So I've spent the last week feeling like a passenger that got left behind on "The Love Boat." My head is swimming in circles, I'm tired, and I feel like I'm still having the lingering effects of too many of Ted's cocktails at the pool side bar.
I'm sure a lot of this is that fact that sleep doesn't seem to be happening in any large chunks right now and trying to deal with normal life isn't as easy as it could be. Since this wacked out feeling has been going on so long, I headed off to the doctor last night, just to be sure. He confirmed that I'm a mess, definitely dealing with exhaustion and, surprise, low blood pressure.
Low blood pressure? What the heck does that mean?
Well, it seems that my brain, body, and organs are not getting enough oxygen so I need to rest, rest, rest, and drink lots of fluids. I also went in for a blood test today to see if there is anything else going on chez moi that we need to know about. Hopefully, we'll have the results tomorrow.
So till then, my dear friends, pull up a deck chair and rest with me next to the pool. I'll order you a margarita while I sip in a nice glass of ice water and Gatorade. I just wish that Julie, the cruise director, would show up so we can send her off for some more tortilla chips and salsa.
And could someone do me a favour and ask Captain Stubing to stop letting the kids drive the boat?
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
From Now On Let's Call Her Rosebud
Have I mentioned the funny little birthmark that Whoopsie has?
It looks like she's gone to a tattoo parlor and gotten herself a little something that goes with all her outfits. Especially her nappy cover.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
The Current Dead Singer Now Playing (again) Chez Nous
Israel Kamakawiwo'ole (IZ)
Grab someone who's fun to dance with and do just that. In my case, I've been attacked by four little people who really wish they were from Hawaii.
Grab someone who's fun to dance with and do just that. In my case, I've been attacked by four little people who really wish they were from Hawaii.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
And The Support Group Gains a Member
I had a funny phone call from an old high school friend the other day. Some of you may remember me talking about our visit from Keith a few months back. Looks like things are going well with him and his woman in Northern Ireland, so if all goes well, he might actually join the ranks of expat in the not to distant future.
The phone call was funny in that he mentioned how tough it could be learning to live with someone else. He's been a bachelor for a long time and after spending three weeks living with his gal at her house, he was having some trouble adjusting to sharing his toys. Curiosity got the better of me, so I asked what exactly was bugging him with co-habitation.
"Well, she gets mad at me when I put the dishes in the sink. And then she gets really upset when I go and get a drink and I forget to ask her if she wants one."
"Keith," I laughed, "these are issues that go beyond just a man and a woman sharing a house. You've now stumbled into the 'we-speak-the-same-language-but-I-still-don't-understand-a-word-you-are-saying' aspect of the Anglo-American relationship. Good luck sorting that all out!"
And with these concerns, Keith's been officially welcomed into the support group.
A support group, you may ask?
Yes. Yes. Emphatically yes.
For a while, I used to think it was Hubster who was just a little too sure of himself on linguistic questions or maybe it was just his nature to be a little bit of an ass about these things, so I'd let it slide. What finally dawned on me after talking with others in similar relationships is that it isn't that Hubster's an ass. It's just that he's British.
A few examples for you....
*Last night, the kids were learning how to play badminton at a friend's house. One of the other guests present asked us what we called the little white flying thing in English. I responded, "birdie." Hubster looked at me like I was nuts.
"It's a shuttlecock," he said.
Cue huge discussion on the origins of badminton and the fact that the French word for the little white flying thingy is even worse than shuttlecock.
*Cooking dinner one night, I realized I didn't have hamburger buns but I threw some meat onto the grill anyway. I ask Hubster if he'd like a cheeseburger to which he replies that we aren't having cheeseburgers.
Right.
"Ok, so cheese on your burger then?"
"If you're asking if I'd like cheese on the pattie, that would be nice."
Shoot me now.
*I tell Hubster to get the toilet paper out of the downstairs bathroom. He responds that we have no bathroom downstairs. He says that we have a toilet.
Ok, so that's technically true, but where I grew up, we called that a bathroom or a half-bath all the same. It may not make sense, but there it is anyway. AND HE KNEW WHAT ROOM I WAS TALKING ABOUT! Humor me here, honey!
*The sink/dishes fight. This is a major one for us. For me, the sink is the place to put your dirty dishes until the dishwasher is free. For Hubster, if you put the dirty dishes in the sink, how can you use the sink? Stack them on the counter above the dishwasher and leave the sink free. But, I argue, YOU CAN SEE THE DIRTY DISHES ON THE COUNTER. In the sink, THEY ARE HIDDEN! And so on and so on and so on....
Speaking pigeon French is a cake walk compared to the stress of having to deal with English on a daily basis!
Truth be told, I'm starting to twitch as I try to remember other examples of this. I might have to succumb to my darkest fears and go and make myself a cup of tea.
Note: All extra "u's" have been deleted from this post in protest. Love you, Houney.
The phone call was funny in that he mentioned how tough it could be learning to live with someone else. He's been a bachelor for a long time and after spending three weeks living with his gal at her house, he was having some trouble adjusting to sharing his toys. Curiosity got the better of me, so I asked what exactly was bugging him with co-habitation.
"Well, she gets mad at me when I put the dishes in the sink. And then she gets really upset when I go and get a drink and I forget to ask her if she wants one."
"Keith," I laughed, "these are issues that go beyond just a man and a woman sharing a house. You've now stumbled into the 'we-speak-the-same-language-but-I-still-don't-understand-a-word-you-are-saying' aspect of the Anglo-American relationship. Good luck sorting that all out!"
And with these concerns, Keith's been officially welcomed into the support group.
A support group, you may ask?
Yes. Yes. Emphatically yes.
