tell. She mostly just walked around in circles."
He was exaggerating, of course, but I did feel a little strange. The house was silent, which was wonderful, and things stayed neat for hours. Definitely a first.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
AAAHHHH
I've had too much coffee, I've had a headache for 5 days - seriously, I wake up and go to sleep with it everyday - and I'm still not finished complaining about the whole pc thing. Which is why I didn't respond to comments on the last post.
Julie said that it's done some good and I suppose it has. I'm glad that textbooks no longer have talk about female secretaries and male doctors. Oh right, it's not secretary anymore, it's personal assistant. And it's not stewardess anymore, it's flight attendant. What is wrong with steward and stewardess anyway other than being gender specific? And what's wrong with gender specificity anyway? Because, let's face it, men and women are equal but they are certainly not the same.
Lorraine and Alison and Gina, who all have great blogs by the way, think it's gone too far. As do I. We can't erase our past and pretend it isn't filled with racism and sexism and ethocentrism and many other isms I'm leaving out. Or even our present. Been to the South lately? And I like the South so don't get huffy if you're from there. Convince me something has changed since people started saying African-American. Or Latin-American. Or is it hispanic? See? I can't even keep up anymore. I saw a movie with Robin Williams - he played a mentally disabled person. He says something like, "Yeah, I'm not retarded anymore. First I was retarded. Then in the early 80's I was mentally handicapped. Then one day in April of 87, I became mentally disabled. "
PC has allowed the gap between what is said and what is done to grow. It has allowed people to feel better about themselves without ever having to really change anything about the way they live their lives or the way the vote.
Julie said that it's done some good and I suppose it has. I'm glad that textbooks no longer have talk about female secretaries and male doctors. Oh right, it's not secretary anymore, it's personal assistant. And it's not stewardess anymore, it's flight attendant. What is wrong with steward and stewardess anyway other than being gender specific? And what's wrong with gender specificity anyway? Because, let's face it, men and women are equal but they are certainly not the same.
Lorraine and Alison and Gina, who all have great blogs by the way, think it's gone too far. As do I. We can't erase our past and pretend it isn't filled with racism and sexism and ethocentrism and many other isms I'm leaving out. Or even our present. Been to the South lately? And I like the South so don't get huffy if you're from there. Convince me something has changed since people started saying African-American. Or Latin-American. Or is it hispanic? See? I can't even keep up anymore. I saw a movie with Robin Williams - he played a mentally disabled person. He says something like, "Yeah, I'm not retarded anymore. First I was retarded. Then in the early 80's I was mentally handicapped. Then one day in April of 87, I became mentally disabled. "
PC has allowed the gap between what is said and what is done to grow. It has allowed people to feel better about themselves without ever having to really change anything about the way they live their lives or the way the vote.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
You can't take it back Charlie
It's out there. Read back a couple of posts and you'll find I was talking about finding innocence in France. Discovering the possibility of conversations that aren't censored as they occur. Charlie commented that it wasn't innocence lost and certainly not innocence found, as he believes innocence once lost cannot be recovered. He suggested that our state is not one of innocentlessness, but of paranoia. He has since mumbled something about about taking it back, but I secretly and quietly suspect him of just saying that so I will stop calling him mr. smarty pants. Which I will not.
Anyway, we bring up an interesting point. What the heck is it? What makes us focus on the easily identifiable linguistic pseudo symbols of racism, sexism, agism, ethnocentrism to such an extent that YOU CAN'T SAY ANYTHING without someone, somewhere getting offended? (Let alone, gasp, be alone, gasp in an office, gasp, WITH THE DOOR CLOSED, with a member of the opposite, gasp, sex. Are we so out of control sexually that we could never handle such temptation - oh me oh my a man, I can hardly keep my drawers on, alone with me in my office? However will I control myself and overcome my burning shameful desire for all members of the opposite sex? And most importantly, what will everyone think, even if I do manage, through sheer force of will, to not jump his bones in this totally inappropriate and impractical setting?)
And why do we focus on the forme and not the fond? Maybe because it's easier to change our language than who we are? Maybe because we're only interested in that which can be seen and heard? Ours is an ostentatious culture, if nothing else. As Husband pointed out to me at a Starbucks in Seattle, it's not enough to have napkins made from recycled materials - everyone has to know they have napkins made from recycled materials - which is, of course, printed on the back of their napkins.
