10, rue de la charme

Let's see...

2010-01-26T10:42:00.001+01:00

...Merry Christmas!

...Happy New Year!

...Happy Birthday Pooplette! (She's four now, and we have no idea how she made it so far without us killing her.)

...Happy Chaos! Yes, we're back to that. No news there, right?

Christmas came and went without a hitch. Well, without anything more than me misplacing my address book and finding myself unable to call most of the people I wanted. It has since been found, and most of those catch up calls have been made, so we're good. We handled the Santa situation fairly well. I did pretty much everything, including buying most of the gifts for myself. The Manthing pitched in with a surprise that wasn't a surprise, but was a fairly decent effort on his part. We'll call the gifts this year a success. Even the family dinner went off without any arguments or tense moments. Yay!

After Christmas, Mr. Manthing planned a trip to visit friends. A vacation he called it. Was this OK for me? OK? OK? I don't consider laying restlessly on an airmatress with two of my freaked-out children attached permanently to my body much of a vacation, so no. Not OK. But I think, for me, it's more a question of semantics. A vacation is luxury hotels, solitude and room service. Airmatresses in a friend's living room is more of a visit. In any case, getting out of the house and seeing something other than the local sights was … a change. Change is good, right? Well, usually...

Mr. Manthing has an aversion to change. I guess the fact that there was a trip planned at all should be considered progress. But this aversion to change found us on the road with a map that dates to my first visit to his land almost 10 years ago. And, in typical Manthing fashion, he has this thing about waiting until the very last minute to ask the co-pilot (me) to verify which exit we should take, a task complicated by the fact that the road we were travelling didn't figure on the 10-year old map, and this because apparently I am blind and don't know how to read a map. No, they never taught me that in the military, did they? (He has, of course, after being bitched at, verified that the road is indeed NOT on the map, and I have had a sort-of apology—and only a month after the fact.) The ensuing argument was only made worse by the screaming, road-weary monkeys tied down in the back seat who had, like their mother, had just about enough of Mr. Manthing's grumbling and of riding down a never-ending highway in rush hour traffic around one of France's larger cities. Things finally got better when the Manthing called the friend and got specific instructions, and I stopped laughing hysterically at his grumbling and his yelling at the kids for...well, for being kids.

The return trip was a lot less interesting, considering I allowed him to bitch, moan and complain while I SPENT MONEY (the horror) on an adapter that allowed me to plug in the laptop in the car and play DVDs for the monkeys. He apologized again, after six full hours of silence in the car. Ah, blessed technology, and blessed moms who allow it to touch the children! So pleased was he with this idea of mine that he started talking of taking more trips! Imagine! Woohoo! (Please, someone pass the Valium.)

For New Years, we put the kids to bed, and fell asleep. Rockin' party that was!

Then it was back to work, a place I really and truly love because, see, a classroom full of hormonal teenagers is a cakewalk after two weeks trapped with my family. Of course, the hormonal teenagers were less thrilled with the end of vacation than I was, the poor dears, but I shocked them back to reality with that famous back-to-school assignment we all grew to hate: The Vacation Essay. Muahahaha. And I must say, I was most pleasantly surprised with the results. These kids, sometimes they really surprise me! All of them claimed to have done nothing at all during the holidays, and that writing a paper of the length I demanded was impossible. But they managed, the poor critters, and I ended up with a few gems to file away in the 'Interesting Stories of High School Kids' folder that I am keeping, including the story of one poor soul who only wanted to ride his bike in the local sub-zero tundra and found himself with a numb 'member number one'. I laughed until my sides hurt with that one.

Pooplette got to have her first real Burpday Partay with invited guests. She turned four, and if you don't know, turning four is like totally THE social occasion. I asked everyone to please remember that this birthday was giftless, considering we're still in the hovel and have NO SPACE, but apparently my French is still terrible, or I was ignored. They were kind enough, however, to stick to small surprises, and we've somehow managed to integrate these new treasures without too much trouble. I blew up 200 balloons for the occasion, dumped all of them on the floor and let the kids loose. If you ever need ideas for a 4th birthday I highly recommend this. The kids ran around for an hour chasing balloons, tossing balloons, kicking balloons, and tiring themselves out in the process. No need to plan any activities because they're so occupied with the damn balloons that they just don't care to do anything else. Until the cake comes out, of course, but I honestly thing that was only because we had one of those indoor fireworks candles and that caught their attention. So, then we had cake. And that was good! But those balloons....

At the end I asked them to pop the balloons. Dude! It was like giving them the keys to the candy store. Once all the ballons were popped, I had them play the one and only game I had for them—pick up all the popped balloons, put them in the trash and you win a bag full of candy! And a noisemaker! I was the most popular mom in the nighborhood! At least as far as the monsters were concerned. The parents force themselves to say hello at the bus stop. Muahahahaha!

And it seems that life is about to change around here again. And NO, there's no MP4 on its way. None of that, folks. Those days are over! No, just more work. My job at the high school is only part time. And I've enjoyed that. The pace is nice and regular, and I have two full days of torturing teenagers and freedom from the monkeys. But there is an English teacher shortage here, and I may well be finding myself with a more-than-full-time schedule here soon, like next week at the earliest. As soon as they figure out how to change the schedules around I'll know. It seems we're back to the scramble to find someone to watch the monkeys for lunch time. I'm dreading this, as so many of the nounous prefer full time work and not just an hour and a half a day. And there's the question of who and where and do we split the two older ones up? MP3 has a place at the crèche, so is not a problem. But the older ones... Oh, if only we had a canteen!

Ho Ho No!

2009-12-15T09:40:00.001+01:00

It's that time of year again. I used to love Christmas, back when Christmas was a time of happiness and celebration and, yes I'm going to go there, giving and receiving gifts. Especially receiving gifts. I likes getting me some gifts!

And then, things changed, as things are wont to do. Damn things! Damn change—or at least damn the change I don't like. Boooo!

See, my mother was the Christmas spirit carrier in our house. She loved the holiday, and while she was far from a Christmas-tree-after-Thanksgiving-dinner extremist, she did get into the holiday. It was her most favorite time of the year, and her love for Kris Kringle and all things Christmas-y was fairly contagious. Even my father never complained, or at least he did it in a way we didn't hear.

I think he actually liked it, too, because once Mom was gone, Christmas kind of died for him. We pretty much had to force him to put up a tree—if for no other reason than so the grandkids wouldn't ask too many questions. He grudgingly agreed, but I think that tree represented for him all that was gone.

I'm straying, aren't I?

So, Christmas here, in a word, blows chunks. I am married to Scrooge himself. And I shouldn't complain. The fact that Mr Manthing squirrels away pennies for whatever rainy-day emergency may come along has permitted us to survive in a warm, albeit too small house while paying for the Shitheap on the Hill that we can't live in. His economies have permitted urgent visits home to see loved ones who needed a visit. I shouldn't complain. Shouldn't. But I'm going to anyway.

This Scrooge-like behavior has sucked the joy out of the holidays for me. Sucked it dry. I've spent Nine years in France, and celebrated eight Christmases here. We did go to my brother's one year, and I basically walked him through Christmas that year. He hated it. I think he'd have rather had a root canal without anesthesia.

The rest of those holidays I have either gone without a visit from Saint Nick, or have been presented with the scrapings of the bottom of the bargain bin. Mr Manthing has a difficult time with gifts in general, and an even harder time when the idea of giving something is imposed on him.

And then I have a difficult time explaining to my son, like I had to do two Christmases ago, why Santa thought I was so terrible that I didn't get anything.

For the most part we've been able to come to some sort of agreement on the kids. I suggested, and then imposed Kim's idea for Christmas gifts—something you want, something you need, something to wear, and something to read. Not only is it poetic, it saves us from the idea of utterly spoiling our monkeys—something that gives both of us nightmares. And it seems to be a happy medium between his childhood Christmases filled with a piece of fruit and a book (or maybe that was his parents? In any case, it wasn't exactly as though Santa's sack was overflowing here) and mine that were characterized by an unhealthy dose of excess.

Still, Mr Manthing tries to trim off as much as possible from the above list. See, they don't really NEED anything, right? So we can do away with that one. And reading.... They've got a lot of books. Grrrrrr. Why can't this just be simple!

And he's not exactly a font of ideas, either. He's quite capable of saying no to any one article, and justifying it. But when trying to get an idea of what, exactly, we should get for the kids? Ha! Blood from a turnip, anyone?

So I'm doing it alone this year, giving Mr Manthing the veto on specific items (The Gift—the one that fills the Something You Want slot, since ours are still young enough to not really know what they want—other than everything they see, that is). And for now, no one is complaining. This may well be because things are wrapped and hidden before he sees them. But I am sort of giving him the play-by-play of what Mère Noël is doing. And he isn't grumbling, too much.

Now if I could just get him to retire this idea of gifts as poison. I'd like a nice Christmas, too.

Procrastination....is making me late!

2009-12-10T10:59:00.004+01:00

(Kudos to all who get the musical alliteration!)

Yeah, I know, it's been too long. See the title. Or don't. Because it's not only the procrastination factor that's kept me away. It's been a long road. As you remember, I went back to work last year. It took hardly any time at all for a few of the overly curious minds I was charged with instructing to find this blog, and start questioning me. I had the option of going private, which just seemed like too much hassle, or tuning it out and letting things die down naturally. And since so many of the things I would have written about at that time came directly from those experiences in the classroom, a little blog-neglect didn't seem too negative a thing.

And then summer came along, and with it the sacré readjustment to full-time parenting (something that I still have a hard time carrying around with any real sense of normality), and all the roller-coaster mood swings that go along with the harvest, the farm-widowhood, and all the regular crap I bitch and moan about. It felt old. I'm rather tired of feeling old.

Especially when my students put my age at 53, bless them, the little shits.

The beginning of the school year brought along more crap, with rearrangements and last-minute changes that sent me for more loops than I care to remember. It took me a while to recover from that, especially as I didn't feel connected with my normal mood-ventilating and dirty laundry airing technique—The Blog. And the student factor still had me reeling a bit. And the future was still unsure. So the absence continued.

But now, finally, maybe, I think I might be hitting my groove. That, and it's that time of year when I need to air all the dirty laundry before the sheer reek of it overwhelms me—Christmas. But more on that in a bit. Let's get through the news:

For the family, particularly my sister-in-law who spent the entire Thanksgiving phone conversation SCREAMING at me that I needed to blog because she has no idea what's going on over here anymore and how very dare I leave her in the dark like that: We're fine! The kids are great, and beautiful, and healthy and all is very well in that department. Here, you can even have a crappy photo of the three of them, the little wild monkeys, in all their wild monkey glory.

Monkey I is in love with school and can't wait to learn something else, anything else, just TEACH ME SOMETHING ALREADY! The things he comes home with have supplied both Marc and me with a never-ending list of “Where the hell did he get that from?” looks over dinner. The kid is a sponge, and school has given him the opportunity to absorb so much more than here. He's even impressed a Real Life Historian with his knowledge of the Middle Ages! Not bad for a kid who hasn't hit six years old yet.

Monkey II, who is almost the same size as her brother who is almost 2 years her senior because she's just Ginormous, is finally finding her comfortable place in the world. We've all but abandoned our battle with the school to get her moved forward, thinking that perhaps later on might be the best time for that fight. In the meantime, she's “repeating” her first year at school and calming down a bit. Quite a bit actually. She brings home all kinds of surprises, some good, some (like the stolen keys to the supply closet) not so. But she's hitting her stride and finding her place, and we honestly can't ask for more. Well, not realistically at least. More peace would be nice, but hey, her antics do provide lots of comic fodder around here, and seriously, life would just be too damn dull without her.

And the baby, Monkey III, is a midget, and cute, and probably the worst of the three because of it. She is the manipulator, and she's frighteningly good at it. If she doesn't turn out to be a super-powerful politician of some sort, like President of France and the US at the same time, then I'll be surprised. She's also a smart little cookie, and oddly determined to do exactly what she wants. Which is sometimes good (like with the potty training—she simply decided she didn't want to wear those bulky diapers anymore and that was that) and sometimes frustrating (like the Asscrack-of-dawn breakfasts eaten hidden behind the couch before anyone is awake and the ensuing de-sugar-ifacation of every surface in the house because She. Must. Leave. Her. Mark. On. The. World.) She has two frighteningly good and eager teachers (her older siblings) and that, combined with her own natural abilities and superpowers means we live with a force of nature.

And that means that we're tired.

And we all know what a bitch I am when I'm tired. Muahahahaha!

Hmm, just getting all that up and out has made me feel a bit less bitchy. That's a bit sad, actually, as I had planned on spitting venom a while longer. Maybe it's the good news in the laundry department that's hampering the venom flow as well. Who knows...

Anyway, the Laundry Department News: Our washing machine died. Its death was a long and agonizing process and I honestly felt bad for the poor thing at the end. But I must back up a bit or you'll never understand the drama. And there is Drama.

When I first moved here nine years ago (yep that anniversary came and went, unnoticed and unremarked upon by anyone other than myself) Marc's washing machine was in the throes of death. Or maybe it's spasms had subsided at that point. I can remember one attempt at washing a load in that ancient beast of a contraption, but I think it was a doomed effort. The quest to purchase a new machine began in earnest shortly thereafter. Quest in not an understatement. Marc is seriously cheap, renowned among his friends (most of whom are cheap by American standards) for the attention and care he gives to every single purchase he makes. He studies price tags like some lawyers study for the Bar. It's disgusting. And FRUSTRATING. Very frustrating. The quest for a new machine took just over two months. Two months is a long, long time to wash your dirty undies in someone else's garage. And with each visit to the appliance stores my still-very-American mind felt just that much closer to exploding. In the US, you figure out what you want, go to the appliance store of your choice, purchase your machine, load it in the car, go home, and install the thing. Or at least that's what we did in my family. My parents were Kenmore people, and while Sears did get all of our washing machine dollars over the years, the machines they purchased lasted FOREVER. I think the last washer and dryer were purchased solely because my mother wanted a new pair. The old one was fine. And 20 years old. So coming from that background and finding myself trailing behind Marc while he studied each machine's minutest details to get the most for his franc was frustrating, especially as I didn't speak any French at that point, and the technical discussions were so far beyond me that I felt retarded.

But I can, if nothing, adapt. And while the Manthing busied himself with the washing machine quest, I wandered the aisles looking for that Holy Grail of the laundry world—a dryer—an unheard of luxury in the Prostrate of France. And when he finally made his choice, I purchased for myself and by myself, my first major appliance ever—and in a foreign country. The pride! The joy! And the frustration of explaining to that man the necessity of a dryer... Argh!

But he's come around, and we've compromised on the use of the dryer, perhaps more to my liking than his own. But that's a tangent for another rant. Because my dryer is still going strong (knock on wood) and his washing machine is dead. R I P .

And no, I'm not complaining about the machine. Far from it. That poor thing suffered many years of abuse with hardly any problems. As far as washing machines go, we did good. Or rather Marc did, as I was ready to just point and pay, can we get a damn machine already PAH LEESE! Patience being a virtue, and me being the least virtuous person I know, right? But we've learned that washing machines are designed to do three loads a week for seven years. Of course we have! You don't think I'm still so ignorant that I can't go along on the appliance quest, right? And as I was often the one around when the repairman came to take it off to be fixed up and bandaged for a little while more, I ended up finding out a lot more about washing machines than I ever really wanted to know. But band-aides were simply not enough for the poor thing in the end. We were doing more like six thousand loads a week (slight exaggeration, but hell, three babies later, right?) and most of those were ever so slightly over the capacity the machine was designed to handle. Something had to give, and it gave it's life. (And might I just add that the last, killer load that assassinated the machine was done by Marc, so I am not at all under any suspicion of foul play. Woohoo!)

Now, I saw, and fell in love with a big HUGE machine when I was appliance shopping for the house a few years ago. I swear I'd have tried to sneak in a new washer and dryer at that moment it if hadn't been for the price tag—something like a cool 2000 euros that would have been hard to disguise no matter haw I jiggled the figures. But the machines were sexy and BIG. Big enough to wash the comforter that we fight over in that king-size bed of mine (yes MINE! Muahahaha!). This fact alone means that the washing machine, at least, would pay for itself over time. I have to have the comforters dry-cleaned, and that ain't cheap, bud! But alas, my Whirlpool Dreamspace Dream Machine would have to wait.

And as I waited, I plotted. And schemed. And did my homework. And finally that poor, abused, overworked machine of ours died. And was I able to swoop in there with the sale of my fantasy-inspiring replacement? No!

Because Marc has this physical NEED to go on the appliance quest personally. And these things take time. And patience? Ha! Still not virtuous, moi. But he did come 'round to my idea in the end. And I was honestly helped by the dealers, repairmen, and even the aunt with the same machine who he consulted and who all seemed to share my opinion of this behemoth (at least as far as French standards are concerned) of a machine. And this time it only took five weeks! I feel progress here, don't you?

So she's on her way. Yes, she. And she's got a name—Molly, because you don't think I want a stranger washing my undies, do ya? She's twice as big as our old machine. And she's got so many extras that I think I can just toss the three kids in together and she'll wash them too. Ohhhh, I can't wait. I might actually like doing laundry!

Indoctrination, a mini-rant

2009-04-13T15:31:00.000+02:00

My eyes are bleeding. In that painful, “Why the hell did I just read that … again” kind of way. Make it stop.

