I think I could start spouting about both the economic situation in my native land as well as the upcoming election and debate between the VP candidates, but I've decided not to do that. There are enough political blogs out there and definitely not enough blogs about wackos like me living in France!
I've been trying to remember that it's the little things in life that really count. For example, finding peanut butter filled pretzel bites in the international section of Cora. And not just peanut butter filled bites, but real AMERICAN MADE peanut butter pretzel filled bites!
Oh, the joy! Oh, the rapture! Oh, how quickly I ate the whole bag!
But there was a moment of intense despair this week when, after recovering from the dreaded vomiting bug, Hubster and I both lost our desire for coffee. Now, this is a serious issue. You are talking about two people who could single handily support 5-6 reasonable sized coffee farms in Columbia with our daily intake.
So imagine the ecstasy when I found the ginormous bag of Dunkin' Donuts coffee I had bought back in the US in August. Our faith in caffeine has been restored! Our joy at being wired has been re-fused! We're back to being the insane people we love so much!
So, yes, there are things out there that are worrying, things beyond our control and sometimes beyond our capacity to understand. But by focusing on the simple things, there is a way to smile and be happy with our lot as the wacky foreigners in France.
The wacky foreigners with a beautiful new roof. Ah yes, had I not mentioned? We are waiting for Godot no more. And if y'all behave yourselves, I might even post some pictures.
Oh, the joy! Oh, the rapture! We can drink coffee and eat peanut butter filled pretzels in our now non-leaky attic!
Isn't life great?!?
Well, at least it is until we get the bill...
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
He Really Is Thoughtful, Isn't He?
Seems Hubster and I were knocked for 6 by some sort of stomach bug yesterday. I, at first, thought we were under attack from my courgette lasagna the other night, but Hubster disagreed. He's not sure courgettes are that smart or that organized to stage such an assault on our stomachs.
I managed to make it through the day without losing it all over various and sundry residents of our village, but once I got home with the kids after school, all bets were off. Nothing like heaving over the toilet with your 6 year old stroking your back, eh?
Somehow, between bouts, I managed to get Abaka to the vet to have her stitches from being spayed removed. (I'm proud of myself for that. From hanging over the toilet to the vet's office in less that 30 minutes!)
Before Hubster got home a couple of hours later, the kids had fed themselves a lovely dinner of tortilla chips and Digestive Biscuits while I whithered and whimpered on the couch. After begging them to get their pajamas on and brush their teeth, I managed to get them upstairs for bed. The moment the kids' door was shut, Hubster and I went straight to bed.
Around 5am this morning, Bubba-Love started calling for a bottle so Hubster headed off to help him out. It was at that point that he realized one of the boys had been sick. On went the lights so we could see the true extent of the vomit.
And did we ever.
Mini-Husband, it seems, had been sick in the night. And not just sick, but projectile sick from the top bunk of the boys' bunk bed. Somehow he managed to keep most of the vomit out of his bed, but the large collection of toys and stuffed animals down below weren't as lucky.
Both Mini-Husband and The Princess slept on till about 8am this morning. At that point, Mini-Husband came into our room and gave me a big hug. I quickly asked him how I was feeling.
"Well, Mom," he started, "I felt kinda rough in the night, but since I knew you were really sick I didn't want to bother you. So I just leaned over my bed and threw up on the floor, that way you wouldn't have to clean it up right away and I could go back to sleep, no problem! And now I feel fine."
And so do I after six loads of laundry and a case of Coke.
I managed to make it through the day without losing it all over various and sundry residents of our village, but once I got home with the kids after school, all bets were off. Nothing like heaving over the toilet with your 6 year old stroking your back, eh?
Somehow, between bouts, I managed to get Abaka to the vet to have her stitches from being spayed removed. (I'm proud of myself for that. From hanging over the toilet to the vet's office in less that 30 minutes!)
Before Hubster got home a couple of hours later, the kids had fed themselves a lovely dinner of tortilla chips and Digestive Biscuits while I whithered and whimpered on the couch. After begging them to get their pajamas on and brush their teeth, I managed to get them upstairs for bed. The moment the kids' door was shut, Hubster and I went straight to bed.
Around 5am this morning, Bubba-Love started calling for a bottle so Hubster headed off to help him out. It was at that point that he realized one of the boys had been sick. On went the lights so we could see the true extent of the vomit.
And did we ever.