We'd rather clean up (read sterilize) our language than clean up our...you fill in the blank.
Anyway, we bring up an interesting point. What the heck is it? What makes us focus on the easily identifiable linguistic pseudo symbols of racism, sexism, agism, ethnocentrism to such an extent that YOU CAN'T SAY ANYTHING without someone, somewhere getting offended? (Let alone, gasp, be alone, gasp in an office, gasp, WITH THE DOOR CLOSED, with a member of the opposite, gasp, sex. Are we so out of control sexually that we could never handle such temptation - oh me oh my a man, I can hardly keep my drawers on, alone with me in my office? However will I control myself and overcome my burning shameful desire for all members of the opposite sex? And most importantly, what will everyone think, even if I do manage, through sheer force of will, to not jump his bones in this totally inappropriate and impractical setting?)
And why do we focus on the forme and not the fond? Maybe because it's easier to change our language than who we are? Maybe because we're only interested in that which can be seen and heard? Ours is an ostentatious culture, if nothing else. As Husband pointed out to me at a Starbucks in Seattle, it's not enough to have napkins made from recycled materials - everyone has to know they have napkins made from recycled materials - which is, of course, printed on the back of their napkins.
We'd rather clean up (read sterilize) our language than clean up our...you fill in the blank.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Foot in mouth, tome 212
This weekend while in Vannes at JDC and SDC's house, SDC's parents joined us for dinner. They brought a very nice bottle of pink champagne, the good stuff, not the yucky stuff, and we had a nice chat while drinking it. I helped S out in the kitchen for a while and when I returned, her parents, J, and Husband were in the middle of a discussion. I listened, thought I understood, and made a comment.
In my defense, words like good positioning, height differences (J is very tall and S is not), comfortable and pleasure were being used. And they all seemed very amused by the discussion. So I think my misunderstanding can be understood.
So I look around and say to S's parents, "Wow, you're very cool parents. I don't know many people who can have a discussion about oral sex (I think I actually said the bj word but whatever.) with their daughter and son-in-law."
All eyes turned on me. No words were spoken for what seemed like FOREVER. Then they all start laughing HYSTERICALLY. Finally, when she could breathe again, S's mom said,"Nicole, no one was talking about that. We were talking about dancing."
It was a good hour before she could look and me and not start laughing again.
Aren't I the best dinner guest ever?
In my defense, words like good positioning, height differences (J is very tall and S is not), comfortable and pleasure were being used. And they all seemed very amused by the discussion. So I think my misunderstanding can be understood.
So I look around and say to S's parents, "Wow, you're very cool parents. I don't know many people who can have a discussion about oral sex (I think I actually said the bj word but whatever.) with their daughter and son-in-law."
All eyes turned on me. No words were spoken for what seemed like FOREVER. Then they all start laughing HYSTERICALLY. Finally, when she could breathe again, S's mom said,"Nicole, no one was talking about that. We were talking about dancing."
It was a good hour before she could look and me and not start laughing again.
Aren't I the best dinner guest ever?
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Innocence found
When you think of all the different things you might find in France, wine or food or beauty or clothes or chocolate or whatever, innocence isn't usually included in the list. But it should be. On mine at least.
We spent last weekend in Vannes, with friends. We drank a lot of good wine, including a 1983 Sauternes that was nectar, we ate a lot of good food, and we joked around a lot. And much of the joking around dealt with themes that would be considered VERY politically incorrect in the US.
While I can admit that the whole pc thing may have had one or two good (but very limited)effects on language, in general, it has led to the loss of innocence. Let's be realistic, you can't say or do anything in the US now without it being interpreted through the crazy pc innocence removing filter. Nothing is harmless now.
At dinner Saturday night, Husband pointed out to me that I got offended a lot more when I first arrived in France than I do now. I laughed at the absurdity of my previous state of mind and said, "Funny, I had to come to France to find my..." I couldn't think of the right word, and 3 people at the table said at once, "innocence." Who would've thought?
We spent last weekend in Vannes, with friends. We drank a lot of good wine, including a 1983 Sauternes that was nectar, we ate a lot of good food, and we joked around a lot. And much of the joking around dealt with themes that would be considered VERY politically incorrect in the US.
While I can admit that the whole pc thing may have had one or two good (but very limited)effects on language, in general, it has led to the loss of innocence. Let's be realistic, you can't say or do anything in the US now without it being interpreted through the crazy pc innocence removing filter. Nothing is harmless now.