I have wanted to post about Facebook for a while. (Alright, I've wanted to just post for a while, and we all see how that's been going, so maybe not the best of intros there, granted.) I came reluctantly to the Facebook scene, probably because I have always had a reluctance to reconnect with the people I went to school with (you'll remember I'm the one who skipped prom for roller coasters because honestly, if I had the choice between hanging with the majority of my classmates or having my nails ripped out, I'd give up ever scratching an itch). But there are exceptions to every rule, right? And when my new group of friends, my 'real' friends, my hand-picked family if you will, all started raving about FB, well... I'm a follower.

And all in all it's been an interesting experience. The ones I thought would make good, who deserved to make good, have, at least for the most part. And there are, of course, the ones who haven't set a foot outside of their trailer park, and probably still don't know what's down at the end of the road. The confirmation of my beliefs has been an ego-enriching experience.

But the fun part, the most interesting part if you will, has been the odd few who I knew, and I mean KNEW, would probably end up as crab fodder, passed out and drowned in the ICWW from too much beer and bong who have actually tuned into interesting, intelligent adults. And maybe that is why, day after day, I allow my IQ to be sucked further down by the phenomenon that is Facebook. It's those people, the odd success stories, that capture my interest. Them, and Mafia Wars, of course.

But there is the TMI factor. We all post little updates about ourselves, about how we're feeling, what we're doing, etc. It's like Twitter (one addiction I have been able to curb) with lots of bonuses. But really, how much of this stuff do I want to know?

I am wholly of the idea that sexual encounters and religion are on the same plane of privacy. I doubt seriously anyone I know on FB or otherwise, would toss out a few perfectly written blurbs about that blow job she (or he, of course) gave last night, or would wax poetic about the most excellent position they enjoyed the week before. Facebook probably has some policy about that anyway. They seem to have a policy for most things.

But why is it that we can keep all our dirty laundry locked up tight, but we (we meaning ya'll of course, because me? Not lumping myself in with that group) suddenly feel the need to brag about our religions. “Had a beautiful rainy morning at church and got washed free of sins!” Umm, are JC, Big Daddy and the Spook now in the laundry business? Because I knew you way back when, and hon, ain't no bleach strong enough to wash that shit away. And why not drag the kids into it too, right. I mean, Little Ophelia is probably still shitting her pants, but I'm so glad she believes in God and is happy the Baby Cheeses died on the crossword so we can eat chocolate and color eggs that we hide in the backyard and find many months later when the boiled baby chicken has fully decomposed. Of course Little Ophelila believes in The Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy, Ghosts, Goblins, The Monster Under the Bed, The Monster in the Closet (Did she just mention closets? Who's in the closet? Gay is so unGodly!), Mickey Mouse, Spiderman, and a whole plethora of other fictional characters so why, WHY for fucks sake, are you so PROUD (a sin, if memory serves) that she also believes in God?

When did church become the new status symbol? And is it so bad that I still don't feel like having the Herd Mentality?

“But Doc,” I can hear you thinking, “this reeks of bitterness.” You're damn right it does. I mean, here I sit, thousands of miles away from my 'home', getting a good bit of perspective from the distance, and what do I see? Hell, the USA started a war against religious extremists. Ain't that just the pot calling the kettle black?

tired—an update on the nightmare

2009-04-11T00:21:00.000+02:00

Do you remember what it was like when you were a kid and you couldn't wait for Christmas to get here? How that anticipation would drive you insane until you could no longer sleep? And how when Christmas morning finally made it's slow-ass way to your house, well, you were so tired from the weeks of sleepless nights that you fell asleep ten minutes after opening the Best Christmas Present Ever! That's about how I feel.

Seven years ago Marc and I started down the road to home ownership. We looked and looked and looked in vain for a house. Our criteria were rather exacting. It had to be near the farm, big enough, with some land around it (I am American after all). And I needed windows, and lots of light. I die inside without sunlight (which maybe explains why I'm in a vegetative state most days). So we looked, and what we found was nothing. The places we did like were either too far, or too expensive, or too owned-by-people-who'd-never-sell. So we gave up looking and started fighting over plans. Floor plans.

When I say we fought, I mean that in a literal sense. We had a few good rounds over what was acceptable, what was needed, what was fluff and what was just plain absurd. And what we finally ended up with, after months of arguing and sleepless nights (sometimes on the couch), was a house we LOVED... at least in theory.

So we went to a nice reputable builder with our much-fought-over dream and handed it to them and held our breath. And the nice reputable builder looked at the plans and said, “We can do this. Just let me run some figures.” I was pregnant with my first child, and we were building a house! Life was good.

Then we got some bad news. The baby was breech and that wouldn't do. So I got checked into the hospital to try and turn him. It didn't work and while I can't say I'm sorry I tried, I will admit it was painful enough to put on the list of experiences I wouldn't want to repeat. I came home from the hospital with the date my baby would arrive written on a piece of paper with all the instructions for checking in and getting him exorcised by surgical means.

Ten days before I was to check in for the exorcism, we got another shock. The contract we'd signed with the nice reputable builder had been annulled. The price they'd given us was a bit too low for them to handle because their agent, Mr Idiot, had forgotten to include things (like the staircase, and the heating, and a few other minor (note the sarcasm) details) and the new price was a mere 13% higher than what we'd been told. I left their office reeling from the shock. Sticker prices on new houses here are enough to test the limits of your cardiac capabilities, and we were just tossed out of our dream home.

Time to cut things down a bit.

So we went back to the arguing, and the drawing and re-drawing of our dream. And after more FIGHTS, and more sofa-sleeps, we ended up with something smaller, something we could more easily afford (theoretically) and honestly something we both liked better.

We both agreed that we were turned off by the reputable builder and shopped around elsewhere to find someone to realize this dream we had. Marc had heard of a new builder in town. We went for a visit. He brought us pretty pictures with the house we so dearly loved drawn on them. We were happy. And then he presented us with the price. I think Marc fell over. It was heavenly. Mr Manthing ran around clicking his heels with glee. Screw the establishment! We were getting the house we wanted at a price we could afford. Oh, and I was pregnant again. Life was great!

So we signed the contract and wrote the check and held our breath.

We live in a tiny village and honestly there's nothing here. Nothing, that is, except for a post office, and print shop and a château. Yes, a château. And inside the château there's ONE ROOM that is classified as a historical monument. INSIDE the château. The château that you can't even visit unless you know the owner. Who just happened to be the mayor. And our neighbor.

So our plans had to pass through the hands of the architect of the BF, Bâtiments de France, an agency that is charged with making sure that the French don't ugly-up their quaint rural villages with modern architecture and PVC windows or slate shingles. No sir, those things just won't do. This group even had (note the past tense—things have since changed) the ability to impose window sizes, roof colors and, get this, the materials we used for construction.

So we went to war again, armed with everything possible to defend ourselves and our dream from the over-zealous, idiot fonctionnaire at BF. We even brought along the Mayor/Neighbor/Château owner to plead our case, because if anything we wanted to do was going to reflect badly on his ONE classified room, who better to have on our side. And for the most part we won. The idiot finally relented and let us have our PVC shutters after I told him it was either that or he'd have to drag his sorry carcass up there every year to repaint the wood ones he insisted we use. We got our building permit. Things were starting to roll.

And they rolled, and rolled and walls went up, and things started taking form.

And then we started noticing odd stuff. Like the roof hadn't been ordered. And the front door? Ha! I managed to find one though, and it looked like we were going to get there in time for the second child.

Oh but no! Delays, delays and delays. Except where the second child was concerned. She decided to make her entrance a bit earlier than expected by kicking around a bit too much and making everyone think I was an the verge of a uterine rupture. So she came kicking and screaming into our lives in January. And the house? Oh, for February, for certain.

So February came and February went and our house? Well, it didn't get finished. Not in March, nor April nor May. In June I was getting rather anxious. And in July the kitchen arrived and...

Sometime in July the oldest child, who was by that time a walking talking pile of fun, decided to push on one of the walls upstairs. And it moved. A lot.

And it rained, and the house flooded.

The house is 65 meters above the water table.

And it flooded.

So we grumbled and we yelled and we called our insurance.

And around this time the builder filed bankruptcy.

But we weren't worried, because our beef was with the contractor. And he was still operational.

So everyone showed up to a nice meeting with the insurance expert who pointed out a lot of problems we didn't even know we had, problems like the roof that wasn't put together correctly and the drywall that was installed incorrectly and a few other minor (sarcasm again) details. The contractor took lots of notes and promised things would get straightened out... just as soon as he got back from vacation. What? July. In France. Everyone goes on holiday.

So six weeks later we expected to have his proposal for fixing things. The expert from the insurance set up another meeting so we could work things out amicably. We went up to the house and waited. The expert showed up. We chatted. We waited some more. No contractor. The expert, after having been prodded a bit, did mention that while we could do whatever we felt like, there was not a snowball's chance in hell he'd move into the house with the roof in the shape it was in. “You get a few centimeters of snow and that thing'll come down” was pretty much what he told us, although he did say this in French.

Lovely. We had a house that flooded and risked falling down on our heads.

And the next week? Well, we found out that the contractor had filed bankruptcy.

And the insurance? Ha! Not that kind of insurance. Why? Because the builder explained to us in minute detail why That Kind of insurance was a waste of money, how we'd be covered by the contractor's insurance should anything go wrong and how much wiser we'd be to save that money and upgrade our kitchen tiles.

Yep, one born every minute.

So we finally got serious, and got a lawyer. And not just any lawyer. A GOOD lawyer (and here's hoping I don't have to eat those words one day). Only he lives in a far away land. And the only day he could see us was the Monday after Marc's best friend's wedding.

So we drove from the extreme north of France where the wedding was, to the extreme prostate of France to drop the kids off with my MIL and then on to Besançon where the lawyer was. Weddings are quite the shit around here, and I'm sure that Vivi can attest to what a hoot (YEEEHAW) this one was. I was tired, rather hung over, and stuck in the car for eight hours. Twelve with the return trip.

Did I mention I was hung over.

Very.

Se we met the lawyer, and showed him every scrap of paper, every contract, every receipt. And we played the part of the poor country hillbillies thinking we might one day make it good. We played the part well. And the lawyer looked at us and smiled. I think now he was trying not to laugh because we were, in all senses of the word, FUCKED.

Fucked because that famous 'worst case scenario' was what we had just spelled out to him.

Fucked because I was pregnant again.

And hung over.

Basically just Fucked.

But there was hope. So we signed, and he went to bat for us. And papers were served, court dates appointed and meetings held. And then came the first court date...

No contractor. No builder. Just our lawyer and the panel of judges who decided to ask a court appointed expert to take a look at things. It was February 2007. The experts report had to be finished for the 15th of August.

We paid the advance for the expert—nothing's free ya know. And he came to visit, along with our lawyer, and looked at the place and sighed. Worst he'd seen. Poor us. What idiots we were for letting Those People touch our dream. (sigh)

But he took pictures and measurements and wrote down a good many things. It all seemed so professional and official. Surely things would be better soon.

Then I had more bad news. My gestational diabetes was out of control, so at 36 weeks of gestation, as early as they dared do it, they plucked the third child from my innards. And while we got used to the roller coaster with her, it was nothing compared to the roller coaster we were about to ride.

August came and on the 15th (which is a legal holiday here), nothing happened—nothing that is, except for a huge storm that blew part of the roof off the house. (Oddly enough we do have That Kind of insurance, and that fact only made the roller coaster a bit worse, because seriously, why couldn't the storm have taken the ENTIRE roof, right?)

September, and still nothing. October had the lawyer calling the Tribunal. Nothing. November the same story. In December he mailed off a few nasty letters, got a reply in January and by February we had the pre-report from the expert. With a nice little 23,000 € price tag on it. Ha!

We laughed. There was no way in hell we'd be able to find anyone (anyone legal that is) who could fix everything for that price. So we cried FOUL and stomped our feet. And our lawyer went to bat for us. And another round of meetings were scheduled and held. The expert, once things were explained to him, backtracked a bit and tried another route. He had Another Reputable Builder come in and price things out for him.

That was in April. May, June and July passed while they ran their figures. There were a few more official visits in-between because things were that complicated. Every time we visited the house that year we found more problems. And the roof was now so deformed that you could see the deformations from the road. The ceilings were starting to fall down. The mold was so thick in places you could scratch your name in it, and a week later it would be covered again.

In August the Other Reputable Builder contacted us to present their estimate. See, not only did they serve as the expert's Easy Out, they were also looking to make a deal with us—something we were quite happy about because finding someone to take on that nightmare and fix it (and subsequently be responsible for the work later on down the road) is impossible. Or at least had been for us.

Their nice (and rather easy on the eyes) salesman visited and gave us the shock. The price to fix the house was just a bit less that what we'd already invested. And while I don't feel easy discussing figures, I will just say we're talking about six of them. Six figures' worth of 'repairs' on a new house.

And this is August 2008, a year after the expertise was supposed to have been reported to the tribunal.

But it hadn't been. And in September it still hadn't been. October, November, December, January, February, and March all passed. And nothing. Not a word. And there's someone following the file? Riiiight!

But today, a year and a half late, we finally got the expert's report. And it's been filed with the court. And the degrees of errors and mistakes listed within are staggering. As is the price tag for the repairs. The report is almost 100 pages long, and while some of that is annexed documents and copies of plans and correspondence, the bulk of it is a detailed listing of everything that is nightmarish about this dream house of ours.

I am straining not to be hopeful again. Every time I get hopeful about the house I end up on medication. But the report is in, finally, and we should have a ruling from the court soon. And while we know this ruling is only the first of many legal steps, it is the biggest hurdle of them all. Everything from here on out should be fairly quick, relatively speaking.

And as for the house, well, I'm thinking of setting up a charity to help pay for the repairs...

2009-03-05T22:00:00.002+01:00

The management wishes to inform its readers that the idiot behind the words is currently grappling with a huge case of self-censorship coupled with an unhealthy dose of writer's block.

If anyone out there has a cure for either of the two conditions, please, PLEASE, make it known.

Blogging will resume one day.

...I hope.

(I miss you guys)

change?

2009-02-11T23:58:00.002+01:00

Alright, things have calmed down on the work front, and will probably calm down more in the not-too-distant future, and Mr. Manthing has allowed me, after years of begging and pleading, to purchase a laptop, so MAYBE I might actaully get around to blogging again.

Maybe.

No promises.

2009-01-07T16:40:00.000+01:00

Oh yeah, Happy New Year already. I’ve been slack, right ?

I’m not one for resolutions, probably because I’m only motivated for about the first five minutes after the date changes or more likely because I think I am perfect just the way I am and feel no need to change. In either case I’ll not hand out empty promises to blog more or plan on loosing X pounds. Who cares. I surely don’t, and chances are you don’t either.

Anyway, a quick update. August ended fairly well. Monkey the First was quite happy to head back to school, and Pooplette was quite happy to go along with him. This led to disaster right after, as apparently our idea of going to school didn’t quite gel with the school’s idea of accepting her. This was a fairly savage battle on all fronts. Pooplette was born eleven days after their stupid arbitrary cut-off date, and while the school has a low enough number of students that they were happy to have her, they were only happy to have her for half a day. We found this out the Saturday before school started, so our plans of having our afternoons somewhat freer came a screeching halt. And on top of that, the girl, who had spent the previous year watching her brother go off to school morning and afternoon, found it a bit difficult to accept. She’d watch her brother and classmates return to school after lunch, then come home with me to scream the afternoon away, throwing tantrums the likes of which we’d never seen (she even broke the door to their bedroom from throwing herself against it). When we tried to speak with the powers that be, we were told that we should just be happy they were taking her at all. Not the thing to say, people, not at all. So, after stomping our feet and screaming (me), and crying (me again) we got them to accept her all day long—our thinking being that she’s advanced for her age in any case and for fuck’s sake ELEVEN DAYS right?. Since then she’s been tested, and on an intellectual level she’s significantly ahead of the pack. However, the School Shrink (who Marc and I both seem to like, even if he’s … well, he’s a shrink, right?) thinks she’ll be better off waiting another year because she’s not as mature as she could be. Meaning? Well, she’s a loner, doesn’t feel comfortable with her classmates, prefers to hang out with the adults, or, when possible, her brother and his friends. I won’t go into what I really think of this assessment, because it will just get me all worked up again, but we’ve decided to be patient, and next year, should we get the same reaction from her because she doesn’t feel she’s where she belongs, we’ll kick and scream and yell some more. In the meantime….

The third child is growing, and no, we still don’t know how. She still eats next to nothing, and I have honestly given up trying. If she eats, she eats, if not, well, she’s not going to let herself starve, right? She’s doing well, and is having a blast at the crèche, where we leave her four days a week now.

Wait, four days? YES! Because I’m not around that much anymore! And it’s lovely. I’ve been drug back to work. In October, the sexy neighbors the people who have the house next to the Shit Heap On The Hill came to see me, to ask me to please call the principal at the college their son attends because the English teacher is out, had been out for three weeks at that point, and they were desperate. So I called. And was asked to come in immediately for an interview—immediately being the time it took me to drive over. And I got hired, because, YES, they are that hard up for English teachers here. So in the middle of November I became a middle school English teacher. And a week or two later, they added on a couple of high school classes, and I’m regretting that decision already, because one of them is as horrible as a class can get without weapons.

This little job thing has had several knock-off effects, of course. Not the least of these is that Mr. ManThing is finally getting a dose of what it means to be a parent. I’ll admit that the first couple of weeks were rather difficult, between me figuring out the ropes, and Marc’s constant grumbling (because, damn, if class starts at 1 o’clock, why should I leave here 45 minutes ahead of that if I’ve only got a ten minute drive, right?). But things have settled down, and I have to say I’m rather proud of the way he’s handled everything. Oh, he still grumbles, but I think he’s finally realized it’s not all fun stuff staying around the kids all day.