For a while, I used to think it was Hubster who was just a little too sure of himself on linguistic questions or maybe it was just his nature to be a little bit of an ass about these things, so I'd let it slide. What finally dawned on me after talking with others in similar relationships is that it isn't that Hubster's an ass. It's just that he's British.
A few examples for you....
*Last night, the kids were learning how to play badminton at a friend's house. One of the other guests present asked us what we called the little white flying thing in English. I responded, "birdie." Hubster looked at me like I was nuts.
"It's a shuttlecock," he said.
Cue huge discussion on the origins of badminton and the fact that the French word for the little white flying thingy is even worse than shuttlecock.
*Cooking dinner one night, I realized I didn't have hamburger buns but I threw some meat onto the grill anyway. I ask Hubster if he'd like a cheeseburger to which he replies that we aren't having cheeseburgers.
Right.
"Ok, so cheese on your burger then?"
"If you're asking if I'd like cheese on the pattie, that would be nice."
Shoot me now.
*I tell Hubster to get the toilet paper out of the downstairs bathroom. He responds that we have no bathroom downstairs. He says that we have a toilet.
Ok, so that's technically true, but where I grew up, we called that a bathroom or a half-bath all the same. It may not make sense, but there it is anyway. AND HE KNEW WHAT ROOM I WAS TALKING ABOUT! Humor me here, honey!
*The sink/dishes fight. This is a major one for us. For me, the sink is the place to put your dirty dishes until the dishwasher is free. For Hubster, if you put the dirty dishes in the sink, how can you use the sink? Stack them on the counter above the dishwasher and leave the sink free. But, I argue, YOU CAN SEE THE DIRTY DISHES ON THE COUNTER. In the sink, THEY ARE HIDDEN! And so on and so on and so on....
Speaking pigeon French is a cake walk compared to the stress of having to deal with English on a daily basis!
Truth be told, I'm starting to twitch as I try to remember other examples of this. I might have to succumb to my darkest fears and go and make myself a cup of tea.
Note: All extra "u's" have been deleted from this post in protest. Love you, Houney.
Monday, July 13, 2009
So That's Who's Been Drinking the Wine
Yesterday, the village celebrated what we non-French call Bastille Day. It's really referred to as Quatorze Juillet here but why our village celebrated it on Douze Julliet, I'm not sure. But that's ok. The kids were psyched to have a party and what's not to like about several days of firework displays.
Last night, we meandered up to the square and had a quick drink at the school's parent's association drink tent before the fireworks started. The current president of the group offered us some sort of rosé mixed with lemon syrup and sparkling water. As she served us from an old 2 liter Orangina bottle, I prepared myself for the worst. But, you know, it actually tasted much better than it sounds and I'm sure I could see myself trying to make this concoction at home. Perhaps I'll have better success with alcohol than I did with my first batch of yogurt.
After chatting happily for a bit and watching the kids run like insane French revolutionary soldiers around the square, Hubster headed off with the big three to see the show. Whoops and I headed back to the house to keep tabs on the dogs.
As is the case every year, Typhon doesn't take too kindly to the bangs and booms from the fireworks. And as expected, at the first "pop" he was off looking for the smallest place he could cram himself.
Last night, we meandered up to the square and had a quick drink at the school's parent's association drink tent before the fireworks started. The current president of the group offered us some sort of rosé mixed with lemon syrup and sparkling water. As she served us from an old 2 liter Orangina bottle, I prepared myself for the worst. But, you know, it actually tasted much better than it sounds and I'm sure I could see myself trying to make this concoction at home. Perhaps I'll have better success with alcohol than I did with my first batch of yogurt.
After chatting happily for a bit and watching the kids run like insane French revolutionary soldiers around the square, Hubster headed off with the big three to see the show. Whoops and I headed back to the house to keep tabs on the dogs.
As is the case every year, Typhon doesn't take too kindly to the bangs and booms from the fireworks. And as expected, at the first "pop" he was off looking for the smallest place he could cram himself.
About an hour after everything was over, he finally came outside again. Nothing like a wacking great malamute trying to climb up into your lap for reassurance.
I don't have to heart to tell him that this is all going to happen again tomorrow.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
You've Got Mail, Whoopsie!
The departement where we live started a program back in 2005 called Ouvrez, ouvrez les livres aux bébés, roughly translated as "Open books to babies." Basically, The Conseil General, the governing body for our departement, sends each and every baby born in the departement during the year, a book. The hope is these beautifully illustrated stories will encourage parents to start reading to their kids at a young age.
The book for Whoopsie arrived yesterday, much to the tribe's delight. I had to fight with both The Princess and Bubba-Love for permission to open the package. Inside we found the story about Edgar.
The book for Whoopsie arrived yesterday, much to the tribe's delight. I had to fight with both The Princess and Bubba-Love for permission to open the package. Inside we found the story about Edgar.
Mini-Husband, in his new found role as "reader extraordinarie" took it upon himself to read to Whoops about this little boy who isn't quite like other kids. A great story about how everyone has something different and unique about them.
The Princess really liked it and was thrilled to see on the opening page, the list of the books that have been sent to all the babies since 2005. She quickly recognized the book Bubba-Love got back in 2006 and wanted to know why we didn't get the books in 2007 and 2008.
I explained how the books only get sent to babies born in those years to which she replied that I was basically a slacker and should have done my part to keep the collection complete. A perfect moment to explain how a library is a lot quieter than yearly newborns at our house.
All in all, a great first package for the Whoops. Not only is it something she'll never outgrow, but it's something that all of us can enjoy. Thank you, Conseil General for making reading, and sharing, not just a priority but fun for all us here at the B&B.
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