At dinner Saturday night, Husband pointed out to me that I got offended a lot more when I first arrived in France than I do now. I laughed at the absurdity of my previous state of mind and said, "Funny, I had to come to France to find my..." I couldn't think of the right word, and 3 people at the table said at once, "innocence." Who would've thought?
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Bonne Année
Ok, so when I said Tuesday, I actually meant next Tuesday. Happy Birthday Zeb and Happy New Year everyone...
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Régalez-vous!
I'll be back to regular blogging on Tuesday. Until then - Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it. And I don't mean that in a smart-assy pc kind of way. I just mean it. Enjoy the friends and family and food and gifts and candle-lit church services and starry nights and caramel pecan rolls and whatever else this weekend will hold for you. Friends and family: You may or may not have been sent or received a card. In any case, I have sent you my love.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Family
I made my first fondue this weekend.
A friend from college, Alecia, and I used to go out for fondue at a restaurant in Wilmington about once a month. I have great memories of those fondue nights, both of the fondues which varied from classic to original, and of Alecia.
My mother-in-law makes fondue bourgignon sometimes. Which is very hot grape seed oil in the fondue pot and choice cubes of uncooked beef to dip and fry. Served with a variety of sauces. Very good.
Anyway, I got a fondue pot for my birthday. So I made a regular cheese fondue - 300 grams of comté, 300 grams of emmenthal, and 300 grams of beaufort. A half a bottle of a vin blanc from Savoie. But the bread was key. The baker's wife looked surprised at my choices, I think she must be more of a traditionalist when it comes to appropriate breads for fondue. My choices included olive bread, chorizo bread, bacon and hazelnut flute, and smoked salmon flute. We also dipped cubes of garlic sausage and saucisson sec. Amazing.
But the most wonderful part of the whole meal? Well, it was shared with Zeb's (my oldest brother) wife and daughter, D and C, who came for a surprise visit to cheer us up. Everyday Boy2 says, "You stay here, right?" While Boy1 declared the visit made him very happy, he could not help adding that it would be much better if they could stay through Christmas. He had no thoughts for my brother and nephew who would then have to spend Christmas without wife/mother and sister.
An excellent meal, all the way around.
A friend from college, Alecia, and I used to go out for fondue at a restaurant in Wilmington about once a month. I have great memories of those fondue nights, both of the fondues which varied from classic to original, and of Alecia.
My mother-in-law makes fondue bourgignon sometimes. Which is very hot grape seed oil in the fondue pot and choice cubes of uncooked beef to dip and fry. Served with a variety of sauces. Very good.
Anyway, I got a fondue pot for my birthday. So I made a regular cheese fondue - 300 grams of comté, 300 grams of emmenthal, and 300 grams of beaufort. A half a bottle of a vin blanc from Savoie. But the bread was key. The baker's wife looked surprised at my choices, I think she must be more of a traditionalist when it comes to appropriate breads for fondue. My choices included olive bread, chorizo bread, bacon and hazelnut flute, and smoked salmon flute. We also dipped cubes of garlic sausage and saucisson sec. Amazing.
But the most wonderful part of the whole meal? Well, it was shared with Zeb's (my oldest brother) wife and daughter, D and C, who came for a surprise visit to cheer us up. Everyday Boy2 says, "You stay here, right?" While Boy1 declared the visit made him very happy, he could not help adding that it would be much better if they could stay through Christmas. He had no thoughts for my brother and nephew who would then have to spend Christmas without wife/mother and sister.
An excellent meal, all the way around.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Fire or smoke?
This is a magical time of year for me. The season of my birthday, the season for taking stock and deciding what I'll bring down to the cellar that is my winter. Actually, fall and winter are my favorite seasons. The days are short, the nights are cold, twilight is heavyhanded and magic is in the air. At least it is for me. I know there are those of you who feel it in the spring and summer, seasons I can only survive, at best.
A long time ago, I had an alchemist's dream. I was very young, I didn't even know what an alchemist was at the time. But it was a very striking dream and I've always treasured it. I didn't analyse it, why bother. But I did wonder about it.
And then there's the whole princess thing. I'm not claiming any past life experience, this life is certainly enough, but there are some medieval themes floating around. Oh, like that street I was on this summer in Concarneau. Anyway.