And we made it through Christmas fairly unscathed. We’re starting to come together with the whole Santa gift thing, and it’s good. And I didn’t have to answer the question ‘Why didn’t Santa bring you anything, mama?’ this year, either. Now all I have to do is figure out a way of getting us out of the afternoon at the in-laws and Christmas can be really good.

Anyway, that’s the news from here. Ciao!

The calm after the storm

2008-08-18T13:58:00.000+02:00

If ever I thought that having three small children in the house made enough noise to drive me over the deep end, I’m over it. Having my house (and our other house and my in-laws’ house) full of people has been enough to cure me of that. Oh my God it’s quiet today.

It’s almost quiet enough to make me forget about all the dirty laundry, dishes and floors I am left with. Almost. But almost on counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and nuclear weapons. Never in housework.

That sucks….

17

2008-08-14T23:40:00.003+02:00

That’s how many of us will be sitting down to dinner Saturday night, including the little critters. There’s not enough space for 17 in the cesspool in the valley so we’ll be packing it up to the shitheap on the hill again.

I was just up there cleaning, getting the place quasi-presentable because it does have that musty air of abandon to it. An the dead flies…. Ugh! I think they clogged up my Hoover.

So I’m sitting here in a funk, realizing I’ll probably cry myself to sleep again over this fucking house and the nightmare that it has been. Tomorrow, the 15^th(and yeah, that’s probably today already), marks the one year anniversary of the court-set date that we were supposed to have the report from the expert. We still don’t have it, and still have no idea when we’ll have it. Hell, we’re not even sure IF we’ll have it. And until we have it we can do nothing but sit and wait. And wait. And wait some more.

Have I ever mentioned this has been a five year ordeal now? FIVE FUCKING YEARS!

And no end in sight.

Ugh, I’m off on a tangent, which is actually what inspired me to sit down and share my misery tonight. See, there’s these dead flies, or at least there were these dead flies. And that got me thinking about my mother, of all people, and some of the jokes she used to bring home from the nuclear plant where she worked. One of these jokes was an evaluation form for one’s colleagues and included in the questionnaire was a section on personal hygiene. It was a multiple choice type thing and the answers were: 1. Extremely fucking neat—even combs his pubic hair to 5. Filthy Disgusting bastard—flies leave fresh dog shit to follow him. And it made me think that our shitheap on the hill rates around a 6—this is where the fecally-filled.buggery bastards come to die.

But at least there’s no need for extension cords. We got the here-an-outlet-there-an-outlet-everywhere-an-electrical-outlet thing right—that’s something, right?

My summer vacation???

2008-08-11T22:40:00.009+02:00

Romantic Getaway: In short, we survived. Marc (who oddly enough is the only one NOT drunk in the picture), probably credits the two chicks (what were their names again?) in this picture with that. Can you believe I actually got him out to a bar!!?? In Paris??!! I'm in awe.
By the way, don't be deceived. Rum-rums are dangerous things. They can cause you to miss the last train and have to walk through the Boulevard of Hookers at three in the morning.

Of course, once I got rid of him, the real fun began! Gay Pride was the schnizzle! Lots and lots of freaks running wild in the streets!! It felt almost like home. This guy gets all my respect. I will not go into detail about just HOW he holds that little thing between his legs on. Just trust me when I say it looked rather uncomfy.

I followed this rather long, rather extremely hot afternoon up with a visit to the ever-lovely Aimee who fed me cookies and PLENTY of water and a lovely, fun reading by the now-famous Ian at The Abbey. There were just as many freaks at that show, but I was too busy nibbling on the nibblies and trying (in vain) to get Kylie Mac married off to Jack the Aussie.

Ever since then, I've been trying to keep a hold on the domestic life. The harvest is finally over (amen praise the lord and all that jazz), but Marc is still overwhelmed with farming activities. He's trying to get the ground prepared for planting, and the weather is not cooperating. If it's not the weather, it's the machinery. I live with an evil grumpy bear. And three screaming demons...

..Who are actually doing quite well. Monkey-1 can now ride his bike sans training wheels. He's a bit overly proud of this fact and screams it at anyone who mentions the subject. Surprisingly he's had no cuts, scrapes or even bruises from this new adventure. I hope his luck continues.

Monkey-2, who you can also see in that video--she'd be the ham, the camera hog, the kid with the look of dogged determination, that 'you will look at me and love it, damn you' charm is far from giving up her tricycle. I hate that damn thing BTW--we've got one that makes hardly any noise and she refuses to ride it, choosing instead the LOUD OBNOXIOUS tricycle purchased especially for her by the Godfather Who Refuses To Have Children Beacuse He's Afraid Of Payback. BUT! She's given up her diaper addiction! Woohoo for the potty-trained monkey. School is not far off, and babygirl, you are so going on the bus! (edit: Oops, that is the good tricycle...)

And Monkey-3 is continuing her food strike. She won't eat. Will Not! Were it not for this wee flaw she'd be perfect. Even without eating, she's managed to creep her way back up to a somewhat normal weight--finally. She's now 14 months old and still hasn't doubled her birth weight. She's far from skinny, though, as you can tell in the 'Look at what those horrible vaccines do to me' picture here. 14-months already! Wow. And no, she's not walking. She doesn't even crawl-- she scoots around on her butt though, and it's the funniest thing we've ever seen. That almost makes up for the screaming. Yes, like her sister she's practicing to be a glass-shattering opera singer. Our ears will never be the same again...

So that's about it for now. I'm not sure when regular blogging will resume. Between the house and the kids, the farm and the ever-so-absent husband, and the Fun Exciting Activities I've been tossed lately, there's not too much time left for anything other than a smoke and a sleep, two activities I'll shortly indulge in. Thanks for worrying about me, thanks for still reading (har) and see ya soon...

2008-06-19T14:00:00.002+02:00

Reservations have been made. The child-care is organized. It looks as if we're actually going to go somewhere! Now I just have to get through the next week....

2008-06-18T10:38:00.002+02:00

Dearest Published Author And Therefore Key To My Future,

How are you? Are you properly recovered from this past weekend's debauch in England? Are you breathing calmly and normally? Is life back to normal?

Let me screw all that up for you :°)

Hi Ian! It's me.

So about this little get together in Gay Paris next Saturday:

--Marc and I are planning a little romantic get-away in the city of lights in the days running up to your Abbey thing. (Did you just choke on your own tongue? I know, it's shocking, the two of us doing anything, much less something deemed 'romantic', in a city both of us hate with a passion, but what do you know, times, they's a changin'.) He's coming back home and I will be left in the capital for the entire afternoon before the evening when we all eat goodies from the Auvergne, buy books, tell raunchy stories and finish drunk, nude, and spent by (or maybe in?) the Seine. (I am thinking of the right party, aren't I?)

--During that afternoon, I am hoping to partake of a bit of Gay Paris' best by running with the bulls, or rather the trannies, in the Gay Pride Parade. What better activity to get in the mood? (Actually the Paris version of Gay Pride is something I've had serious wet dreams about ever since I marched in NY these many years ago.)

--I am currently searching out free couch space so that I may get properly sloshed with all your knowledgeable and cultured Parisian cohorts. My long-promised bed has been usurped by a child’s birthday party (how very dare they!), but I hope to have some good news about that in the near future.

--I have, in my goodness and purity, convinced my husband to shell out 300€ or so for a night full of jiggly boobies and overpriced food at Le Moulin Rouge. Any advice on how to handle the emergency workers called to the scene when he’s handed the bill would be appreciated. Will possibly carry a bottle of O2 just in case.

--Have you had any feedback from my very tiny list of Parisian lovers? Do I need to knock the bitches around any?

Hope all is well down there where you are. The French Gals who have started reading your book are mightily impressed by the way. Ludy is very happy it reads like you talk so she’s found it very easy to fit right into the rhythm of it. The only slightly critical thing I’ve heard has been from Kelly—the American with the baby, and that’s just been that she’s had a hard time picturing Norman in her head. The long hair just doesn’t gel with how she sees him.

Happy thoughts and champagne kisses to you and yours,

Me -->ya know, Doc, the crazy American in Haute Marne

PS: I think I’ll post this on my blog for shits and giggles…

So who do I get to meet in Paris next Saturday?

Ha! Think it’s going to happen?

2008-06-17T10:55:00.002+02:00

It’s that time of year again, the calm (hahaha) before the storm. Mr. Manthing has decided we’re taking a break before the begin of the harvest because otherwise he’s going to fall all apart. Again. As in physically and mentally broken. As in like me.

NOOO!

So word has come down from on high (his office upstairs) that a vacation will be taken before the harvest starts!

I won’t mention (too loudly, at least) the number of times this same message has come from that same place in the same booming, god-like voice. “We WILL go away soon!”

Soon is the word that’s up for interpretation. I’ve heard all about how things will calm down soon for years now. Years later, I’m still waiting for things to calm down, for the number of hours spent away from home at various meetings, conferences and other time consuming extra-agricultural-if-very-important activities to diminish (instead of rising), for the man I married, who promised me ‘dull as hell’ and ‘boring’ to reappear. I should probably give up, and I will, soon.

So, back to now. The harvest is starting soon, the last bit of preparatory work will be done soon, details for the baby-sitter(s) will be completed soon and we’re leaving soon.

Or are we?

See, we’re both very different people. Stress the VERY. My idea of a break is a nice all-inclusive something, where I don’t cook, don’t clean, eat well, and see/do interesting things until I’m bored with them with a bit of sleeping in a very comfy bed. Mr. Manthing’s idea of a break is sleeping, sleeping and… well, let’s just say that all the activities he’d consider participating in would take place in-between naps and without moving very far. And sustenance for said activities could be purchased at deep discounts beforehand and kept in an insulated bag for the duration. All very convenient—probably the only time convenience enters into his way of thinking.

So we’re trying to figure out what to do—not an easy task considering what interests me is very much too expensive and too busy and what interests him makes me want to bang my head against those 80-cm thick walls separating us from the outside. I guess I should be jumping for joy, because this is honestly the closest we’ve been to doing something together since our honeymoon (rolls eyes at the memory of that debacle), but there’s still that (very large and loud) part of my brain that seriously doubts that this plan will come to fruition. And God knows that just kills all motivation I could possible force myself to muster.

Putting the Father in fathers day

2008-06-15T16:24:00.004+02:00

I don’t know how, especially considering that MP3 was on another food strike last night, but we managed to sleep late this morning—late being 9 AM. And since we were all in bed by 9:30 last night, it was indeed a long, blissful night of sleep.

I came down to feed the wee monkey and get the bread. Marc was standing pitifully in front of the toilets when I came in, looking as hung-over as a teetotaler can, and asking for permission to go back to bed. Of course you can! Don’t you realize that if you’re up the plan is all screwed? GO!

The other monkeys all awoke shortly thereafter. So I fed them, got them dressed and changed, and, in the case of Pooplette, re-changed as she decided to pour the contents of her bowl all down the front of herself and all over the floor. Mission accomplished (and the milk left on the floor of course, because I’ve got only two hands, no really, just two) and we climbed the stairs, monkeys in order of age, for the traditional attack of the feeble-minded.

Monkey-1 had, of course, made his Fathers Day present at school—a jar of ‘Sweet Word Jam’. Pooplette had painted a picture at the crèche, and MP3 is a gift in and of herself. I carried along brekky (which was brought right back down again because I’m married to a neat freak and hey! Crumbs! In the bed! OH HELL NO!) so he was happy.

Afterwards he was informed that today he gets to play dad because I am in pitch-and-toss mode and if he wants the house in some semblance of shape this is how he needs to help out. So he did. And I imagine at the end of the day I won’t be the only one claiming back pain…

A rant, and no I'm not nice today

2008-06-12T11:40:00.003+02:00

I’m probably going to piss off a lot of my readers today, because this applies to a lot of them. But I just don’t care. I really don’t. Your complaining is making my eyes bleed every single day, and I just don’t feel up to it anymore.

France. Wow! Is it possible to pick apart a country any more than you have? Unemployment, customer service, the weather, the people, the lack of, dare I say it, English speakers, the food, the taxes, all of it. There is not one single part of France that I haven’t seen torn apart in the Blogosphere. Not one.

You bitch about child care—how unavailable it is, how inconvenient the waiting lists are, how one must run two blocks in the rain to the door because there’s no parking. Oh dear! Funny, most of you aren’t actually working, so of course you’re not on the priority list. Have you even explored the other various methods of child care? The nounous? The au pair possibility? A crèche familiale? Better yet, have you, in this great plan you have of bashing France to make the quasi-unattainable dream of returning back the The States seem so great, priced out American child care?

Parking is a pet peeve for a lot of you, too—most of you who live in cities or larger towns with public transport. USE IT! Christ, whenever I go into one of those big places, I take advantage of the park and ride. Beating your head against the wall over parking in France is just stupid! So what if the bus stop is two blocks from your appointment! Do you honestly think you are going to park any closer?

Unemployment? Gah! This leads me right to my next bitch point. OK, it is hard to find a job in France. I’ll give you that. It’s also very easy to not find a job in France. And half of you aren’t even honestly looking too damn hard. I managed to find a job within months of being allowed to work. Me! In Haute Marne! Where there are cows, fields, and more cows! Why? Because I speak the language—French that is. If I had a penny for every time I heard (or read) someone complaining about their own French skills, or rather their lack thereof, I could afford to send you all back wherever it was that you came from. Look, I spoke maybe two words of French when I got here. I wasn’t brought up bilingual. I took classes, I learned, and oddly, I managed to integrate myself into France. I didn’t spend all my free time sitting around with my anglo, English-speaking friends pissing and moaning about how hard it all is. I bit the bullet, I adapted, I struggled, sure, but I got through it. And now? Wow! I speak French, not perfectly, no, far from that, but well enough to play a major role in the local tourism board, and the village’s comité de fêtes. I can get through an interview for the newspaper, write letters and even a dissertation for school, do everything by phone, and have a real conversation with my French friends—yes, one can have real French friends—but it’s rather hard to see that when you’re constantly stuck with your regular expat group speaking your native tongue all the time.

I don’t even have any more problems with customer service, including the powers that be at the prefecture. Why? I’ve learned how to speak to them. In addition to learning the spoken language here, you’ve got to know the unspoken one. You can’t expect them to be just like Americans doing the same job because—NEWS FLASH—You Ain’t In Kansas Anymore, Dororthy! Yes, they are pains in the ass. Yes it’s horrible that you have to run around doing everything for them. Deal! That’s how it is here. They’re not picking on you and your English-speaking-ness. They do it to everyone. That’s just how it is. Acknowledge and move the fuck on.

And as far as American food goes, the raw ingredients are out there! Go forth and learn how to actually cook something without just opening a box. Chicken wings? Doable! Cheese cake? Totally doable! Chocolate chip cookies? Cut up a friggin’ bar of chocolate instead of whining about how tiny the chips are here.

I just get so frustrated with all of you out there who come here, for whatever reasons, and then get so sad that it’s not at all like back home. And then you get stuck there, mired down in how French France really is. Of course it is! So shut up, and either adapt, integrate and move on with your life, or pack your shit and go the hell home—and complain how much you miss France. Which begs the question: Is it France, or is it YOU?

Oh, one other tiny little thing that really makes my skin crawl—those fields of tiny yellow flowers you see in May? It’s RAPE, not canola. Canola, as a word, didn’t even exist before 1978, when it was coined from Canada Oil Low Acid—indicating the low levels of uric acid. It was originally trademarked but is now considered a generic word for the OIL obtained from a very specific, now mostly genetically modified type of rape. .

Thank you. I’ll put away my soap box now.

just bitchin' again

2008-06-11T15:35:00.001+02:00

I’m writing this in a migraine-induced aura of pain, so forgive me if my thoughts aren’t coherent or even half-way understandable. I’m tired, my head is spitting itself open, and I’m alone, again, for three very long days…

…Not that being alone is such a bad thing, really. It’s actually how I am most of the time, with the exception of bath time and the occasional hour or three on the weekend when we do things as a family, where things means we go look at the next piece of farm equipment the Alpha-male is considering buying, with, of course, a trip to McDonalds tossed in to make it look respectable. I’ve often made the comment, even to Marc, that I feel so much like a single parent so much of the time that I wonder why I’m bothering with the rest of it. His response, in his typical sense of reasoning, is, “Maybe, but I’m paying for it!” Sometimes I really wonder if he realizes just how much more he could pay for my single-parenting skills—not that I’m at the point of making him discover.

I got through another weekend full of his friends, rather unscathed this time, and not as tired as I usually am. Last year when we did the big birthday weekend I was eight months pregnant. And huge. And Very Very Tired. And with the exception of the cakes, which were handled by the au pair who was better than yours, and a salad brought by the vivacious Vivi, I did all the prep work, most of the rest of the work, and a huge amount of the cooking, until I was tossed off the grill by a friend of Marc’s who proceeded to either over- or under-cook everything. This year was significantly different.

For starters, there were only 12 of us. We should have numbered one more than that, but he got stuck at work with something that needed immediate attention. (This made me sad, as he is a nice chunk of eye-candy.) For another, the menu was American—Carolina-style pulled pork barbecue, fried chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, chips and Coke, with beer and champagne tossed in to make the locals less afraid. It worked—there were only enough leftovers to pull off lunch Monday, by which time, of course, I was sick of all of it. I do have to admit that fried chicken goes pretty well with champagne. I feel so redneck chic now it’s crazy. Time in the kitchen was significantly less than other years, and I was treading on very familiar turf. You can take the girl out of the south… and all that.