Mini-Husband, it seems, had been sick in the night. And not just sick, but projectile sick from the top bunk of the boys' bunk bed. Somehow he managed to keep most of the vomit out of his bed, but the large collection of toys and stuffed animals down below weren't as lucky.
Both Mini-Husband and The Princess slept on till about 8am this morning. At that point, Mini-Husband came into our room and gave me a big hug. I quickly asked him how I was feeling.
"Well, Mom," he started, "I felt kinda rough in the night, but since I knew you were really sick I didn't want to bother you. So I just leaned over my bed and threw up on the floor, that way you wouldn't have to clean it up right away and I could go back to sleep, no problem! And now I feel fine."
And so do I after six loads of laundry and a case of Coke.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
But Not A Pancake To Be Found
I was in one of the larger grocery stores with Hippy-Love Francaise earlier this week, picking up my usual haul of milk and provisions for the Birth Control Bed and Breakfast when I noticed something strange.
The entire store was decorated in American flags. Everywhere. Along the checkouts, around the reception desk, across aisles, and around a huge display of cars made by Jeep, Dodge, and Chrysler. Big pictures of men playing American football and the Grand Canyon with the text written in that old western style that reminds me of the old time photo places you find in tourist spots like Gatlinburg, Tennessee or Ocean City, Maryland.
When I went to pay for my stuff, I asked the checkout lady what the heck was going on.
"It's America Week," she said.
"Oh, that's nice," I replied. "I just didn't understand why there were so many of my flags all over that place."
"YOUR flags," she asked with her eyes and smile growing bigger, "Are you AMERICAN?."
Before I could even nod my head, she was yelling across the checkout to the store manager and pointing at me nearly screaming, "SHE'S AMERICAN! We have an AMERICAN in the store!"
The manager came sprinting over and started gushing all over about how funny it was to have an actual live American in the store during America week. At this point, I started bagging a my groceries just a teeny bit faster than normal and politely laughed along with her.
"You know," she said, " We're going to have country dancing in the store on Friday. Isn't that so American to have country dancing!"
"Yes," I replied with a smile, "Yes it is."
"We've also got some Harley Davidsons over there and all these great American cars! Isn't it just like being in America?!?"
"Yes, yes it is." I had no desire to burst her bubble. She seemed an awfully nice, and motivated, store manager.
I finally managed to get my things packed up and with a quick explanation of why I was an American living in France, Hippy-Love Francaise and I headed for the exits. It was Hippy-Love herself who made the best commentary on the whole situation.
"You know, Dig, if they had really wanted it to be 'America Week' they should have had a special offer on peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies, Cheerios, zucchini bread, pancakes, and DVDs of 'Desperate Housewives' and 'Dr House.' Country dancing! My God!"
I could have hugged her for that.
The entire store was decorated in American flags. Everywhere. Along the checkouts, around the reception desk, across aisles, and around a huge display of cars made by Jeep, Dodge, and Chrysler. Big pictures of men playing American football and the Grand Canyon with the text written in that old western style that reminds me of the old time photo places you find in tourist spots like Gatlinburg, Tennessee or Ocean City, Maryland.
When I went to pay for my stuff, I asked the checkout lady what the heck was going on.
"It's America Week," she said.
"Oh, that's nice," I replied. "I just didn't understand why there were so many of my flags all over that place."
"YOUR flags," she asked with her eyes and smile growing bigger, "Are you AMERICAN?."
Before I could even nod my head, she was yelling across the checkout to the store manager and pointing at me nearly screaming, "SHE'S AMERICAN! We have an AMERICAN in the store!"
The manager came sprinting over and started gushing all over about how funny it was to have an actual live American in the store during America week. At this point, I started bagging a my groceries just a teeny bit faster than normal and politely laughed along with her.
"You know," she said, " We're going to have country dancing in the store on Friday. Isn't that so American to have country dancing!"
"Yes," I replied with a smile, "Yes it is."
"We've also got some Harley Davidsons over there and all these great American cars! Isn't it just like being in America?!?"
"Yes, yes it is." I had no desire to burst her bubble. She seemed an awfully nice, and motivated, store manager.
I finally managed to get my things packed up and with a quick explanation of why I was an American living in France, Hippy-Love Francaise and I headed for the exits. It was Hippy-Love herself who made the best commentary on the whole situation.