Magical does not necessarily mean easy. On the contrary, I'd even say. Dragons abound. Speaking of, I'd like to know, what's in the belly of your dragon?
A long time ago, I had an alchemist's dream. I was very young, I didn't even know what an alchemist was at the time. But it was a very striking dream and I've always treasured it. I didn't analyse it, why bother. But I did wonder about it.
And then there's the whole princess thing. I'm not claiming any past life experience, this life is certainly enough, but there are some medieval themes floating around. Oh, like that street I was on this summer in Concarneau. Anyway.
Magical does not necessarily mean easy. On the contrary, I'd even say. Dragons abound. Speaking of, I'd like to know, what's in the belly of your dragon?
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Shadow siblings
I have two shadow sisters, Meghan and Tanya. I'm not sure why I call them that, although I'm sure that's what they are. And I don't remember where I first heard that phrase. Maybe from Mary Kleyweg, the still-famous disappered therapist. Regardless.
I don't see them very often, in real life. The last time I saw Tanya was in 1994 or 95 in San Francisco. We just had time for dinner and heavy conversation. The last time I saw Meg was in 1999, on my last (sniff, sniff, weep, weep) trip to Seattle. I stayed with her for a few nights and when I left she gave me her buckwheat pillow. Which has since been vomitted on by Boy1, rendering it unusable. But I'll never forget my first bucky or the person who gave it to me.
Anyway, despite the distance and poor email habits (mine), I still feel close to them. Because every once in a while, they visit me in my dreams and tell me something really important. Which is why I call them shadow sisters. Last night Meg showed up and, after listening to me bitch for a long time, she hugged me and said, "Nicole, stop complaining and get it together." I can't think of a more important message.
So here's my question - who's your shadow sibling?
I don't see them very often, in real life. The last time I saw Tanya was in 1994 or 95 in San Francisco. We just had time for dinner and heavy conversation. The last time I saw Meg was in 1999, on my last (sniff, sniff, weep, weep) trip to Seattle. I stayed with her for a few nights and when I left she gave me her buckwheat pillow. Which has since been vomitted on by Boy1, rendering it unusable. But I'll never forget my first bucky or the person who gave it to me.
Anyway, despite the distance and poor email habits (mine), I still feel close to them. Because every once in a while, they visit me in my dreams and tell me something really important. Which is why I call them shadow sisters. Last night Meg showed up and, after listening to me bitch for a long time, she hugged me and said, "Nicole, stop complaining and get it together." I can't think of a more important message.
So here's my question - who's your shadow sibling?
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
It must be genetic
The first time it happened I thought it was a fluke. How could I not? I was 17, in France for the first time. I was staying with a family. They had friends over who had a twelve year old boy. It was late, I took a bath before going bed. As I stood up to get out of the bathtub, the twelve year old opened the door. He didn't look shocked or even curious. He sighed, I kid you not, and said, "Ah, quelle beauté." I had no particular illusions about his judgement, I think he would've said the same about anyone with breasts and pubic hair. But his statement did surprise me. What aplomb! What nonchalance. At 12, sex and beauty and love (because, of course, the next day he swore he would love me forever) were already high on his list of priorities.
I've seen it over and over again. These guys just come up with this stuff naturally. Half of it, mind you, would be classified as harassement or sexism or political incorrectness in the US, but that's a whole other issue. I personally believe that political correctness has done much more harm than good. But anyway. At work this morning a student made a comment to me, which I'm not even going to post because it doesn't matter and some of you would be shocked and really, that's not the point. The point is, he made it in the most natural and inoffensive way.
I'm friends with French women and men. I swear they don't teach it to their boys. Which leads me to believe it's just a French genetic thing. Which I realize, as a theory, would not hold up under any scientific scrutiny. But it is what it is. The ability to see sex and beauty everywhere. Maybe it's the naked woman on the yogurt commercials, I don't know.
I've seen it over and over again. These guys just come up with this stuff naturally. Half of it, mind you, would be classified as harassement or sexism or political incorrectness in the US, but that's a whole other issue. I personally believe that political correctness has done much more harm than good. But anyway. At work this morning a student made a comment to me, which I'm not even going to post because it doesn't matter and some of you would be shocked and really, that's not the point. The point is, he made it in the most natural and inoffensive way.
