The Power of a Word

And so I'll try to explain...

It was a couple of years ago when I bought that painting in a local consignment shop. I was browsing through the pictures when it caught my eye. The colours in the landscape were a perfect fit with the shades I had just painted in the TV room. I think I paid about 5 or 10 euros for it, took it home and sat it on the floor by the fireplace.

Several weeks later, I finally got around to hanging it up. Clumsily I nailed a hook to the wall and then grabbed the painting. As I fumbled with the cord on the back, I realized there was something written up in the corner. A small word, written in capital letters.

HITLER.

Suddenly, this landscape painting that I liked became almost toxic to touch. The plumes that I took for trees, I now saw as bomb blasts. The white clouds were really smoke from the canons. The reds, blood and earth. And the faces, I see two now, watching from behind it all.

That one small little word changed everything about the picture.

I asked you what you thought about this painting because I, myself, am not sure what to do with it.

It scares me to look at it for too long. I start hearing the sounds of war and when I think about the people who have lost their lives in battles like these and unlike these, my heart aches and I feel that there will be no end to any tears I shed.

Living where we are, it's possible this was painted by someone who actually lived through the bombings of WWII. Perhaps even someone who saw first hand the combat, the death, the pain that that war caused. It's possible they used this canvas to get those images out of their head, to release the chaos going on in there. For this reason alone, perhaps I should keep it hanging up.

So tell me, I need to know, is it still beautiful, this painting?

What Do You See?

Today, my lovely readers, I want you to stop and think. I want you to open your artistic side and tell me in words what a picture tells you.

Go on, take a good look at this painting. How does it make you feel? Do you like it? Do you not like it? Does it do anything for you? What do you think it's about?

Now, hit the comment button and tell me what you are thinking. I promise to explain.

Don't Panic! I Speak English!

I have to admit I have a really horrible addiction. It's accosting people in public places, just because they speak English. I've got to find a way to stop doing this. Go cold turkey, find a 12-step program, something before I get put on to some list published by the local police department.

It's just so hard not to accost a stranger when there I am, comparing prices on undershirts, when low and behold I hear a word said almost as I would say it. A magical lyrical cadence of phrases that I understand without having to think about it. Words that dance into my head and I just get it.

The joy of understanding conversation without having to think about it is almost like when you smell something baking that reminds you of home or your grandma's house or your favourite meal. The memories and the sensations fill you and you can't help but get all nostalgic as you inhale the aromas that you love. I'm like this with English.

Hence why I was shaking like I had just downed four lattes when I heard the little lady in front of me talking about Derbyshire. I've never been to Derbyshire (I don't think) but I wanted to pretend that I had just so I could talk to her. All I could think of was Tess of the d'Ubervilles and wondered if maybe this woman had read the book too. It's set in Derbyshire, isn't it? I didn't care. I just wanted to talk to her. To tell her I was one of them too. Tell her that I spoke English! Look at me! Talk to me! In English!

Finally, I blurted out in a voice much louder than I would have liked to use, "ARE YOU ENGLISH? I'M AMERICAN."

Now, saying this in any other English speaking country would have seen said English lady high tailing her tookus away from me as far as her sensible shoes could carry her. Here, she practically hugged me.

In the 10 minutes we chatted, I learned that she's from Lancashire originally (like my father-in-law) and her children live in London. They've been living in the Auvergne for several years and she thinks Rosebud is beautiful. She's also told me that she meets up with some other Anglo-Francophones on Tuesday mornings and if I want to join them, I'm more than welcome.

I could smell the scones as we stood there.

I speak French now after our 6 years here and I have friends around me that I enjoy being with. They forgive me my grammatical errors and find my accent adorable. I'm good with that. It's part of the expat experience and my daily life. For this woman who always danced to the beat of her own drummer, living abroad gives me a rhythm I thrive on.

But I'll admit, that as much as I love being one of the odd ones out in a foreign land, I'll never stop being so happy as I am when I stumble on other people for my 12-step program.

The Newest Olympic Sport

There is a reason I only wash the cushion covers once a season.

I know, that sounds down right disgusting, but you know what? It's about all I can handle with these suckers.

First, you pull them off and feathers go everywhere. Everywhere into all the other crap that has been calling the back of the sofa home since the last time you tried to do this.

Then you drag them down to the basement and wrestle them into the machine and pray like Mother Theresa that they won't break the washer while going through the spin cycle.

You then have to haul these massive wet things that cling to you like wet sail cloth out of that teeny tiny machine and find a place to hang them to dry.

There in comes the moment of truth that you well and truly failed geometry because trying to find a way for all the corners and parts of that multi-layered chair shaped cover to dry is near impossible. Who chose these things?!?

Finally, after carefully removing the covers from whatever scaffold you've hung them on, you need to then dodge the dog-poop mined garden to get them back in the house with out a smudge.