Of course, the shopping still had to get done first. That was Friday’s big activity. I planned on doing it all in the morning so I’d have the afternoon to start cooking. I was also planning a visit to one of the AM’s hospitalized farmer friends (note: Don’t stand under a falling bale of hay—it’s going to fuck you up!), and that, combined with the shopping, would put me home long after Monkey’s bus arrival for lunch. This I’d planned with the AM, reminded him of daily until he finally told me to shut up, even pointed it out to him as he left that morning when he rolled his eyes at me and said he’d not forget. All I’ll say is it’s a damn good thing I know how that man’s head works, or else our son, the one on the school bus, that kid? Who knows what would have happened to him. I have nice neighbors, and fortunately they have grandchildren in school with monkey. Bless them! (I really would like to nominate them for some award because, after all my attempts to get Monkey to eat broccoli for the past three years, they managed to convince him that it’s good stuff. I love broccoli, and now he does too. This is very cool!) And he was taken in by his grandparents for lunch, where he was discovered by his father (only an hour later), with his belly full and ready to attack his afternoon studies.

I spent Friday afternoon trying, sometimes with success, sometimes with less, to suppress the anger I felt about that whole situation. Surely I can—and oddly enough DO—understand how it is that the boy’s father could forget him. If you’ve ever spent time on a farm when there’s work to be done, with a looming deadline, while staring the harvest right in the face and dealing with a plethora of other agri-related problems, you can imagine a world where things like bus schedules and lunches for small children could get spit out as extra baggage by the gray matter. (This is, of course, why Plan B had been put into place.) What I have a harder time accepting are the remarks that will be directed to me in the near future by certain members of the AM’s family who, in my opinion, have either forgotten what the reality of farm life is, or refuse to see that their son has responsibilities outside of anything dealing with that fucking farm, or that I could, just possibly, have things to do other than pretending to be the happy house wife, or want a life outside these four half-meter thick walls that feel like a prison too much of the time.

I need to get out of here, if for no other reason than to put enough distance between my family and theirs so that the two have a future of actually speaking to each other.

But it’s not only my absences that cause remarks. The things the kids do, or don’t do, even when not under my supervision are excellent fodder for their little digs. Saturday, while I was INSIDE cooking, while their son and his friends were OUTSIDE talking, Monkey made a few piles of rocks in the grass. Granted, this is not allowed behavior. He’s already been punished in the past for doing this very same thing. But he was under the supervision of his father, right? Certainly I cannot be expected to cook inside, while Monkey plays outside just meters away from his father, and keep my eye on him as well, can I?

Yes, I can. The remark came this morning, now that Marc is safely away certainly, that I need to pay better attention to what he does outside so their mower doesn’t get damaged.

These are, of course, the same people who refuse to allow their grandchildren to play with sidewalk chalk right outside our kitchen door—an activity that would allow me to cook and clean and keep an eye on them while they take advantage of the rare sunny days we’ve had of late. But no! Sidewalk chalk? Outside? No! If they want to play with the damnable sidewalk chalk I have to pull the car out of the garage, on the other side of the street, and let them play there. I don’t have time for that—not for loosing the time I’d have to spend over there with them while everything in the house piles up, not for the arguments that would surely follow because of the piles of unwashed dishes, laundry, and the all-stick floors. Nor do I have time for the comments that would come from the other side of the family about how that chalk would potentially ruin his wine. (This is purely conjecture on my part, but knowing the man as I do, I can certainly see this happening.)

I could probably wax poetic about all the other problems I have living here, about the cave-like qualities of this edifice they call a house (ha!), the myriad of difficulties I have with the in-laws, the lack of space, light, air, heating, cooling, and the general grunginess of my surroundings, but we’re going to be stuck here for a while longer, possibly another two years—and that’s if everything with the shit-heap-on-the-hill goes correctly from this point on, and I cannot allow myself to get stuck on this particular example of why I will probably spend more than a few days of my life medicated to the point that my head no longer sticks to my shoulders and I drool uncontrollably, because otherwise I will spend ALL of my days medicated exactly in that way. Come January, I will have spent more of my life under this particular roof than any other roof in my entire life. It felt like I was camping in the beginning, those eight long years ago. Now, three kids later, I am beginning to understand the meaning of the word Hell.

PSA

2008-06-09T22:45:00.001+02:00

Before I pull my thumb out of my ass and really get nice and bitchy about what happened (and, more importantly, what didn’t) this weekend, I have a question for ya.

Remember a while back I talked about that wonderful English author guy who is trying, in his round about way, to get me to write that best seller? Remember him? Yeah, the dude with the sexy posh English accent! Here’s the thing. He’s having another party, this time in Paris, AND ( !!!) he’s mentioned something about free wine and nibbles.

Are ya interested? Could ya be? Would you like an invite?

PS—It looks at the moment that I am being granted leave from the mines to actually GO TO this event, so not only will you be able to buy a purty-darn-good book, but you’ll be able to meet MOI—because we all know it’s all about me, right Ian?

Lifting a weight

2008-06-02T22:58:00.002+02:00

A few months back I was hospitalized for a few days. I’d been experiencing a bit of back pain around my kidneys, and since I have a very long and distinguished history with those particular organs my regular doctor sent me right in to see the specialist. After a few days of poking, prodding, and saving my pee in a jug, I was told there was absolutely nothing wrong with me—except that the lining around my heart was a bit swollen, but hey, that’s nothing to worry about.

The specialist taking care of me was stumped. I was obviously a bit exhausted when I arrived (my blood pressure was way, way low but came right back up to normal after a few days of sleeping whenever I could--which was often, or rather ALL THE TIME), but aside from that NOTHING. So the idea was put forth that maybe I’m a bit nutters, although the clinical speak for this was much more polite.

Still, it’s a bit of a shock to the old system to be told that the pain you’re feeling shouldn’t exist. Because pain, ya know, it really tires you out, and it can drag you under when you’re already on the way down. And when said pain is obviously just a figment of one’s imagination…

Grr.

I visited the regular doc again recently with MP3 (shots, check-up, more on that later) and explained that the pain, well, it’s still sitting right there in my head where it obviously is because God knows no amount of blood-work, X-rays, CT scans and ultrasounds is yielding any results. Maybe I’m just a hypochondriac? Maybe Marc’s right and I am crazy? Who knows…

So she ordered more tests, a series of X-rays and prescribed me some happy muscle-relaxers and juicy pain medication that does not make one drowsy—can’t have that when MP3 has discovered she’s got LEGS! And that they MOVE!

The first day was lovely. I was almost 98% pain free! I almost felt human again. And then everything fell apart. Day two of the muscle-relaxers damned near killed me. I was hurting and when this Doc is in pain, she’s an EVIL MUTHERFUCKER OF A BITCH to put it mildly. Day three was worse, and when I had to repeatedly stop myself from tossing one or the other of the children from the roof because Dammit Leave Me Alone I’m Dying, I knew something needed to be done.

So I called the Dr this time, explained what was happening, and was basically told that I’m strange, that there’s nothing at all listed in the Vidal (French version of the PDR) that can be attributed to the medication, but if I think I’d be happier, then I should just stop taking them. So I did, and the pain went from the red ALARM ALARM SUICIDAL INFANTICIDAL zone to the OK I’m Just Imagining This zone. I never thought being in pain would be a relief, but then I never imagined such a wide variety of painful ouchiness.

Today I had the x-rays taken, and Lo! I’m not crazy! At least not about hurting all the damn time. Other crazy? That’s still up for debate. But this is not a figment of my imagination! I almost kissed the doctor explaining everything to me, and I had tears of joy in my eyes as I left the cabinet de radiologie. Bad news has never felt so good!

And lest I be mistaken for being over-dramatic, the news isn’t that bad. I’m not dying, won’t end up handicapped, or have serious health issues. I am looking at the probability, however, of life-long pain management, and I can totally live with that, because it sure beats being labeled NUTS in a country where folks Go To The DOCTOR for a HANGNAIL.

(MP3 is just fine. She’s growing tall and her head is expanding right on schedule. However, she still isn’t gaining weight the way she should be. She’s eating, she’s eating a lot more than before actually, so we’re making a few small changes in diet, in routine, and we’ll see what happens next. It is rather frightening, though, to have a baby like this one. She’s got the cutest fattest cheeks around, and looks like a cute fluffy baby, but she’s yet to double her birth weight (still got 2.2 kilos to go, around five pounds) and that’s a bit of a concern. And, please don’t think I’m complaining, because I’m far from complaining, she’s sooooo mellow compared to the older two, who were both climbing up and walking down the stairs at this age. MP3 is only just starting to move around—not quite a crawl, but very, very fun to watch! We’ve been blessed with a perfectly LOVELY child, a calm, sweet, cherubic angel! Now if only we could fatten her up!)

ONE, take three

2008-05-28T22:07:00.007+02:00

Time supposedly flies when you’re having fun. I guess, if that’s truly the case, I’ve been having a complete blast this past year because I have not seen the time go by.

(That’s not exactly true—in certain areas I have felt each second as it’s slowly ripped a chunk of my sanity from my brain in passing. But I’m not going to complain about those things right now.)

One year ago this was me.Good Christ I looked tired. I was tired. Worn slap out, actually. I don’t honestly look much more alive at the moment, but I certainly don’t feel as dreadful as I did when this picture was taken. Two small monkeys (God, how they’ve changed! They look like such wee babes!), eight months pregnant with the third, non-stop, never-ending nightmares about every particular detail in life, LE total!

And then, whoosh! I lost a whopping 10 kilos in one day! 10 kilos is over twenty pounds. In. A. Day. And I got this out of the deal:

I still think this was the best birth of the three. Marc got to stay with me, and while I’m fine talking to the nurses and other OB/OR staff, it was really nice to have him there. And he got to hear her first cries, something he missed the two times before. And I still have someone with whom I can joke about what a purple Hulk-like creature she resembled when we first go to see her. We’re both still amazed by that. And her uni-lid, Cyclopes forehead. We’re terrible people, I know.

Now, a year later, well, look:She looks not at all the same. Instead of being off the charts on the high side, her weight is now almost off the charts on the low side. She’s still growing fine, and developing fine, but food? Bah! Who needs it! (Yes, it’s a continuing battle, but we’re getting there.) She’s not walking, not really technically crawling, but she does get around using her hands and her cheeks—yes, those cheeks, not the ones in the picture). And she says “mama” all the time and “papa” not at all, which I love because FINALLY I have a child who wants ME and not just Papa 24/7. And at one year she’s still all baby, sweet, cuddly, lovable baby.

Happy Birthday Melly-Belly!

Happy Mothers’ Day to ME, again!

2008-05-25T16:35:00.008+02:00

Yep, I get to celebrate this holiday twice. Ain’t it grand!

The first time around I was treated to a lovely hand-picked bouquet of wild flowers by the monkeys. That was back on America’s Mothers Day. Two weeks later the French get into the spirit and I got this lovely bracelet. Now, I am not about to knock the creative energies of my son. Nope, not at all. I ADORE this bit of find handicraft. But, look at it closely. Do you see it? Right there. That round bit of cork! Champagne cork actually, with its origins not even disguised in the slightest. That, my dear friends, could only happen here.

Oh, and mentioning to the other (French) moms at the bus stop that I get to celebrate this holiday twice? That’s a big no go. Oh dear, the looks of pure disgust I got! How very dare I be spoiled twice! So if you’ve not made this mistake yet, let me advise you against it. Mothers are a jealous sort.

In keeping with the mother theme, I figure an update on the three reasons I’m now allowed to call myself by that word are is in order. So:

Monkey-1, The Boy, The first-born. How I love this child! He’s in the beginning of the gross word stage and as agonizing as it is not to laugh at everything he comes up with (like “Ma, your soup smells like ass”, only said in French with a cherubic smile and those killer blue eyes), there are moments when I just can’t help myself. (He turned around and ate two bowls of the ass-smelling soup, so I’m not too concerned, however this has prompted his father to say “Smells like ass”, in English so the boy child doesn’t necessarily pick up on it, every five minutes or so.) School is going well, although he’s decided to forego the afternoon nap in pursuit of other pleasures, like hitting on the other school director and trying desperately to get her to fall in love with him. In the evenings he’s often very tired and honestly very easy to put to sleep. Unfortunately there’s one problem…

Monkey-2, The Big Little Sister, The Hellion. She’s too much, this second child of mine. She’s smart, and funny and absolutely perfect except, well, she’s a nightmare to get to bed, a nightmare that can drag on for hours some nights. We’re literally at wit’s end with this new manifestation of two-year-old will. She wants the door open, the door closed, the light off, the light on, to sleep in Monkey-1’s bed, to sleep in her own bed, with animal, without animal all at once and she will not go to sleep until she’s got it all! ARGH! OK, it’s a stage, and one we hope to get her past as quickly as possible, because it’s overshadowing all the cool things like how she counts in English (“one, two, three, poor, five, dick, seven …), how she plays with her brother (by letting him think he’s the boss) or her sister (where she actually tries to take care of her, which is why we often find the youngest one half naked and diaper-less and extremely happy about it), or how she gives the most fantastic hugs in the world—and that is no exaggeration—just ask her papa! She’s so tall, and so smart, and so far advanced for her age that we often forget she’s just two, not even two-and-a-half yet, and that’s almost as frightening as watching the screaming evil baby she was turn into the future world dictator she’ll probably be.

Monkey-3, The Baby, The Little Angel. I think she was truly marked for life by the over-abundance of sugar that cursed her pre-natal days. This last baby, and yes she’s still willing to be a baby, is pure sweetness. She smiles! She giggles! She’s happy just being alive! I know no two babies are alike, but she’s just been such a 180° turn from the second monkey that, if she didn’t look exactly like her older brother with chipmunk cheeks, I’d swear she was switched at the hospital. She’s in no hurry to do anything. And this has caused all its own set of problems. I’m used to wild monkeys, climbing over everything and in Seek and Destroy Mode at all hours and stages of their lives. Nope, not this time! So instead of forgetting how young this child is, I’m worrying that she’s falling behind when she is, in fact, right where most babies of her age are. She’s started creeping, not quite crawling, and now the world has turned into her play ground. And while I’m sad to see pass the days where I could put her down and still find her in the exact same spot hours or even weeks later, I am relieved that she’s getting around. After all, the other two, at the same age, were climbing stairs and clawing my nerves. Of course the other two also refused to say 'mama' for the longest time, and this one? Well, I guess I'm her favorite!

Gah! Where do I start?

2008-05-23T15:23:00.002+02:00

Do you feel neglected? Have I done that to you? I feel like I’ve neglected you, and the burden of guilt is weighing me down so much that I just neglect you some more. I’ve fallen off the ole Bloggin’ Wagon, and Dear Sweet Jesus, do I ever need help getting back on. So here I am again, giving out (probably empty) promises that I’ll be back in the saddle soon, and spreading wit and pointless stories like Typhoid Mary.

Or maybe I’m just teasing you. Wouldn’t be the first time, right?

Anyway, Here’s me, sitting right in front of the same ugly computer in the same ugly corner in the same ugly house in the same ugly village… I should probably stop right there. You’ve got the picture, right? Nothing noteworthy has changed. We’ve still not moved. We still have no idea when that will ever happen (although, just as an aside, the fact that I’m stating we don’t know when, as opposed to not knowing if, is a HUGE mark of just how optimistic I’m forcing myself to be in that department).

The kids are growing, and I’d really love to share a picture of the three of them in all their little monkey glory, but unfortunately I don’t ever manage to have the skills required to catch all three of them in focus in one picture, and as there’s three of them I’m not sure I’ll have the time to upload one of each. Maybe I will. If there are pictures attached then I did. If there aren’t, well, some other insanity has rescued you from that bit of cuteness.

I am, for the moment, off the happy pills. Wow! No, I’m not healed, probably not even on the road to mental health (does that even exist?), or even feeling that much better. It’s more of a ME thing, really. Why should I need to medicate solely to be able to support the overbearing presence of Mr. Manthing? If that is truly the problem, and it feels like it is, then I should just bully him back into being the way she should (IMHO) be, right? So new tactic, and so far it seems to be working, or at least working as well as those old happy pills but without running up the Secu’s debt any. Yay Me!

Or maybe not. Because sometimes I wonder if the man really knows who he married. This past weekend I had some very nice people over, people with whom I have some sort of connection with on at least some level. And after all these people had gone back to their respective sleeping holes for the evening, Mr. Manthing looks over at me and says something about how he’s not really sure he knows the person I am, implying that when those people were here I’d somehow mutated into someone I’m not. And this struck me as something so fundamentally sad, probably the root of all the “maritals” running through this marriage, because for once I felt almost like me again. For months, probably years at this point, I’ve felt lost here. I’m not stay-at-home-mother material, I’m surely not a housewife, and the one weekend, the first weekend in a coon’s age I’ve been able to step outside both of those roles—at the same time (!!!), I get accused of not being me. You have no idea how frightening this is.