I'm friends with French women and men. I swear they don't teach it to their boys. Which leads me to believe it's just a French genetic thing. Which I realize, as a theory, would not hold up under any scientific scrutiny. But it is what it is. The ability to see sex and beauty everywhere. Maybe it's the naked woman on the yogurt commercials, I don't know.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Hope reborn
I'm married to a smoker. Those who knew me pre-Husband might find this unbelievable. Believe me, I even find it unbelievable sometimes.
In the beginning, I wasn't thinking about the rest of my life. And then when I was thinking about the rest of my life, I certainly wasn't thinking he would be smoking for the rest of my life. And then came the milestones that I hoped would motivate him. We got married. I got pregnant with Boy1. Boy1 was born. Boy1 turned one. Husband turned 30. Boy1 turned two. I got pregnant with Boy2. Boy2 was born and turned one and then two. Husband turned 35. Boys are now 6 and 3, Husband will be 36 in January and still nothing.
My attitude over the years has gone from indulgent to compassionate to frustrated to pissed off. Seriously, I CANNOT believe he still smokes. That said, I don't nag or plead or even talk about it very much other than to say, "I cannot believe you still smoke."
He doesn't smoke in the house. He's on the terrace to smoke, even in the rain. I have no sympathy. He gets colds and they last for weeks on end. I have no sympathy. Some residual compassion, perhaps, because I know it totally sucks to have to quit.
Up until this weekend, I had no sympathy and basically, no hope. He tried to stop once, a few years ago, and totally ruined our vacation. He hates the fact that he smokes, he feels totally enslaved to cigarettes, and, most importantly, powerless to change. Anyway, this weekend, I was reading an article in the newspaper about new medications and mentioned that there would be a new anti-tabacco drug on the market here in January. He snatched, literally, that newspaper right out of my hands. I now have hope.
In the beginning, I wasn't thinking about the rest of my life. And then when I was thinking about the rest of my life, I certainly wasn't thinking he would be smoking for the rest of my life. And then came the milestones that I hoped would motivate him. We got married. I got pregnant with Boy1. Boy1 was born. Boy1 turned one. Husband turned 30. Boy1 turned two. I got pregnant with Boy2. Boy2 was born and turned one and then two. Husband turned 35. Boys are now 6 and 3, Husband will be 36 in January and still nothing.
My attitude over the years has gone from indulgent to compassionate to frustrated to pissed off. Seriously, I CANNOT believe he still smokes. That said, I don't nag or plead or even talk about it very much other than to say, "I cannot believe you still smoke."
He doesn't smoke in the house. He's on the terrace to smoke, even in the rain. I have no sympathy. He gets colds and they last for weeks on end. I have no sympathy. Some residual compassion, perhaps, because I know it totally sucks to have to quit.
Up until this weekend, I had no sympathy and basically, no hope. He tried to stop once, a few years ago, and totally ruined our vacation. He hates the fact that he smokes, he feels totally enslaved to cigarettes, and, most importantly, powerless to change. Anyway, this weekend, I was reading an article in the newspaper about new medications and mentioned that there would be a new anti-tabacco drug on the market here in January. He snatched, literally, that newspaper right out of my hands. I now have hope.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Forgotten or unknown
I bought a beautiful calendar for my goddaughter for Christmas. It's the kind of calendar I would've loved at her age (7), or even now.
It's called Princesses oubliées ou inconnues. Princesses forgotten or unknown. The illustrations are taken from a book of the same title that I would've bought for her but it's only in French and I didn't want her to feel frustrated (she's American and monolingual for the time being).
Anyway, the illustrations are amazing and the names are incredible. There's the Quarter Moon Princess, the Jungle Princess, the Sand Princess, the Night Princess, and many others. And looking at the calendar I started thinking about my own princess status. It's been a long-running joke between my eldest brother and me. He's called me princess for a long time, but in a tone that says that princess and brat are interchangeable. But what I really believe is that he saw what had long been lost and forgotten.
Which Princess are you?
I'm the Moss Rose Princess.
It's called Princesses oubliées ou inconnues. Princesses forgotten or unknown. The illustrations are taken from a book of the same title that I would've bought for her but it's only in French and I didn't want her to feel frustrated (she's American and monolingual for the time being).