"You know, Dig, if they had really wanted it to be 'America Week' they should have had a special offer on peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies, Cheerios, zucchini bread, pancakes, and DVDs of 'Desperate Housewives' and 'Dr House.' Country dancing! My God!"
I could have hugged her for that.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Amen for My Mother In Law
On this day 71 years ago, my life was blessed even though I hadn't been born or even thought of yet.
See, it was on this day 71 years ago that the whirling tornado I call my mother-in-law popped into this world and gave it a spin and shake that is still being felt all over the globe.
She's a pistol, my mother-in-law. All, roughly, 5ft of her. She's full of force and humour, ready to tell you exactly what she thinks, ready to find a way to help you, even if you don't think you need the help.
She's been through an incredible amount of tough things in her life like living through London being bombed in WWII, losing children, losing her mother, dealing with long term health issues, and not to mention watching her son marry an American. But through all this, she's kept a sense of joy about her.
It's without a doubt that there will always be moments when we are all together that we start laughing about the silliest of things, poking fun of each other and the way we are. She'll laugh until there are tears running down her face, her beautiful face, smiling and full of mirth.
She's a worrier though, the constant worrier. Which in some ways is good, because that means we don't have to worry. She's doing it for us. She's also a stickler for being organized and well planned out. (I must drive her insane since I'm so not organized!) She comes across as the epitome of the proper English woman, until you take her out to dinner and get her laughing over popping off in a train tunnel.
She's also very tough, my mother-in-law. She's got some good opinions on things and won't hesitate sharing them. This could be a sticking point in any mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship but it seems to work well for us. I come from a family of strong women and we could easily adopt her.
I had no idea what to expect in a mother-in-law but I have to admit, I got one much better than I ever dreamed of. Yes, I'm know we drive each other crazy, but it's thanks to her (and Grand-dad) that I have such a wonderful Hubster. (Of course, I blame them when he drives me nuts but we'll stick with the positives today, OK?)
71 years ago today, my mother-in-law was born.
I hope today she's had a chance to celebrate and know how much we love her and are grateful for her in our lives.
See, it was on this day 71 years ago that the whirling tornado I call my mother-in-law popped into this world and gave it a spin and shake that is still being felt all over the globe.
She's a pistol, my mother-in-law. All, roughly, 5ft of her. She's full of force and humour, ready to tell you exactly what she thinks, ready to find a way to help you, even if you don't think you need the help.
She's been through an incredible amount of tough things in her life like living through London being bombed in WWII, losing children, losing her mother, dealing with long term health issues, and not to mention watching her son marry an American. But through all this, she's kept a sense of joy about her.
It's without a doubt that there will always be moments when we are all together that we start laughing about the silliest of things, poking fun of each other and the way we are. She'll laugh until there are tears running down her face, her beautiful face, smiling and full of mirth.
She's a worrier though, the constant worrier. Which in some ways is good, because that means we don't have to worry. She's doing it for us. She's also a stickler for being organized and well planned out. (I must drive her insane since I'm so not organized!) She comes across as the epitome of the proper English woman, until you take her out to dinner and get her laughing over popping off in a train tunnel.
She's also very tough, my mother-in-law. She's got some good opinions on things and won't hesitate sharing them. This could be a sticking point in any mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship but it seems to work well for us. I come from a family of strong women and we could easily adopt her.
I had no idea what to expect in a mother-in-law but I have to admit, I got one much better than I ever dreamed of. Yes, I'm know we drive each other crazy, but it's thanks to her (and Grand-dad) that I have such a wonderful Hubster. (Of course, I blame them when he drives me nuts but we'll stick with the positives today, OK?)
71 years ago today, my mother-in-law was born.
I hope today she's had a chance to celebrate and know how much we love her and are grateful for her in our lives.
Monday, September 22, 2008
What's in a Word Anyway
So I got to thinking after my "brake" down the other day. How screwed up is my English now that I've been living in France for over 5 years? Better yet, how screwed up is my American now that I've been married to an Englishman for almost 7 years?
I remember clearly the first time I went to the English speaking play group here in the city. I showed up at the park du jour and introduced myself to everyone there. Conversation flowed, as it does with any English speakers dying for a chance to speak English (as I was), and we started talking about our kids, our kids' stuff, and all that happy mommy talk. I remember seeing BVJC (Beautiful Version of Julia Child) looking at me like I was a nut bag as I talked about my nappies and pushchairs with my American accent.