So I’ve had minor irons in the fire, little tidbits to help keep me sane and prevent me from drowning in a sea of crayons, unusable sidewalk chalk (yes, there’s a rant there), and shitty diapers. The biggest of these projects, and probably the most interesting—no, certainly the most interesting, was my visit last weekend with this English dude named Ian. See, Ian’s got a book—a REAL book—that talks about things like farming, relationships, and those nasty Londoners who like the English countryside so much they drive the locals out. And he’s English, so he’s got one of those POSH accents that comes to him naturally without having to fake it, like say, I would—although I personally think my English accent is rather…OK, it’s fake, totally fake. Anyway, Ian came for a visit and we did a book-signing in Joinville and he sold a few books (which was nice) and we talked about me eventually writing The Book That Ends All Books, you know the one where I officially bump The Bible out of the Most Books Sold slot, that one, because he totally thinks I can (please don’t let his delusions fool you—he is rather intelligent otherwise). Actually, we spent a good bit of time talking about publishers and what total arseholes (his word) they can be. Because he’s really been dicked around on his book. I’ve read it. I liked it. And he’s gotten a lot of really, really extraordinary reviews. But the publisher is letting the book sink right off the face of the earth. It’s sad really, because it’s a book with a message (like THINK, you stupid rich people, about what you’re really doing when you buy that lovely country home that you’ll spend all of four weeks in a year), with lots of good characters, good stories, laughter, tears, the whole nine yards. So, if you’ve got nothing else to do, go over to Amazon and buy yourself a copy—or let me know if you’d be interested in meeting the guy, because I’ve got his schedule of events committed to memory. But beware girls, he is married…

So, where was I?

2008-04-10T22:49:00.001+02:00

Great, I accidently published this before writing it, bloody brilliant!

I’m Free!

2008-04-03T16:44:00.000+02:00

I hobbled home late Tuesday morning after a rather restful long weekend in the private clinic, or the horse-pee-tale I was incarcerated in, depending on whichever one of my personalities is talking at the moment. I’m alive, and according to the lovely, gentle, viciously kind kidney specialist in charge of my treatment, there is Absolutely Nothing Wrong With Me. This is good news, right? So why is it depressing me?

Probably because it only adds fuel to the ‘You’re Nuts’ fire the other adult living in the house has been burning.

Granted, my problems are probably psychosomatic, indicative of nothing more than an unwillingness to want to wake up in the morning to face yet another day of non-stop battles with every human being under my roof, lingering fatigue from three back-to-back (should have slept that way, wouldn’t have had this problem) pregnancies and cesareans, and the endless tedium that is my life. Endless. As in without end.

Which is probably why, as I was loading my bag and stuffing my mountain of pillows (got lots of strange looks for that, imagine thinking French clinic/hospital pillows, also known as bags of lint, are not exactly comfortable or, dare I say it, pillow-y), I had to struggle with whether or not to drive home or cut my losses and run fast and far.

Don’t let the title of this post fool ya—I’m not that free.

So I came home, in a less-than-happy mood, where I was met by my whining son (“I don’t want to go home, I’m not happy there”), my whirling dervish of a daughter, the smiling-even-though-I’m-miserable baby, and the ever-ungracious-even-after-four-days-of-my-absence husband, who tried, in his way, to fix me something called lunch (half-heated, dried out pork chops left over from the week before and cheese and spinach pastries—which counts as a vegetable in his mind because hey! Spinach! It’s green!). Ugh! There was fresh bread at least.

Mr. Doc-Does-Nothing-All-Day presided over the rest of the afternoon with such an air of superiority that by the time the clock rolled around to English Conversation Group Hour, I was gasping for air. I finished up the thing we started last week, a ‘lesson’ of sorts on the word shit and all it’s uses, because seriously, is there any other as-useful word in the English language? I didn’t think so. Then we all rolled out to the local bistro for alcohol and food, and a bit of private conversation with one of the men on the long list of Men I’d Leave It All For—the long list, mind you, because if he were on the short list, I’d be writing this from a private jet on my way to Tahiti. After lots of sympathy and understanding, I drove back home, grumbled, finished my nightly routine and fell into bed, exhausted after just an afternoon of my Real Life.

I need to find a new one.

Wednesday I convinced the Other Half to let me out of the house for some shopping time. I didn’t buy anything other than the usual groceries, but was, for once, free to wander the aisles of one of those shops that I’d never have had time to go in had it been a normal day. Even though I wasn’t stalling (seriously, I wasn’t, I swear), I made it back in time to unpack the car, put said groceries away, try to explain that, in my opinion at least, the price I paid for those big, fat, red, juicy strawberries was not expensive even if it was twice that of another fruit like, say, bananas—which are rather subsidized, now aren’t they?, help get the monkeys in their baths, take pictures of girl monkeys being PRECIOUS (and for just a while not regretting the previous day’s choice) before having to take off for the once-a-month meeting with the tourism office that I simply could not miss.

What a GOOD THING that turned out to be! Not only did my proposal for a pleasant afternoon activity in mid-May get approved without any hassles whatsoever, but I got to head out with one of my favorite colleagues for a nice plate of Turkish chicken paprika. Miam Miam! At the restaurant we stumbled upon a rather striking young man (oh my God, I’m talking like I am OLD) of 30 (I am OLD!!) of whom I had heard much but never met face-to-face. Apparently I too have a bit of a reputation as he’d heard plenty about me as well. And thus we finally met. Conversation was nice, although I have to admit I was more than a bit lost from the word go, but adult conversation, even if it is way above my level, is still adult conversation and I managed to get through dinner without once mentioning or hearing the words “pipi” or “caca”. Life was good. And while I was happy to drive home feeling the warm, happy glow of Adult Conversation, Mr. Historian had to go and make it even better by paying for my meal AND (!!!!!) inviting me out for a beer if I didn’t need to get home—which I did, and the bars were all closed anyway, but STILL! I got asked out for a drink—as a friend of course—but still—no one asks out married mothers of three without making them extremely very happy.

Do you see how sad my life has become? People are nice to me and it drives me insanely happy… I’m pathetic.

So I had good dreams, and woke in a better mood than even four days of rest has provided. And honestly, during the time I’ve been home, Mr. Man-thing and I have been talking and working on a few issues, trying to get things straightened out because neither of us wants to live this way, nor do we really like the idea of any type of separation. And it’s getting slowly better around here. Slowly, like s l o w l y, with lots of long pauses between each letter. But forward progress is forward progress, and we are seeing the shrink again on Monday, and she’ll tell him he’s a schmuck and things will really be better…for me. Oh, and today, after FIVE YEARS of pissing and moaning, bitching and complaining, Mr. Man-thing finally fixed the electricity in the kids’ room, so maybe we won’t have to take another kid back to the doctor with electrical burns. We’ll call that gravy.

Sick Leave

2008-03-29T00:21:00.001+01:00

I'll be back when they let me out, I promise!

2008-03-14T11:41:00.000+01:00

I SO WANT THIS BOOK!!!!!

It just doesn’t end!

2008-03-10T15:56:00.000+01:00

We’re going back to the doctor today. Pooplette officially has no skin left on her bum, so I’ve stopped all her medication as of yesterday. She’s miserable, cranky, very tired (she’s not sleeping more than a few hours at a stretch now, and quite frankly that reminder of her early days I can do without) and we just cannot handle this—we being me, of course.

This morning I had a nice visit with the tax office. When we built the shit heap on the hill we installed heat pumps, something that earned us a hefty 50% refund from those nice tax people. They want it back. We were supposed to move in within six months of the bill, and while that was the original plan, things got rather FUBARed along the way. Of course, we did make sure that we wouldn’t be dicked over about this before filing our taxes for that year. But this is France, right? Everything depends on la fonctionnaire’s morning cup of coffee. And the guy in charge of our dossier was not in this morning—nor was he in the last time I came calling, so I had to spill out the entire story to some other person, wait until she wrote everything down, photocopied my supporting documents, pled sympathy with me and then turned around to tell me that I shouldn’t really hope very much. What a lovely way to start the week.

I promise, for those of you interested, I will spill the whole house story one day. It’s just very long, and very frustrating, and such a source of problems for me that I really have a hard time with it. Ignoring it hasn’t made it go away, but it has made getting through the day possible.

In other local news, my feet are currently frozen. I’m not normally a cold-natured person, far from it actually, but at the moment my piggers feel ready to break off like ice chips. The window in the monkey’s room was broken way back in August and today it finally got replaced. Marc’s currently airing the room out so we’re not all high on fumes, and apparently all the heat left in the house has chosen to escape. I don’t blame the heat, not at all. If I could, I’d fly right out that window too.

Marc’s dad is still in the hospital. That’s a bit I haven’t touched on, so I guess I’ll fill you in. He had a flare up of the old prostate, and while it apparently isn’t linked to cancer, it was horrendous enough to render the man useless. That’s a pretty tough trick for someone like the ole beau-père. He’s stuck in a room with a nice view of trees in Nancy, or the outskirts thereof, over an hour’s drive from here. It’s a less than ideal situation for all involved, especially since he was scheduled to be home by now. Alas, ‘twas not to be. The incision in his bladder unexpectedly popped open the day before his scheduled release, so he ended up back in surgery a second time on the day he had planned on coming home. To say he was less than happy is truly an understatement. He has been on the town council since the last elections and was the only one of that group running again. He’s been reelected, of course (to know the man is to love him), but not being here has taken it’s toll on him. Seeing him lying in bed has been rough for me as well—giving me flashback to my father and his seemingly never-ending love affair with hospitals. It’s hard to see the strong men in our lives in such a fragile state.

I’ll leave off, so I can get Monkey 2’s bum checked out, defrost my feet, and think evil thoughts to those that have ruined my domestic dreams. Send black thoughts their way, too, OK?

______-Free Evening

2008-03-08T23:24:00.002+01:00

a. Child

b. Worry

c. Stress

d. All of the above

D. Gimme D any day! And tonight, with a little help from my charming, darling, vibrant, etc. friend Vi, from the wilds of Aube county, that’s exactly what I had. I’m still reveling in the post-orgasmic glow an evening out with friends, wine and adult conversation leaves me with these days. I feel so easy-to-please.

Mô & Vi,
Marc & me,
Stress-free,
Worry-free,
And oh so child-free!
It inspires me
To really bad poetry.

I totally need a life!

Today brought with it antibiotic induced ass trauma for Pooplette in the form of nasty dyin’-in-the-rear that ate the skin right off her precious cheeks. It was so bad at one point I had no other choice than to leave her bare-assed. Of course, this was the opportune time to flee the house and let the Hippy Duo Baby Sitters take care of coaxing her into some kind of butt covering/furniture protection for the night (which, apparently, they did manage to do—but only after she spread the source of her discontent all across the living room floor).

I also managed to return to Vi some books she so graciously lent me many moons ago. Vi amazes me so often. When we met in college, some couple of years ago, she was such a naive creature. I am still amazed by her sometimes, what with all the poor kid’s been put through since her arrival on French soil. And just when I think I’ve got her figured out, she tosses me another loop—this time in the form of the books she lent me. I don’t think any one group of words have impacted me as the few volumes she passed my way. That chick, she’s deep, man. It’s spooky.

Of course, one of the undesirable effects of all these beautiful words has been my new-found addiction to many of the works I was so graciously lent. So addicted, in fact, that Amazon has cashed in more of my money. My kids will be well provided for when I die—if they like books, that is. We must get that house finished if ever I am to have a place to put them all. They’re everywhere now, including the staircase.

House! Damn, I had to mention that, didn’t I. I have news, but it’s too late tonight to think about it, much less write it all out for you. How’s that for a teaser?

It’s late, and I must enjoy the last bit of peace I can get before Marc takes off tomorrow morning to visit his father . He’s stuck in the hospital in Nancy and Marc’s taking Maman in to see him, and to visit a bit too, of course. And yes, another topic that’s too long to go into tonight.

Sorry for being a Saturday night tease…

Another Day, Another Doctor

2008-03-07T21:20:00.002+01:00

Pooplette (that’s baby #2 for those of you who have long since given up on my constantly changing naming system) started the morning with a lovely fever of 39.1°C (102.4°F), the third morning in a row she’s done so. Thinking it better to plan the day at the start instead of changing course mid-way and setting myself up for a panic attack in the middle of my Friday Morning Shopping, I called the crèche to see if they’d still take her. They wouldn’t. Panic attack temporarily advanced and conquered, I decided to call the Great Lady Doctor and try to fit her in in the afternoon. Ha! Seems like every other mother on the planet had the same idea. I had to put that great idea on the back burner for a while.

I took The Great Calm One in anyway, and carted off Pooplette for the morning shopping that HAD. TO. BE. DONE. Now that Pooplette is on regular milk like her older brother, we go through that stuff like air. With less than three liters left in the house, the time had come for the milk run. I HATE the milk run. Milk, it’s heavy stuff, especially when one has to load up 36 1-liter cartons of it in the back of one’s Super-Ugly-Mobile. I don’t even drink the stuff, so it’s a totally selfless act, right? I sure hope it gives me some good karma, because coming back as a dung beetle is about as good as I can hope for at this point.

It has been a while since I’ve taken Pooplette anywhere public with me. The convenience of having them in the crèche twice a week has allowed me the luxury of getting a minimum of my shopping done without the constant battle of mothering. Shopping in France is enough of a battle, even on a good day. Today, however, I was brought back to the reality that I am a mother (even if I still insist that’s only half the word). Pooper, always a curious soul, is a non-stop soundtrack of life’s questions. While she’s not quite at the “Why?” stage, she is far enough along to make me want to wring her neck on aisle two. Or maybe just staple her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

With the milk and the Goblin Of Endless Questions loaded in the car, I headed home to make lunch for the tribe—Mr. Man-thing, Mr. Employee (who is still a God-send), Monkey, and Poop. Oh, and me, because I still like to eat. And try again to get an appointment for the feverish girl. And try to keep said child from destroying the cave we live in. And try to hang on to my last thread of sanity.

I managed to feed us without too much difficulty. Of course, the menu had to change significantly as I wasn’t planning on the eldest girl child being around, much less clinging to me like a bad cancerous lesion. And once I finally got the phone to actually ring at the Dr.’s office instead of just getting a never ending busy signal, I managed an appointment for the middle of the afternoon. And the walls are still standing. Three out of four ain’t bad.

Turns out Pooplette’s got another double ear infection. This is the third double ear infection since her single ear infection back in November. I’m sick of ear infections, even if we’re lucky enough that she doesn’t seem too terribly bothered by them. She’s on yet another course of antibiotics, something she simply adores because the child is addicted to all types of syringes. I refuse to think of her future at this point—the endless strings of rehab seem frightening.

At least for the moment she’s safe in her bed, and while I could sit here and bitch that I am again stuck in the role of single parent while her father is off doing his thing, I shall, for once, let the urge pass me by. It’s not a momentary lapse in bitchiness, I assure you, but more of a realization as I sit her with two more children belonging to a friend who is in the middle of a divorce that things could be infinitely more complicated than they are.

Crazy? Not me!

2008-03-06T21:55:00.002+01:00

It’s true. The shrink verified it this afternoon. So that’s good news. Of course, if I’m not the crazy one, then you may take this opportunity to reflect on just who the crazy one might be. Or not. In fact, don’t. He’ll only insist he’s not.

So, having said that, let me just take a minute to thank those of you who sent kind words and sprinkles of pixie dust my way during my absence. Yes, I was on a mental health break, one that was probably long overdue, and yes, I finally asked to be and was medicated—heavily. There is something to be said for a country of fonctionnaires who suffer incessantly from depression. Bless them! Bless them all! They’ve made my life just that much easier.

So, I’m not crazy. I’m burned out, worn out, drug under, and gasping for air. But I’m alive. I wasn’t too terribly sure I’d be able to say that a month or two ago, considering all the shit that has fallen under my shoes on this trek. But I’m here.

Or maybe I’m just a hologram?

“But Doc,” you’re asking, “What has been your problem?”

Well, glad you asked. Since November, I’ve drug one child or the other along to the doctor 43 times. Forty-three visits in three months. (God Bless Social Medicine! I cannot imagine what we would have done State-side, other than cry.) We’ve had three cases of chicken pox, five cases of conjunctivitis, four rounds of le gastro-one of which lasted the better part of two weeks, two double ear infections and one single ear infection, plus all the regular colds, fevers, sniffles, teething, rashes and general pains and discomforts of childhood. In addition, Mr. Man-Thing put a huge thorn through his finger (and yes he was wearing industrial-strength work gloves at the time) and I’ve been trying to regulate everything from my normal hormonal mood swings to the omnipresent urge to beat the living shit out of Thorny-Hand-Man. Wait, that’s probably a bit redundant, that last bit.

But I am not, I repeat, The Crazy One.

I should probably point out that there really isn’t a Crazy One, at least not yet.

In the midst of over-running toilets, leaky diapers, and too many medications to keep track of because damn! Can’t they just make some NyQuil here and be done with it! I’ve realized that I am struggling to keep me…alive? Does that sound too melodramatic? I am the first to admit I was not cut from the Happy Housewife cloth. And that Stay-at-Home-Mom T-shirt doesn’t fit me very well at all either. But here I am, stuck in a role I loathe, feeling resentful to almost everyone and everything because, well I don’t know why exactly.

I think part of it stems from the immigrant thing. I’m the one who gave up everything (practically) to be here. My friends are all on the other side of the ocean, with the obvious exception of the one moron who decided to do just what I did and marry a Frenchman. My family is all Over There, my history, my culture, my language. All of it I gave up willingly for this? Dirty diapers? Conversations about pipi et caca? Never-ending drool? I’m not quite sure this is an identity crises, although that’s probably as good a description as any. I do have My Life, outside of the house, such that it is, but it is often a source of conflict, and it’s left me wondering if this, this so-called marital bliss, is something I really need or even want in my life.

So lots and lots of soul-searching has been going on. Lots and lots of e-mails have gone unanswered. And lots and lots of blogs I adore have fallen off the radar, mine included. I’ve been rude and negligent in my illness. I plead insanity—although given the Shrink’s account, I’ll stand trial anyway.