And then you have to put them back on.

Feathers going everywhere as you do some sort of bizarre European yoga with each cushion, pushing and pulling knowing GOSH DARN WELL that these cushions came out of these covers JUST THIS MORNING.

Finally, you get them back as they should be only to realize that you've gotten blood all over them from where you banged your finger on the zipper. At this point, ready to kill the next child that asks you what are doing and can you stop and get me some juice, you thank GOD that these covers have two sides.

There's no way I'll be doing this again before Christmas unless someone throws up all over them. And I mean ALL OVER THEM.

Sweet FA

I have to admit that these last 48 hours I have done absolutely nothing.

Nothing.

Except unload the dish washer. Once.

I don't know if it's the lack of noise in the house or just that I don't have any witnesses to the slothdom I'm living, but these last two days have been near bliss for an inherently lazy person like me.

Granted, I did have the most horrible of nuit blanche last night courtesy of Rosebud who decided that eating every two hours is a wonderful thing. Hence why today, I'm feeling like I'm back on Love Boat. (Ted's drinks are still crap, by the way.) Typhon decided to help out a bit and ran up to the boulangerie for me between his Gregorian chanting lessons.

What a good dog.

The only real contact I've had with the outside world was a good long conversation with my friend from kindergarten, The A, who lives in London.

The parallels in our lives are beoynd anything that we could have imagined back when we were sporting pig tails in Miss Apple's class in Maryland. The ultimate irony being that she too has an English husband and therefore is the best person to commiserate when I want to bitch about Hubster. Yesterday, for example, we were trying to understand just what exactly it means when our spouses respond to any of our long involved questions with the word, "quite." Perhaps this is really why my head is spinning today.

This morning I did manage to chat with a few moms at school in a blundering version of Franglais before stumbling back home and into bed. Snuggling with Rosebud and walking through the hallways of my mind has eased the rocking ship just a wee bit.

There's a parent's meeting at school tonight so I suppose I should go shower and put on some clean clothes before heading up to get the tribe. Wonder if the kids will recognize me...

And They're Off

And so another school year starts. This time for Bubba-Love as well. He walked right into the classroom, pushed past the teacher and staked out his spot on the playmat. Don't think I even got a kiss off the kid before I left.

Amazing how fast they grow. And how quiet the house is today.

Flotsam and Jetsam

I dreamt I shaved my head last night. I was bald as a cue ball and looking ever so glamorous and rockstar like. This morning, I realized that even though the idea is tempting, since I'm shedding out the equivalent of two full heads of hair each day, I'm not sure the Sinead O'Conner look is for me. I've gone radical before but shaving my head might actually give people the proof that I've gone over the edge.

Not that going over the edge is a bad thing. I think I actually fell off of it about 2 weeks ago. I was in the grocery store with all four of the tribe when I just decided to leap. I saw a gleam of light in the gise of a free give-away over by the nappies and figured if I could just jump over the display of baby soaps and hide amongst the wipes, I'd be good to go. Unfortunately, I only cleared the bottom part of the display and was soon trounced upon by three people who looked exactly like Hubster. Not to mention being pummeled by store security as well. But I got my free trial pack of dry toast crackers all the same. Go Dig!

Since that little episode, I've been trying to reassure myself that going over the edge is really a lot more common than most people think. And I have found proof of this. It's called "Other People's Blogs."

There are some really wacked out people out there. More wacked than I am and more creative in dealing with the insanities of life. For example, one blogger I found is gearing up for what seems to be a yearly festival of critters created from vegetables and baked goods. She also talks a lot about drinking gin so I think I may have found a soul mate but since I don't speak Belgian, I'm not sure yet.

There are other blogs that try to give a nice spin on things, some that try and make us stay-at-home types feel less alone, blogs that rip into politics and policy with angry teeth and foaming mouths, blogs that say a multitude of things with no words, and then there are the blogs of those who've upped sticks and left town without really knowing why.

With all these people writing about their lives, it's as though blogs are those messages in bottles that The Police sang about years ago:

Walked out this morning,
don't believe what I saw
Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore
Seems I'm not alone at being alone
Hundred billion castaways, looking for a home

All in all, reading other people's words have made me appreciate my own. My story is not unique. There are other expats in France, there are other Anglo/American families living in strange places, other stay-at-home moms that write better than I do, and *gasp* even other people with nutty sled dogs like our own.

But when I put my message, covered with dog fur and peanut butter, into an empty bottle of Badoulin and cast out there, I'm seeing it floating over the seas and into the hands of those who need to know that this crazy Birth Control Bed & Breakfast is a safe shore. Yes, I've gone over the edge, but I'm not alone and all the other jumpers are welcome here.

Writing about this life as I live it makes it all easier to laugh at. Without having to shave my head.