Anyway, the illustrations are amazing and the names are incredible. There's the Quarter Moon Princess, the Jungle Princess, the Sand Princess, the Night Princess, and many others. And looking at the calendar I started thinking about my own princess status. It's been a long-running joke between my eldest brother and me. He's called me princess for a long time, but in a tone that says that princess and brat are interchangeable. But what I really believe is that he saw what had long been lost and forgotten.
Which Princess are you?
I'm the Moss Rose Princess.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
The weight of believing
Husband and I rented a dvd one evening last week. The movie was sort of whatever and left me feeling about the same way that the book had. But that's not the point. The point is that at one point during the film there was a preacher man preaching and praying at a gathering that was not church-like in any way. Or even religious in any way. Husband looked at me and said, "It must be hard to believe in God in the United States. It must be..." And he paused because he couldn't find exactly the right word. Which I then provided. "Heavy." "Yes, exactly, heavy."
It was strange. I sort of said it without thinking about it, it just kind of popped out. But it felt very true as it popped.
In France you get a sort of feeling about religiousness which is different, of course, from believing, but let's pretend it's not for a minute. The whole religious and even believing thing here seems more pragmatic at the very least and certainly more private. Aside from maybe going to Mass, there's just no ostentatiousness to it in a way that is comparable to the US.
At home, religiousness, at least the religiousness I was exposed to (and BELIEVE ME it was A LOT -I nearly choked several times and it almost cured me of ever believing anything, let alone Believing), was not pragmatic in the least. On the contrary, the harder and more ridiculous it made everyday life, the better. It could be a Protestant thing, the Catholics I know here (which is basically everyone) and at home (about half) seem to live comfortably with their religion, although that could be because I was raised in a Protestant faith and the grass is always greener. Although there is the whole Catholic guilt thing everyone talks about, which you tend to hear a lot at home and almost never here. If you're a Protestant and feel offended by my remarks, sorry, no offense meant. Just telling it like it seemed to be. Ditto for the Catholics. Love you all regardless.
I suppose some would say heavy is good. Faith shouldn't be easy, religion shouldn't be light. Serious stuff - eternity and hell and all that. But shouldn't believing in your god make you feel better, not worse? Open your mind to the world, not close it? Make you feel compassion for more people, not fewer? And shouldn't the weight of it all be determined by the believer, not the dictators of religiousness?
It was strange. I sort of said it without thinking about it, it just kind of popped out. But it felt very true as it popped.
In France you get a sort of feeling about religiousness which is different, of course, from believing, but let's pretend it's not for a minute. The whole religious and even believing thing here seems more pragmatic at the very least and certainly more private. Aside from maybe going to Mass, there's just no ostentatiousness to it in a way that is comparable to the US.
At home, religiousness, at least the religiousness I was exposed to (and BELIEVE ME it was A LOT -I nearly choked several times and it almost cured me of ever believing anything, let alone Believing), was not pragmatic in the least. On the contrary, the harder and more ridiculous it made everyday life, the better. It could be a Protestant thing, the Catholics I know here (which is basically everyone) and at home (about half) seem to live comfortably with their religion, although that could be because I was raised in a Protestant faith and the grass is always greener. Although there is the whole Catholic guilt thing everyone talks about, which you tend to hear a lot at home and almost never here. If you're a Protestant and feel offended by my remarks, sorry, no offense meant. Just telling it like it seemed to be. Ditto for the Catholics. Love you all regardless.
I suppose some would say heavy is good. Faith shouldn't be easy, religion shouldn't be light. Serious stuff - eternity and hell and all that. But shouldn't believing in your god make you feel better, not worse? Open your mind to the world, not close it? Make you feel compassion for more people, not fewer? And shouldn't the weight of it all be determined by the believer, not the dictators of religiousness?
Monday, December 04, 2006
Scamming already (at 3)
You pretty much know going into parenthood that you'll have shortcomings and failures. Sometimes they are expected and even predictable and other times they take you by suprise. This afternoon after school and after snack and after homework, Boy1 decided to write his grandmother a Christmas card. He's very upset about the fact that she won't be with us in France this year, for the first time ever (for him). Anyway, he set up his work area with all the necessary equipment. He came back into the family room where I was playing slapjack with Boy2. He asked me to write the letter while he dictated what he wanted to say. I had to do this because he doesn't know how to read or write in English yet - he's just learning how to do both this year in French. So, I wrote, or printed actually because my handwriting is not very textbook anymore, the letter. I told him he could write it in cursive himself. He went back to work and I went back to slapping jacks.