Can’t have it all.

For now, I’m back, at least sort-of. And yes, I’m still very much married, and very much planning on staying that way—I do rather, sorta, kinda love the bugger, ya know. Men!

The official formal written apology

2007-12-21T21:34:00.000+01:00

Dear Heavenly Creator,

I feel a deep personal need to apologize for my last post where I made fun of the size of Your only son’s…equipment. I’m really, really sorry.

I should have realized from the lack of follow-up commentary that my post was seriously in poor taste and not the least bit funny, not even a tiny bit cute even. It should have been my cue to pull said post and put it in the garbage bin of useless, stupid thoughts that I have been cursed with since infancy.

But I did not, and I must accept my punishment.

I do seem to remember from all those days I drifted through Vacation Bible School at the local Baptist Church that vengeance is Yours, so sayeth You. And I do remember You calling down a plague or two on those who dared upset You. But my brain has been a bit frazzled lately, what with Your son’s Big Birthday Bash coming up, and all the fun that goes along with it. You know, it’s not every day we get to celebrate someone being 2007 years old.

So, I’m sorry. I really am. And I haven’t been too terribly sinful this year, right? So, could You possibly reconsider the plague You’ve called down upon my house? Having both of my daughters infected with chicken pox for Christmas does seem a bit excessive. And really, You made Your point.

Sorry again,

Doc

I'm probably going to hell for this...

2007-12-20T10:44:00.000+01:00

Just add it to the very long, distinguished list of reasons. My in-laws get this nice Catholic magazine. This one came today.

Roughly translated, the headline reads "Unknown Jesus: The truth about the latest discoveries."

And all I could think was, 'It's no wonder he never got laid!'

T’is the season to be grumpy

2007-12-17T10:24:00.000+01:00

Or maybe Deck The Halls With Disemboweled Husbands? I used to love Christmas. Then I moved to France, where I eventually married Grumpy McScrooge, Mr. Anti-Christmas himself.

Maybe Anti-Christmas is too harsh. Perhaps just Disconnected is a little more correct to describe his total lack of enthusiasm, interest, or desire to be giving at this time of year. Maybe he was just raised wrong (I’ll vote for that any day). Whatever the reason, the man has made me loathe the time of year I used to love most.

Giving gifts has never been his strong point. And to his credit, he pointed this out to me in the very earliest of days. He’d rather give his time than a gift. And that’s lovely, really, in theory, except the man has no time to give either. Hell, if I can’t have a nice, calm, family evening every now and then, I should at least have that lovely laptop I’ve been pining over for YEARS, right?

But it’s so not just about me anymore. I’ve gone through a Christmas without a single gift for me under the tree, and while it was possibly the single worst experience I have ever had to endure, I managed to make it through. The scars of that Holiday From Hell have, indeed, healed over, but it’s still a touchy subject. Very Touchy.

So now we have three kids tossed in the mix, two of whom are old enough to be completely interested in Christmas and one of whom (the oldest) is already antsy about whether or not Père Noël is going to bring him a race car. And Grumpy McScrooge, having possibly learned something from the nuclear fall-out that followed the last time the Christmas tree was left half-bare, has indeed decided that gifts will be purchased, and has even insisted on helping out in this area.

Which is the problem.

Had things been left entirely up to me (as they should have been, right?), the nightmare of Christmas Shopping For Small Children in France would have been completed. I do not do crowds, and for those of you not in the know, in France the crowds at Christmas are incredible. Their ingenious system of allowing stores to be open only a certain number of hours means that everyone is forced to go at the same time. There are no lovely, spacious, clean 24/7 Walmarts here. And the fact that these stores are able, for a few short weeks, to open on Sunday, only increases the panic in the aisles.

Scroogey doesn’t do crowds either, nor does he do shopping. So taking him in to the fray at this point will be akin to pulling off his fingernails, with pliers, while applying an electric probe to his nether regions. WHY? Why his he insisting it be done This Way?

It’s certainly not because he has any ideas of what to get the monkeys. He’s as useless as tits on a bull in that department. He does have ideas about what not to get them, but we’re pretty much on the same page as far as that goes. In addition to being limited on funds, we’re extremely limited on space, patience, and lots of other things we’d like to have in large supply. All of this means we should have started looking, searching for ideas, and exploring the possibilities long ago, back when we’d have had time to plan, purchase, wrap and hide things that the Fat Guy will be sliding down the chimney.

Should’a Could’a Would’a. So here we are, just over a week before that happy day and nothing has been done, no plans made, not the first gift purchased, not even a tree put up, because honestly, ten minutes with this man could even kill Kris Kringle’s Christmas cheer. Supposedly we’re going to make a day of it tomorrow, but the prospect of that terrifies me. Just mentioning the words Christmas and gift in any combination around that man is enough to put me in such a horrible mood that I’m afraid the possibility of a public shouting match is very real. His passive-aggressive way of not dealing with any of this drives me apeshit. And having to deal with rude salespeople and obnoxious crowds will only increase my need for certain calming medications.

Fortunately, Monkey-1, just when I was at the point of despair, made me very happy that some of my genes have made it through. He asked if I could take him to a toy store so he could get a gift for each of his sisters. I could have cried.

Wait, what did I just say?

2007-12-10T22:33:00.000+01:00

In the last episode, our local psychopath (i.e. ME) was complaining about how cruel and hard life was because everything seemed to be turning up roses. HA! Let’s all laugh at her.

That very evening Muppet came home from school grumpy. This isn’t too unusual considering the hours he puts in. I didn’t think much of it, really. However, as I was getting him ready for bed I noticed he was rather warmish. Rather warmish is the new way of saying I had to run cold water on my hand for half an hour after touching him. Great, another fever. Then I stripped his shirt off of him.

And a pox fell over the land.

Folks, the kid brought home some herpes! Yes, his shoulders were covered in blisters, nice red juicy ones. Chicken Pox. Lovely.

Lovely? Well, yes. See, chicken pox are fun, right. And since he’s the eldest, he is the first to go through this childhood right of passage. Pooplette and MP3 have been spared…so far. But the great sage doctor was kind enough to point out that there is a two week incubation period, so we’re not necessarily done. Good news: MP3 is still in that age group where the pox are rather rare. Hope is given. Bad news: Mama is still in that age group where chicken pox is nasty. Yep, I am not immune. Hope?

If anyone out there can do that voodoo anti-chickenpox dance thing I’d be ever so grateful.

So, we’ve been doing the fun fever battle. And we’ve been doing the don’t scratch dance. And it seemed things were going fine. Monkey is covered from head to tall with incriminating pox marks, certain delicate bits having not been spared. It seems my brilliant plan of having all three kids pose for a Christmas Card Picture to send the friends and family will probably be scrapped—a face like his doesn’t seem very merry.

And while The Pox are fun, and they’ve added enough seasoning to make life just miserable enough, we’re not quite done. Both girls are having a terrible time getting rid of the colds that started a couple of weeks back. MP3 is on antibiotics, and Pooplette has been pooping something that I surely could sell as some type of biological weapon when she hasn’t been spewing from the other end.

And, of course, Mr. Manthing has had Places To Be and Important Shit To Do. Isn’t that typical. No, to be fare, I did kind of guilt him into staying at home on Sunday. But isn’t that something I shouldn’t have to do, especially considering he’d told me just two days before that if we couldn’t all go out to this Sunday Shindig as a family he’d rather stay home? I just don’t understand his logic sometimes. And he doesn’t understand why I get SO PISSED OFF at shit like that. Men!

In my next life, I swear, I’ll have nothing to do with them.

So everyone is sick. And that should have me stacking up enough complaints to get me through even the best of holiday seasons, right?

But we’re not done yet.

Last night, while washing Monkey with some super-duper antiseptic foaming wash stuff (to keep his pox from infecting and help keep them from itching as much—really works...or worked as the case may be), I noticed his eyelids looked kinda swollen. Mr. Thing noticed this as well, and we figured we’d just keep an eye on it. This morning, his eyes were really swollen, eyelids, under his eyes, the bridge between his eyes. He looked as though he’d gone 12 rounds with Foreman, only without the pretty multicolored bruises. So, tonight we’ve been back to the Dr., who suspects either an allergy to the foamy wash stuff, or a food allergy, or maybe a possible allergy to the anti-alergy medication that keeps him from itching too terribly much—although that’s like unheard of, ya know, or maybe it’s just part of the whole pox thing. Who knows. We’re certainly not about to go another round of allergy tests for this. Not tonight.

No, tonight is reserved for bloody noses, legs stuck in pajamas and all other minor catastrophes that the monkeys find to put me through.

2007-12-06T11:12:00.000+01:00

I’m here, no really I am…well sort of, at least. I haven’t had too much to complain about lately, and that’s made life ever so boring. What is a poor girl to do?

I know, I know, I should revel in my new-found happiness. And I would, really, if only it didn’t make me so damn miserable. I thrive on complaining. Bitching is my favorite pastime, and now, I’m coming up with absolutely nothing.

There’s still the bullshit with the house, but that’s a never ending story and it’s gone stale now. I’m hoping the next round of battles with the courts will maybe put some life back in that old complaint, but considering the massive pile of shit we’ll need to dig through to move forward, I seriously doubt I’ll be bubbling over with bile any time soon.

And there’s always the spouse. Who goes through life without complaints about their spouse? And we all know that I’ve had a deluge of things to piss and moan about in that department, a seemingly endless supply of gripes. But even that source has dried up… mostly.

The kids? MP3 is still a perfect angel, now with two teeth—teeth that just showed up one day (yes, the pair) without so much as a diaper rash to announce their arrival. Even the Pooplette Klingon Child is wonderful these days—something that is so gloriously nice words cannot begin to describe. And Monkey-1? There’s NOTHING to complain about.

I think the end of the world must be near.

Mr. ManThing has hired someone to help out on the farm. He’s supposed to ‘help out’, meaning he gets all the odds and ends jobs that Mr. ManThing doesn’t have time for or that he’s an extra pair of hands for bigger things, like changing a tire on a tractor for example, that Marc just doesn’t have enough limbs to handle. Ha! If only. This kid (and he is a kid, really—19 hardly qualifies one as much more now that I’m 29 years old with a few years of experience) is fucking awesome! He knows how to do almost everything. If something breaks, he takes care of fixing it, including calling and ordering the parts. Hubs tells him what he needs done in the morning, and The Kid goes and does it—without constant supervision, without someone having to explain every minute detail of every step of the process. His Stinginess doesn’t even complain when writing out the paycheck at the end of the month. I guess he feels he’s getting his money’s worth.

And since The Kid eats with us I’m kept busy. Forcing me to cook is such torture, especially when I have to cook for someone who has such a good appetite that nary a crumb need be packed away in the fridge afterwards. The pain…

Oh, I could complain about having been left alone, yet again, with three small, very sick children while the Hubs rubbed elbows in the north of France and I died several times over with a rhino-pharange-sinus-laryngitis thing (that still is hanging on) complicated by a suspected, yet short lived gastro. But I was compensated shortly thereafter with a Child-Free Weekend, a treat most unheard of in these parts, and honestly the horror of the whole experience has been dulled by the drunken hue that’s clouding the past weekend’s memories. I do remember being…happy (that’s a good word, right) enough to have actually stepped foot on the teeny-tiny dance floor with my husband and his charming childhood friend—although not at the same time—truly not that kinky. (Sorry Antipo, dearest, the rest of the raunchy details escape me, not that you’d want those details of course. I couldn’t stand to make you blush yet again.)

So boredom reigns supreme here. Shit, someone pick a fight, please!

Tonks Ghuiwing*

2007-11-27T14:36:00.000+01:00

Forgive me for not sharing my annual Thanksgiving adventures with you this year. My heart was simply not in The Spirit, what with three kids, a husband, and plenty of last minute cancellations to kept me tied to the Unhappy Unhappies. And now, after the last of the turkey has been carefully wrapped and hidden away in the frigo where I needn’t think about yet another turkey-leftover-based dish, some vicious species of micro-organism has taken over and is holding the entire family hostage, insisting on a huge supply of tissues, cough medicine, and sleep. Who has time to sleep these days?

Not only all of that, but the Whole Affair was overshadowed by The Baptism of Marc’s nephews the following day. My painstakingly prepared feast was certainly pale by comparison, considering the parents of said nephews not only had their shin-dig catered, but also employed a waitress for the entire thing. My fare was simply not on par with such high-class offerings, and that has left me in a giblet gravy funk.

I simply must plan another holiday meal for friends, one where I too can go high class and upstage the rest of the family. Send donations and reservation requests to my e-mail darlings. I’m feeling the need to make something gourmet.

I shan’t bore you with all of the stupendous things that have made me feel thankful this year. The list, while meaningful to me, would probably bore you to tears. And let’s face it, a Thanksgiving List at this point would only serve to point out what a horrible person I am when faced with time constraints. Thanksgiving is so last week! So on to other things.

A house update: We still have not received the stupendous and damning report from the Judicial Expert, the one that was due back on the 15th of August. We cannot, therefore, start any work on the house, and this depresses me no end. We have, however, received a copy of the complaint to be filed by our wonderful lawyer against the (expletive deleted) builders who have make such a total mess of things. And here I have a little hope. Should the courts decide to inflict maximum damage on this guy (and we all know they won’t but play along to make me happy), he’s looking at 13 years 6 months in prison PLUS over One Million Euros in fines. I’m not clear on where the One Million would go, either to us or to the courts, but hell, I’d love to see his lying cheating incompetent ass in jail. Would LOVE it.

And if any of you magically inclined out there have a spell or potion that would change me into the proverbial fly on the wall when they serve him with these papers, PLEASE let me know. I’d LOVE to see it. I would, I would, I would!!!

Monkey Update: Monkey-1 is doing really well, aside from being sprawled on the couch in The Sick Position. Like any man, he’s more than pitiful and pathetic when overwhelmed by germs. And like any good mommy, I am playing along, allowing him such luxuries as any DVD his heart desires and extra helpings of candy. Monkey-2 has yet to forget that she’s able to climb Everything In The House. She is pure energy, that one, and, I have to admit, quite charming about it. Her evil disposition has melted away and she’s turned into a lovely, beautiful, and yes, more-often-than-not, sweet creature. Monkey-3 had her six month check-up this morning and is doing quite well. We changed her milk again just after my arrival home and quite against the doctor’s orders, but as we’ve found more often than not, mommy knows best, and it turns out we did the right thing. Gone are the days of projectile vomiting and watery poo. Gone too are the struggles to make her eat anything, for the love of God! Nope, Mom’s pick goes down, stays down, and comes out exactly like it should. And she’s growing, so all’s well in that department as well.

Other Updates: No news is good news, right? I’m going to go make myself a strong cup of honey-laced lemony tea and snuggle with my box of tissues. Send evil, germ killing thoughts to the microbes that have taken over by body, will ya? Please?

* The E-MIL’s pronunciation of Thanksgiving.

Another reason to like being called mom:

2007-11-23T22:13:00.000+01:00

You get to listen to this over and over and over and no one things anything of it.

highlights

2007-11-16T14:01:00.000+01:00

All I've heard since we got back home is, "On va chez Un Que Baille quand, mama?" (When are we going to Uncle Bill's house?). Monkey-1 didn't quite get the English part, where uncle is a word, preferring to hear French where un is one and the rest just followed with his half-French, all-child accent. Of course, when Un Que Baille takes you places like the fire department, where the chief not only has the trucks pulled out Just! For! You! but also lets you Ride! Up! Front! With! A! Fireman's! Hat! well, home is rather pale by comparison. **Funny story: after Mr. Chief had given us a his card so we'd know where to send a Huge Thank You, I mentioned that I'd have to send him our local firemen's calendar so he can see how different things are over here. Well, like any good, red-blooded Fireman, he presumed that the local boys do up a thing rather like Les Dieux de Stade. We did have a good natured laugh, though. **

Afterwards, it was on to the Pumpkin Patch where one can find Real Pumpkins, unlike the god-forsaken wasteland where we live where nary a pumpkin was to be had. Halloween without a Jack-o-lantern? You’ve got to be kidding! Here, every size imaginable was there for the taking, and take we did, one so big Monkey-1 couldn’t lift it. Ah, feels like home!

Of course, all the excitement, and being drug along while Mama does serious damage to the Mastercard, does wear out a monkey.

Un Que Baille even took us all to the church Halloween carnival! And took Monkey-1 through all the games, several times over, while Monkey-1’s mom braved the Haunted House. The HH was a killer, and I had the bruises to prove it. Note: Never tour the Haunted House with a group of pre-pubescent girls who scream high-pitched, high-decibel screams and take off with the flashlight unless you want to fall over and break something.

Ah, Chuck E. Cheese! What would life be without you. Alas, you’re a perfect place to let a monkey run wild while I chat with my ex-husband’s mother. Oh, yeah! We had a play date, along with two of the ex’s children—very nice, very cute children. I hadn’t seen the XMIL since The Split, but she’s always been like a mom to me, and it seems like our old friendship is still there. We hadn’t even made it out of the parking lot and we were both doubled over in hysterics. Monkey liked the place so much that any time we drove past a place with a red door he screamed bloody murder to go inside and play.

No trip to the coast would be complete with a visit to the sandy seashore. Stupid me only set aside an hour and a half for this fun activity, and I literally had to drag my son kicking and screaming out of the waves, through the dunes (or what's left of them at least) and back to the car. This is the one activity that truly made me question whether or not I should be where I am, whether raising my children in a foreign country miles and miles from the ocean, white sand and roaring waves is the Right Thing. This, more than anything, even more than Walmart, is what makes me homesick, and what makes me most sad that I cannot share it daily with my babies. Next time, I swear, I'll not only take more time out for a stroll in the waves, but I'll share that stroll with the three pieces of my heart absent in the above photograph.