The truth is, I'm all muddled up with my languages now. And though I try not to make a big knot out of naught, sometimes I get my words mixed up.
Like this weekend when a French friend asked me to tell them how to say vide grenier in English. Literally, it's 'empty attic' but that's not really what it is. I finally said,
"It's a boot fair. Wait, no, I mean a flea market. Sorta."
English! There's always a catch! Do you want to speak American English or English English? Shall we talk about driving on the pavement or parking in the driveway? Is it a chip or a crisp or just a silly old French fry? Is that my neighbour or my neighbor? And where is that English movie theatre or theater anyway?
Then there's the one that still gets me. Hubster looking out at the sea from his parents house telling me "there's a buoy in the water."
If you are American, you're thinking, "a buoy? Big deal?"
But if you are English, it's a "BuOY" out there. And that scared the crap outta me. Why wasn't someone going to save him?!
I'll just have to accept that I'm slowly losing the grasp of my native language and I will be heading for a linguistical breakdown any day.
Worst part is, I can't even seek shelter in my French since both Mini-Husband and The Princess now take great delight in correcting me all the time.
Darn it all. Bloody heck. Merde.
I remember clearly the first time I went to the English speaking play group here in the city. I showed up at the park du jour and introduced myself to everyone there. Conversation flowed, as it does with any English speakers dying for a chance to speak English (as I was), and we started talking about our kids, our kids' stuff, and all that happy mommy talk. I remember seeing BVJC (Beautiful Version of Julia Child) looking at me like I was a nut bag as I talked about my nappies and pushchairs with my American accent.
The truth is, I'm all muddled up with my languages now. And though I try not to make a big knot out of naught, sometimes I get my words mixed up.
Like this weekend when a French friend asked me to tell them how to say vide grenier in English. Literally, it's 'empty attic' but that's not really what it is. I finally said,
"It's a boot fair. Wait, no, I mean a flea market. Sorta."
English! There's always a catch! Do you want to speak American English or English English? Shall we talk about driving on the pavement or parking in the driveway? Is it a chip or a crisp or just a silly old French fry? Is that my neighbour or my neighbor? And where is that English movie theatre or theater anyway?
Then there's the one that still gets me. Hubster looking out at the sea from his parents house telling me "there's a buoy in the water."
If you are American, you're thinking, "a buoy? Big deal?"
But if you are English, it's a "BuOY" out there. And that scared the crap outta me. Why wasn't someone going to save him?!
I'll just have to accept that I'm slowly losing the grasp of my native language and I will be heading for a linguistical breakdown any day.
Worst part is, I can't even seek shelter in my French since both Mini-Husband and The Princess now take great delight in correcting me all the time.
Darn it all. Bloody heck. Merde.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
I Think It's Unavoidable
Will someone please explain to me why there is a little sign on the glass recycling container that says, "No broken glass?"
Has the person responsible for this little sign ever put glass into said glass recycling container? The first thing every single wine bottle or jam jar does when it touches bottom (or another jam jar or wine bottle) is to break.
Is there someone who checks to see that all those pieces of broken glass add up thus being sure that absolutely no pre-broken wine bottles or jam jars were thrown in there in the first place?
The incoherence of it all is staggering.
Nothing like having Catholic guilt over trying ever so gently to put the bottles in there, hoping and praying they won't break 'cause the last thing I want to do is break the rules! (Well, some of them, right?)
I'm going to have to start taking my bottles to the recycling container in the neighbouring village just so I don't get caught with any sort of broken or pre-broken glass.
That or start buying wine in a box instead. Gadzooks. This might mean I have to make my own jam again...
Has the person responsible for this little sign ever put glass into said glass recycling container? The first thing every single wine bottle or jam jar does when it touches bottom (or another jam jar or wine bottle) is to break.
Is there someone who checks to see that all those pieces of broken glass add up thus being sure that absolutely no pre-broken wine bottles or jam jars were thrown in there in the first place?
The incoherence of it all is staggering.
Nothing like having Catholic guilt over trying ever so gently to put the bottles in there, hoping and praying they won't break 'cause the last thing I want to do is break the rules! (Well, some of them, right?)
I'm going to have to start taking my bottles to the recycling container in the neighbouring village just so I don't get caught with any sort of broken or pre-broken glass.
That or start buying wine in a box instead. Gadzooks. This might mean I have to make my own jam again...
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