A couple of minutes later, he comes back in, agitated, borderline upset. Why is I capitalized if there is a comma after Grandma? I told him it's because it's after the opening address of the letter. He went away again.
He came back seconds later, tears in his eyes, is this an I like an L or an i but big? And of course all of this was in English but with French letter pronunciation. It was a conversation doomed from the start. I left my HEAPING pile of cards and went to see (literally) what the problem was.
It's an I, then why is it big? Because it's always big in English. So write it in French. But the letter's in English. Then write it with French letters (which are of course the same but at this point he's talking about style). I CAN'T.
Why not? Boy1 asks this question with true desperation in his voice. When I explain to him that we learn a somewhat different style of cursive in the US, the tears fall. His final line, "Then I guess you just can't help me."
When I got back to the family room and slapjack, I had like 6 cards in my pile. I looked at Boy2. He shrugged and said, "What, Mama? I don't know."
A couple of minutes later, he comes back in, agitated, borderline upset. Why is I capitalized if there is a comma after Grandma? I told him it's because it's after the opening address of the letter. He went away again.
He came back seconds later, tears in his eyes, is this an I like an L or an i but big? And of course all of this was in English but with French letter pronunciation. It was a conversation doomed from the start. I left my HEAPING pile of cards and went to see (literally) what the problem was.
It's an I, then why is it big? Because it's always big in English. So write it in French. But the letter's in English. Then write it with French letters (which are of course the same but at this point he's talking about style). I CAN'T.
Why not? Boy1 asks this question with true desperation in his voice. When I explain to him that we learn a somewhat different style of cursive in the US, the tears fall. His final line, "Then I guess you just can't help me."
When I got back to the family room and slapjack, I had like 6 cards in my pile. I looked at Boy2. He shrugged and said, "What, Mama? I don't know."
Friday, December 01, 2006
How's that for appropriate?
I've always had a flair for embarassing myself or others. Saying the wrong thing in front of the wrong people - that kind of thing.
Like the time when I used a really and I mean REALLY bad word in French at a dinner party with in-laws and soon-to-be in-law's of in-laws. One of the guests asked me if I had started looking for my wedding dress and when I said yes, wanted to know what styles I was thinking of. I jokingly replied something with a plunging neckline and miniskirt length. The word I used to say very very very short (for those of you who speak French, I said ras-la-...) is an extremely vulgar word. But I had never seen it written and didn't know it could be broken down into nasty parts. Anyway. Total silence at the table. Then Husband (Fiancé at that point) said, "Sometimes Nicole learns words without really learning what they mean." Everyone then started laughing and it was fine but still.
Last weekend when Husband's parents were here we all watched a film together on saturday night after the boys were in bed. For some reason (related to the film I think) we started talking about stupid bets. And before I think about, I'm telling them about the time in college (I was only 17 so give me a break) when, on a bet, I opened the door for a delivery guy topless. Completely topless. After I finish telling the story I look over at Husband who is looking at me with a look that said, all at once, wish I had been there, you crack me up, and why on earth would you tell that story in front of my parents you goof.
Here's hoping the next 20 years will be as interesting as the last 20.
Like the time when I used a really and I mean REALLY bad word in French at a dinner party with in-laws and soon-to-be in-law's of in-laws. One of the guests asked me if I had started looking for my wedding dress and when I said yes, wanted to know what styles I was thinking of. I jokingly replied something with a plunging neckline and miniskirt length. The word I used to say very very very short (for those of you who speak French, I said ras-la-...) is an extremely vulgar word. But I had never seen it written and didn't know it could be broken down into nasty parts. Anyway. Total silence at the table. Then Husband (Fiancé at that point) said, "Sometimes Nicole learns words without really learning what they mean." Everyone then started laughing and it was fine but still.
Last weekend when Husband's parents were here we all watched a film together on saturday night after the boys were in bed. For some reason (related to the film I think) we started talking about stupid bets. And before I think about, I'm telling them about the time in college (I was only 17 so give me a break) when, on a bet, I opened the door for a delivery guy topless. Completely topless. After I finish telling the story I look over at Husband who is looking at me with a look that said, all at once, wish I had been there, you crack me up, and why on earth would you tell that story in front of my parents you goof.
Here's hoping the next 20 years will be as interesting as the last 20.
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