And voila! The ‘real’ reason (besides my sanity, of course) for this trip home—Halloween! Please do notice my nephew’s traditional puking pumpkin in the background. Trick-or-treating, as an activity, was rather anti-climatic. We only visited a dozen or so houses, but it was after another long day of shopping, visiting, and taking in everything under the sun. Monkey-1 can now say Spider Man correctly, not Speedah Mahn like the French or Peter Mal, as he called him before. In fact, his Maîtresse was telling me just this afternoon that he’s correcting the little Frenchies at school now as well. “Spider Man”, “Non, Speedah Mahn! Speedah, comme pipi.”, “Non! C’est Spider Man, t’es con!” Oops, looks like we’ll need to work on proper vocabulary a bit…

After getting quite a bit of American Consumerism out of my system, we did take time to just enjoy the good weather (and great company of AntiKissy) with a picnic in one of the lovely local parks. And what parks they have! Monkey-1 LOVED this place! And yes, another terrible time getting him back in the car, where promises of eating at The Great Mickey Dee’s and even of ice-cream did nothing to soothe him. I’m so terrible…

…but that’s not why we visited with the nice Sheriff. This, along with the fire trucks, was part of Monkey-1’s school vacation project, which we’ll be sharing with all the other little monkeys in the near future.

Earning my space in the hereafter

2007-11-12T10:41:00.000+01:00

I flew into Washington-Dulles, not only because it was the cheapest ticket to the east coast I could find (outside of flying into NYC, which was the same price, but who in their right mind would want to fly into and then drive out of NYC? Seriously, is anyone out there that nuts?), but because it is central to a part of my family I never really got to see as much as I would have liked (at least in retrospect) when I lived way down south in the land of cotton and tobacco. By the time we’d retrieved our luggage, caught the shuttle to the rental car shack, and hoped into our new white car, Monkey and I hit rush hour on The Belt-way. Oh buddy! I used to really like Tom Clancy, and given as how I used to work in MI back in my army days (meaning I basically made and drank really strong coffee all day long) some of his books really rang true to me. That man must have friends in spooky places, really. But driving around Washington, like Jack Ryan (who was best played by Harrison Ford, don’t care whatcha think) does in so many of his books, I began to realize just what a fantasy Mr. Clancy had dreamed up for me. Nothing moves. Mr. Ryan, gorgeous as he was, would never have been stupid enough to take The Belt-way because NOTHING MOVES. Our entire world would have fallen apart in the time it takes to get from one exit to another, and Jesus, with a three-year-old in the back, not even Jack Ryan could have handled that.

Note: Never take The Belt-way again. Nevah!

By the time we made it to Baltimore, considering the flight, the lack of sleep the night before, and the fun Fun FUN! of re-learning how to drive an automatic in rush hour in Washington, I was exhausted. So the darling ladies with whom we were staying the night fed me yummy crab and scallops and scrimps and fishies and sent us off to bed.

The next morning we continued north a bit to my godparents’ home where we visited, and ate—more crab! I likes me some crab, yumm. After lunch, when Monkey-1 was starting to look a bit tired, I whisked him back in the car and we started the Long Drive South. A yawning baby promises a smooth trip, right?

Dude, I’ve never been so wrong in my entire life.

We stopped every half hour to 45 minutes. Monkey-1 had to pee. Not only did he have to pee, he had the worst case of the liquid poops he’s ever had. So we kind of had to. Stop. At every Rest Stop. And this is the US, where rest stops are plentiful. PLENTIFUL. And with automatic toilets that flush all by themselves. Magic Toilets, if you will. Which didn’t help matters. Because now, not only did he want to poo all the time, he’d also crowned himself Official Magic Toilet Inspector. By the time we’d reached Richmond, I’d had it. ENOUGH of the toilets already! So I put a pull-up on him and commanded him to sleep, to dream of Magic Toilets if he wanted, but to sleep. And so he did.

Ah, peace. From the Virginia/North Cacalaki line the only sounds coming from the back seat were beautiful baby snores. It was lovely, and we started making decent time—good, considering The Belt-way, not to mention the inspection of the Fuckin’ Magic Toilets, had put us about three hours behind. I found a half-way decent rock station on the radio, settled in with a group of truckers going a wee bit over the limit, and just rode with traffic. I love me some I-85 in the evening.

Then…

“…zzzzzzzz…urp…zzzzzzzz”, from the back.

“Did you say something, sweetness?”

“Urp…..urp”

“Huh?….”

“Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrfffff…zzzzzz….zzzzz”

“Fuck!”

Yep, Monkey-1 spewed, all over the back seat, down the back of the passenger seat, all over the door, all over his body, his car seat, the floor, everywhere in fact. And he slept through it. Which was the scariest bit of it all, because, my God, has he just choked to death or what and Jesus, where’s the exit?

So we lost another hour. And the rest of the Long Drive South was spent with the window opened enough to let in enough air to allow me to breathe something other than stomach acid fumes, yet closed enough to keep out the cold which I was totally not expecting. Gah!

But we made it. Finally. A trip that should have taken us just over 7 hours took closer to 11 ½. My brother’s house has never looked so welcoming.

And then, after my Bro pushed me out of the way to get to his nephew and God-son, and settled him comfortably into a comfy bed, and everyone got at least five minutes of sleep, the Real Fun began.

2007-11-11T14:33:00.000+01:00

I am usually the one who gets to explain the answers to some of life’s harder questions around here. This is usually because, as I’m the one with the kids most often, I’m the one who is there when the questions come up. Sometimes it’s cute and endearing. Sometimes, well, not so.

No trip ‘home’ would be complete without a visit to the parents. Sadly I no longer have either of mine. My mother died more than a decade ago. Her wish was to be cremated and returned to the crabs she loved so much, refueling the eco-system as it were (although what any crab could find to nibble on after the furnace got done with her I’ll never know). I wasn’t there the day my father and brother returned her to the elements, something that both bothers me and relieves me in many different ways, but I know the spot well. Still, there’s no plaque, no symbol of her presence on this earth, and that at times gets rough. All that’s left of her are memories and a few photographs.

My father passed 7 years ago this last August. He is buried, as was his wish, in a veterans’ cemetery along with all the old soldiers he loved so much, and, all too sadly, an increasing number of too-young ones. This is where I go to visit my dad when I go home.

The last time I was home, in 2004, I was pregnant with the monkey, and Marc and I made the pilgrimage together. That wasn’t an easy trip. One of the very last conversations I’d had with my father was about when I’d be making him a grandfather because he was getting up there in age and wanted to be around to see all his grandkids graduate high school. Of course, he died the very next morning, and missed not only my kids’ graduations, but all his grandkids’ graduations. The man was nothing if not fair.

This time wasn’t much easier. A lot had changed since that last visit almost four years ago. Here I was bringing that little unborn child back to meet Grandpa, only now he’s walking and talking and a big brother with two little sisters. (Dad would be more than pleased about that—he always wanted 10 grandkids, and now he’s got them). There was more than enough to tell the old man that he’d have been very happy to hear, yet it’s all very bittersweet because he’s not there to share his wisdom and wit anymore. That is something that still aches deep down, and I guess probably always will.

It was a nice day, if a bit windy (a lovely hurricane sat just off the NC coast, and was making its distant presence known). There was another burial scheduled at the time we arrived so Monkey-1 and I tried to make ourselves as quiet as possible. I must say the child can really be an angel at times, and this was one of them. So we sat and visited with my dad while folks gathered to say good-bye to Dad’s new neighbor and while I got to explain how and why this is my dad.

Explaining death to a child is not easy. I was brought up with all my questions about such matters answered directly and matter-of-factly. Marc was, too. And I think we both feel this is probably the best way, at least for us, to deal with these things with our own monkeys. So that’s what I did—brushed off Dad’s marker and explained yet another Big Thing to my son.

And cried.

But I know my dad would have been proud.

Getting back into the swing of things…

2007-11-08T10:25:00.000+01:00

…seems to get harder the older I get. Not only older, maybe, but I now have three (holy shit) hangers on that I didn’t have last time I crossed The Pond. Marc was kind enough to let me have Tuesday and yesterday to sort of sleep it off, but today Monkey-1 headed back to school, Monkeys-2 & -3 back to the crèche and Papa Monkey is off to whatever meeting he has scheduled for today, so I had no choice other than to try to swing back into ON mode. And I took NyQuil last night, so my ass is draggin’—and no that’s not another fat joke (although it could be).

I’ve been gone just shy of two weeks, not really a long time, right? Monkey-3 is completely changed. I hardly recognized her, and she scared the crap out of me Tuesday evening as she practically leapt backwards from my arms. She’s never done that before. Two weeks in the life of a five month old, though, means I’ve missed a lot. Time stands still for no mom.

Monkey-2 hasn’t slowed down in her development either. Little Miss Full Sentences And Don’t Even Think You Can Outsmart Me seems to forget she’s still months shy of her second birthday. She makes us forget, too, because not only does she not act her age, she doesn’t look it. We’re in for a world of shit later on—and no NyQuil induced night-coma will help me prepare for that. Craaaap!

You’re all probably curious as to the wonders Monkey-1 witnessed and participated in during his travels of the Great East Coast, and I shall get around to that. If I were to write a narrative of the entire trip it’d read like stereo instructions. It’s just not in me. So I’ll probably just put up snippets here and there—and hopefully you’ll all forgive me my prolonged absence.

Those of you in the know know this has been a mental health trip for me, and hopefully one for Marc as well (don’t go feeling sorry for the man—he took a short break in the Alps while we were gone). So far we both seem a bit more healed on the inside. I’ve been trying to get my shit back together, and things seem to be working. During my absence, Marc hired someone to help on the farm and that’s been a BIG RELIEF. He’s finally realized he cannot do it all, and MY GOD, I’ve actually seen more of my husband since I’ve been home than I have in the two months leading up to my escape!!

There’s still a big transition to go through. The household, which had been subject to My Way Of Doing Things has flipped over to Marc’s Way Of Doing Things and now that we’re all happily together again, and with time to spend together, we’re going to have to work out the Happy Way Of Doing Things TOGETHER. This is probably going to be a big challenge-because both Marc and I are right—all the time.

So it’s going to be interesting, or at least it promises to be. Or maybe Marc will make good on his promise and it will be dull as hell. Who knows.

Jet-Lagging

2007-11-07T04:50:00.000+01:00

I could sit here, probably for hours, and wax poetic about my trip back ‘home’, about how I really cannot pinpoint where that is on a map anymore, about how wonderful my family and friends are, and how nice it’s been to eat fresh seafood for a change. I could describe, in minute detail even, all of the wonderful action packed activities Monkey-1 and I participated in, how gloriously cheap Walmart still is and how lovely it is to just pick something off the rack and have it fit. I could possibly scratch the surface on how much better my soul feels, how I’m absolutely certain that raising my children here is the right thing, or try to find a reason, any reason, why so-called French bread bought in the US resembles nothing sold at a boulanger here. I could even describe the tearful goodbye at the train station, the nightmare of traveling through London on a foggy fall day, and the lightness I feel now that my family is intact once again. But I won’t.

See, it’s 4-something in the morning, and while you’re probably working your way through coffee many hours after I post this, I’m still working through jet lag, flying-related sinus issues, and all the amazement I have at how much Monkey-3 has changed.

But, as Christine so eloquently showed us on the way home from the crèche last night, where she sighed her brother’s name in the car and held his hand all the way back to the still-too-small abode, it’s very comfy here, all together, all safe, and all alive. And that’s really all I need.

Decompression

2007-10-16T10:29:00.000+02:00

It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve had the energy to sit down and write anything. Two weeks has been a long time, especially considering the roller coaster I’ve been on during that time.

It’s been a rough couple of years around here. To say anything else would just be sugar-coating the truth. And considering the size of my hind parts, sugar-coating is the last thing I need. Amid all the promises that things will calm down, soon, Marc and I have found ourselves with less and less time for things that matter so much to us, namely ourselves. We’ve been living in a pressure cooker, and it’s been ready to blow up for a while now.

Neither of us are ready to pick up what’s left after a nuclear meltdown and restart. We’ve got entirely too much invested in this deal to let little things push us over the edge. Three kids in three years, the constant battle of making the farm work, the nightmare of the house, the utter and complete lack of space around here, all of it has been dragging us down, but in a hidden way. Child rearing fatigue has turned me into someone I hardly recognize, so you can imagine how changed Marc has found me. And all the stresses from his work, on that infernal farm, has turned Marc into someone who no longer knows how to relax and just breathe. We’ve come a long, long way from the ideals we set out with almost seven years ago.

It’s been tough.

So we’ve laid all our crap out on the table, opened up all the closets and let the skeletons see the light of day, and realized we have a hell of a lot of little problems we need to iron out. Big problems are usually easy, ya know. One big problem, even though it’s HUGE, can be resolved easier than a heap of small problems, all of which are intricately linked and need to be untangled first, then fixed. So that’s what we’re doing.

And that’s why, in a little over a week, Monkey and I are flying Stateside. I need to recharge my batteries, touch base with my roots and take a much needed break from all the crap floating around in the air here. And I seriously need a HUGE dose of retail therapy, in the form of the great Walmart, because I have finally realized and come to terms with the fact that I am just displaced white trash. I mean, shit, I live in France and I very literally have dreams about shopping in Walmart. It’s sad.

It’s been almost four years since my last trip home, and four years, for me, has just been too long. I’ve never really claimed to suffer from homesickness, probably because there’s really no home to get sick for. My parents are both gone, my brother and two sisters, with whom I am admittedly not close, are scattered all over hell’s half acre. My brother and I did see a bit more of each other than we do now, but mostly because we lived close enough to not have an excuse to do otherwise. My sisters I saw only at my parents’ funerals. We’re not exactly the kind of family that pines for each other.

But apparently homesickness is a bit more than just missing family. There are my friends, my culture, all the food I love, the lifestyle I was so used to, the ability to find clothes to fit my ax-handle-and-a-half-across ass, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a whole list of other things that, while not quite as obvious as missing family, have created a hole in my tiny, frozen heart.

Since I was last ‘home’, I’ve had three kids, built a falling-down house, changed cars twice, changed jobs, changed my hair twice, given up on wearing contacts, gone gray(er). I’ve gained and lost what seems like hundreds of pounds, and while my weight is actually lower than that last visit, my form has changed significantly—thank you babies. I’ve gone from the euphoric high of being a first-time mom to the darkest low of second-time baby blues and hovered around the third-time nonchalant-who-cares-anymore-this-is-reality-deal-with-it-ness that has probably been more destructive than any of my other moods. My self-esteem has really suffered there, and that’s been very bad for all concerned.

My clothes, most of which were purchased pre-France, are in such a state that even the recycling folks look at me like I’m off my rocker when I bring them in. I can fit in them, really, but not comfortably (again, that changing shape thing). And honestly, I have only one pair of jeans that isn’t in tatters. There’s nothing left to sew back together. It’s not like home—I can’t just pop into the local boutique and find replacements because 1. French women don’t come in my shape and 2. Holy Price Tag Batman! I can find shoes here, and on sale, but shoes, sadly, do not cover my butt. And my butt? It needs covering. I’ve spent the last few months dressed as a modern-day version of the Matchstick Girl, and dude, it’s been rather hard.

Lest you think it’s just my vanity that’s been sucking me under, let me assure it goes a bit deeper than that. I live in a world completely different from the one I grew up in. I can fake certain things, like Thanksgiving for example. But how does one fake Halloween? My kids are half American, and I feel an obligation to raise them with as much of my old country’s customs as I can. But Halloween? Ya kind of need community participation for that. Either that, or a lot of patience to drive to all the Americans’ houses Trick-or-Treating—because around these parts we’re all rather scattered. Monkey’s at the age where Halloween can be something special, and I want, I NEED for him to have that.

And the language thing. Oh God, I’ve been so terrible about that. He understands me, or at least he fakes it pretty well, whenever I talk to him in English. But switching back and forth between French and English turns my brain to mush, and the look he gives me when I do use English with him, that look of ‘you are using that made-up language again, crazy lady’ is a bit discouraging, too. And what better time to toss him into the fray than now? He needs to see that Mama isn’t just speaking gibberish, and I need a bit of outside reinforcement.

So next Wednesday Monkey and I are flying out, first to London, then on to the Big Bad USA to fix a few of the things that need fixing. And I am, for the moment, trying to tackle to little problems that this trip is creating. How do I deal with leaving more than half my family behind? How to handle a monkey on a very long trip? How do I not spend every single centime we have left? (that’s the hardest one I think)

I’m not too worried about leaving the girls with their papa. Marc is a good dad, and while I often bitch that he isn’t around enough (because of the farm), when he is around, he does take good care of his babies. We have a very different approach to certain things, but I think that’s probably a good thing. And he isn’t suffering from an overdose of child rearing. Honestly that’s about all I’ve done for the better part of two years, and I am worn the hell out. Marc’s much more likely to try new things with them than I am because he’s got the energy for it. I do not. So while I’m on the other side of the world with Monkey-1, Marc’s taking Monkeys- 2 and -3 on a road trip of his own, possibly dragging Vivi & Mô along for fun. He’s going to get a dose of what I deal with everyday, and while that sounds rather snarky, it truly isn’t. He can’t help me find solutions if he doesn’t know the problems.

And when we all come home, after our healthy doses of fresh air and not-so-healthy doses of missing each other to the point we hurt, we’ll tackle the rest of that pile of little problems, because when we put our minds to something, Marc and I, we’re unstoppable.

My ears totally bled

2007-10-01T16:30:00.000+02:00

To get the full effect, turn it up loud--and remember, I was LOCKED INSIDE with them.

For my next trick, giving as how this was my stupid idea, I'll teach them the Haka...

...because they could totally scare the shit out of some folks!

A visit to the school…

2007-10-01T16:17:00.000+02:00

Last Friday was the first time, exclusive of the first day of school of course, that we parents have been invited inside the school where Muppet is supposedly learning all kinds of new and exciting things. I say supposedly because, to hear him tell it, you’d think all he does is ride The Bus back and forth. In fact, The Bus is about all he talks about. The Bus even has a name! And the most tragic incident in his life was when The Bus Lady (not the driver, but the woman who rides with the kids to make sure they don’t do stupid things—like my son did), yelled at him (in a firm, yet correctly polite manner) because he decided to unhook his seat belt and stand up while The Bus was in motion. Yes, he was upset because The Busy Lady yelled at him, but he was even more afraid of not being allowed back on The Bus.

So last Friday, after The Bus brought him to The Bus Stop (most important piece of French real-estate ever), and after our visit to the new Village Library, and the hike/run back home while pushing an empty stroller, being drug along my Pooplette and trying to get Monkey to Just Stop Now DAMMIT Before You Get Run Over, Monkey and I set off for his school, and to see his Maîtresse.

Please tell me I’m not the only one cracked up by the idea of my three year old son having a mistress.

The place was less than packed. Either a lot of folks don’t care about meeting their kids’ teachers or Friday evening is not the time to invite the parents to the school. Or maybe those who have been there before are rather put off by sitting on teeny-tiny little-person sized benches. I, myself, am not a bench person on a good day so I can sympathize with those folks afraid of a bench that seats you in a rather GYN-visit fashion. Staring at a bunch of folks with their knees up around their ears brings back too many birth class memories for me, thankya.

The news on the battle front is all good. Monkey is doing just fine, a bit independent, a bit curious, a bit of all things boys are at his age. He’s not a trouble-maker or the class clown. I’m not too sure how I feel about that last bit—thought maybe I could pass on some ideas…. But there are moments, apparently, when he wants to do his own thing:

Now if we can just get his teacher to learn how to spell his name.

*Tear the paper into little bits and glue them on. Mathieu (sic) did it the quick way.

Tom’s Got Not One, But THREE dates!

2007-09-26T10:29:00.000+02:00

Tom Turkey, that guy that no one cares about until November rolls around, is very busy this year. And in France, no less. Aren’t you shocked!

I didn’t think so.

This year, instead of inviting everyone on God’s Green Half Acre, we’ve split our production in half. Mr. Brain (first name Finally Functioning) looks forward to Turkey Day so he can visit with those of his friends willing and able to make the trip to Prostate Of, France. Me? I look forward to it for the same reason, although it seems in recent years, those who I’d like to invite get pushed to the side so those he invites have space.

Ah, space, glorious space. It’s something we’ve got in short supply, so each year the entire production gets moved out to the woods, to the Chalet Under the Vineyard. It all gets cooked here, though. Fun stuff. Ever tried moving a feast for 30+ without spilling green bean casserole all over the back seat of your car or displacing one of those perfectly-placed-so-the-platter-looks-gorgeous nibblies that you’ve spent hours on? Not Easy.

Anyway, no griping. I’m not here to gripe (for once).

Mr. Brain wants to spend time with his Lovies, and I with mine. And since most of his Lovies work in that frighteningly over-compensated Mafia called l’Education Nationale, and because they’ve all left their champ-ardennais roots for greener climes, forcing them to visit on a weekend outside of their (many paid) holidays is akin to ripping hair off my legs with wax—doable, yet painful.

And then they spend the weekend bitching and moaning about how HARD life is. Boohoohoo.

So screw that. Let’s invite them for a Rezo Weekend over Fall Break, where they can all fiddle around with their first love—those beastly machines called computers—and spend their (ha-ha-ha-hard-earned) vacation shooting each other and yelling obscenities, the likes of which would make my mother blush. And since Mr. Brain will probably do nothing less than abandon me yet again with three small kids so he can talk, shoot and yell disgusting things at those he loves, I can get away with simpler fare than the normal Gooble-Gooble Gooble-Up. In fact, simple, when they’re all intent on making blood and gore splash around their screens, is appreciated.

And we all know I need to be appreciated.

And so, with the Frickin’ Frenchies out of the way, the road is cleared for more interesting people. And better looking people. And, dare I say it, NICE people—not that Marc’s friends aren’t nice. They are. They really are. But they’ve been conditioned, by all those meals I lovingly prepared, served, and cleaned up after when I didn’t speak French, to basically ignore my presence or treat me like the waitress. That might be overstating things a bit, but only a bit. And honestly, I’m at the point where, if I spend as much time as I do cooking, I’d actually like to enjoy the meal, too.

So, on Turkey Day weekend my Lovies will be invited, to a significantly smaller, significantly more English-speaking, yet no less gut-filling Frenchified version of That Great Meal. And then I’ll kick them all out and go watch them try to drown the Scary Baby and his brother.

Two Toms down! “But Doc”, you’re thinking, “You said three. What’s up with the mystery date?” (Yeah, I know you were totally not thinking that at all. In fact, if you’ve made it this far into my mind-numbing gibberish, you’re either very bored or too kind, or maybe just a sadist—I likes me some sadists.) Yes, Date Number Three! The most exciting of my news!

Our neighbors, the ones with the restaurant, that restaurant that normally caters to truckers (although they don’t allow lot lizards), put on a theme night one Saturday every month. They’ve been after me for awhile now to do an American dinner with them. What’s more American than tail-gate parties, a phenomenon the French can’t quite grasp? Why, Thanksgiving, of course! So I’ve been invited to be Chef For A Day on November 10^th where I get the fun job of preparing yet another gobbly-gobble-gobble for those anonymous Frenchies curious enough to reserve in advance. I’m really looking forward to it! Not only to I get to share my “culture”, they’re giving me free reign in a kitchen the size of California and have told me Not To Worry About The Clean Up. They’ll take care of that part. Do they not understand, this is like tossing a bunch of nymphomaniacs into the Playboy Mansion.

Mayhem is sure to follow.

Who’s the turkey now, beyotch!

2007-09-23T13:11:00.000+02:00

Why, why, why? I have created a monster and now it must be killed. Or at least scaled back a notch or two. Or something.

This whole Thanksgiving thing has totally spiraled out of control. It started out with just family, then family and a few friends, and now, six years after the ‘tradition’ set foot in my back yard, folks are inviting themselves before I can even start planning the menu. What the hell is up with that? Are they just so confident of their place in my heart that they assume they’ll be re-invited? Or maybe it’s that the food is just that good and they cannot imagine going an entire year without my hot crab dip, stuffing, and green bean casserole?

While my darlin Vivi was here last weekend, I cried a bit on her shoulder about how it feels like Turkey Day has now become an obligation. An Obligation. I feckin hate obligations. It becomes Work then. Work is a nasty four-letter word. And while I usually like four-letter words, this one leaves a nasty taste in my mouth.

And after we’d had a good ole chuckle about how we all know there’s no way I’d not do the stuff till you drop feast that I’m apparently so notorious for (and Vivi assured herself that these “See ya at Thanksgving” self-invites were probably just a bit of me over-stating how folks love my hospitality), one of Marc’s friends (who’d just gotten up from a table full of food and my hard work) said, “So when’s Thanksgiving? We’re invited, right?”

Arrggghhhhh!

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love cooking for a crowd. And I love even more watching that crowd dig in and purr over each bite. And when they get up to undo the button on their pants, man, it’s The Big O for me. A great big one!

But, dude, what’s so hard about letting ME put the invite out there?

Especially this year.

Because I’m not even sure how I’m going to pull this gig off.

See, Marc’s sister, the older one with kids—Scary Baby’s mom, has decided to baptize both her kids that weekend. And while I shan’t go into the politics about this—how they’re probably only doing this because we’ve done it—three times now, and how we always seem to upstage any of their productions—how dare we!, and how no matter what we do or say it’s just plain WRONG—I will grumble…A LOT.

My MIL has already let me know that this baptism takes precedence over any plans we had—family is family, even if they manage to step on each other’s toes. And who cares that Thanksgiving is planned way in advance—like years even, because Thanksgiving 2012? I can totally give you the date. And half the menu, even. And at least part of the guest list.

So I’m in a quandary. What to do? I DO NOT want to call all these folks up and change this to another weekend. I mean, these people work, and have to get time off ahead of time, especially those traveling. And it does seem rather rude to get every one up and kick them out of the house before 11 on Sunday morning. No one can digest that quickly. Besides, that’s when the overnighters usually wander back to the chalet in the woods to snack on leftovers and, most importantly, put things back in order—something I hate doing.

I so totally cannot get rid of the cleaning crew. I JUST CANNOT!

I do not know what to do. When I mentioned that I might send Marc and the kids to the service, then join them after things were taken care of here, I got the look of death—like how could I honestly consider NOT spending the ENTIRE DAY with Scary Baby and entourage! Easy: I’m not particularly fond of most of the people who will be there, in fact a lot of them give me the heebie-jeebies. And those that don’t? Oddly enough they’ll be at the Thanksgiving Day Feast the day before (doesn’t bode well for their shin-dig if some of us are still gavé-ed from the night before bwahahaha).

Oh, the other thing: We’re all sworn to secrecy. We cannot mention this to anyone because someone might get offended they weren’t invited. Which is totally why they handed out the invitations at MP3’s party—so the aunts and uncles who aren’t invited wouldn’t know.

Someone give these folks a brain.

the (ever-so-slightly fictionalized) baptism story

2007-09-19T13:19:00.001+02:00

THIS is the over-sexed meal Antipo has been harping about: Creamy, nay, Velvety Chicken Colombo, Bangin’ Bertha Aubergine Curry, and Virginal Bazmati Rice. None of us culinarily-gifted anglophones thought the Frenchies would go for it. But those bastards left nary a crumb. Hate 'em!

That was Saturday night's fun. And that beer? I swear it was only one of many the Kiwi Tart downed before engaging in a very lesbian-esque lap dance with the ill-LUST-trious Vivi while sticking her tongue in my husband's ear. At least that's my version of events...

Seek not the truth here.

Sunday, being the holiest of days, brought with it passions of a different kind. Yep, MP3 has been delivered to Jesus, Amen, PRAISE THE LORD, and Pass The Loot. She got rinsed, and I honestly had to fight the urge to leave just a little bit of shampoo in her hair before going to the Church That IS NOT In My Village. (No, I'm NOT bitter.) MP3 is notoriously the calmest of my three monkeys, and the only one of the three to cry during her baptism. I hope that’s not an omen, especially considering how much calmer her siblings became after sleeping through the same ceremony. Please God, I know I’ve been bad, but please don’t let my time in hell start now. You have an eternity to make me pay for all the sins I’ve thoroughly enjoyed here on Earth.

Vivi, in addition to being an awesome friend—or maybe because of—floored the Deacon with her answer to his question of, “What does it mean to be a godparent.” She totally got an A+ and man, ya remember those days in college when you’d pull a drunk while cramming for your exams and how if you didn’t taken the exam while you were inebriated you couldn’t recall the answers? Vivi is so not like that! She can down sixteen beers with whiskey chasers and still dazzle the man in the white dress.

Marc says I tend to exaggerate… so maybe it was only fifteen beers.

Afterwards we ate ourselves stupid and Oh My Gawd! If ever you use the same caterers we did and invite like 40 people, order food for 20. Holy Leftovers Batman! I ordered for 35. There were 31 adults and nine kids, two of whom are 13, so they hardly count as little munchkins, right? But those cooky-cooky people went a bit overboard and I have coq au vin running out of my ears. I know, I know, having coq in one’s ears can be messy, but DAYUM! And it was some good coq, but a bit too much to handle. And of course I had to share my extra coq with my darlin’ BFF Antipo—because she likes coq as much as I do. And now I’m getting e-mails from her about how yummy my nice hot juicy coq is on a lonely winter’s day. It’s INSANE. Oh, and the rest of it was good, too.

Vivi mentioned several times something about how we were going to get the devil out of MP3. So I’ll leave you with this: Do you think we succeeded? (click the photo, and you'll see what I mean)

I have my doubts…

When Blogger wants to cooperate...

2007-09-18T23:29:00.000+02:00

…and let me upload pictures, I’ll tell you all about the fun-filled weekend that you are so desperate to hear about. But in the meantime, does anyone know anything about hedgehogs? Because there’s this big fat muther of a hedgehog that’s been hanging out in front of the house for the past couple of nights and it’s sneaking up to my front door and stealing the leftovers of my nasty habit (i.e. cigarette butts) and strewing them across the driveway. It just seems unnatural.

I wonder if it has anything to do with that UFO I saw the other night.

They've got to be kidding...

2007-09-14T10:25:00.000+02:00

Go Read THIS.

Especially the last paragraph.

Now tell me, WHAT MOTHER DOES NOT FEEL THIS WAY?

Christ, they should put all of us under the jail.

Chaos

2007-09-11T14:38:00.000+02:00

Why is it that all my plans always seem to turn to shit at that critical moment. Everything starts out well. I get everything planned out, figure out what needs to be done, and then, whosh, it all falls to total shit.

I should jut give up.

Saturday we’re planning on having a grand old time for our fifth wedding anniversary (it’s actually Friday, but who wants to celebrate alone?). Folks are coming in for the baptism on Sunday and we figured it would be a nice opportunity to goof off a bit. Menu is planned, chores have been given out to various people, one of whom is going to be kind enough to attempt a certain dish I’m not feeling smart enough to do. (Yep, I was serious about that, else we'll have no veg with our meat. The horror!) All seems great!

Then Mr. Organized decides that having the friends around is also a great time to pick the friggin apples and squish ‘em and start them on the road to fermentation. Lovely. But Mr. Organized (first name is Notso) forgets that I like to plan these things in advance, so that I’m not stuck at the last minute with fifteen hungry souls trapped around a table while I’m trying to de-bone chicken thighs and feed a three month old and keep a toddler alive and keep a three-year-old from sticking forks in a light socket—one that’s still hanging from a wire four years after the renovation was started. I can multi-task, mais pas a ce point la!

AND: someone has to set up the place (wherever that turns out to be) where we’ll be eating Sunday—all forty of us. There are tables and chairs to set up, the table needs to be dressed, the buffet put up. There are THINGS THAT NEED TO BE DONE. But these finer points of entertaining escape him. The fact that we aren’t exactly sure where we’ll be eating is certainly playing on his mind, along with the myriad of other things—all business related , of course, but he is the one that needs to worry about them—but it’s not doing much more than playing. I don’t know if he thinks a magical solution will just present itself or what.

No, I do know that’s exactly what he’s thinking, because that’s what usually happens.

Hi, My name is Magical Solution.

Actually I’m already sick of the whole thing. Mr. Organized complains that each time his friends come it’s chaos, and he’s sad he doesn’t get to spend as much time as he’d like with each of them. I can totally understand and relate to that. I’m usually running after kids when my friends are around and that is a huge conversation killer. But I often feel like the whole of the work gets dumped on me, gets thanklessly dumped on me and hey, these are his kids, too.

But there’s the Farm Argument, and while the farm is paying the vast majority of the bills I can’t really bitch too much. Well, I can, but then he and I sit there and try to figure out traceless ways of killing each other.

I hate those apple tress. I really do.

And I’m not too particularly fond of the farm, either.

Especially the putain de farm equipment that keeps breaking. All. The. Damn. Time.

But it’s not only Mr. Organized that’s throwing wrenches in the machine. It’s this place. It’s the mayor. It’s just fricking life. Everything is conspiring against me. The weather’s turning cold, so our lovely champagne-cellar/barn/garage thing is out. No sense in having people sit down to eat if their butts are only going to freeze to the benches. The mayor is just a prat and I’m so sick about him closing down the church and kicking us out that I have to physically restrain myself every time he sticks his smiling, pro-American face out of his window to tell me I shouldn’t smoke. 97.8% of our guests have replied in one form or the other. That missing 2.2% will either show up or not. I have to move beyond caring about details. And let’s face it, 2.2% is a detail.

So as things stand now, tomorrow is the last of the Big Clean. No sense in doing it too early or I’ll just fuck it up again and who has time to do housework? Not I. (Seriously, those of you who don’t have nine weeks of dirty dishes piled up beside the dishwasher that hasn’t been unpacked for a month, or fifteen loads of laundry waiting desperately to be washed before they rot, or floors that will protect you should the Earth ever lose its gravitational pull, HOW THE HELL DO YOU MANAGE?) Thursday is the Big Shop, because we can at least pretend that the fresh eggs in the dessert are fresh, right? Friday is the Big Prep, because you know, animals? They come with bones. Bones are too crunchy to eat. And Saturday, is the Big Chaos. Mr. Organized is under the assumption that those not arriving by train will be here at Sparrow Fart. Ha! (Mr. Organized forgets that certain folks work Saturday morning, and others live far away, and even others have other things to do, things more important than wallowing in sheep dung while shaking apples off a tree, and still others have a combination or even all three of these things going on in their non-farm-related lives. Forgive him, but Mr. Organized hasn’t lived in the non-farm-related realm for entirely too long.) I don’t even want to think about Sunday. If I make it to the Big Sprinkle and the Big Feed afterwards I will consider myself extremely lucky. If not, maybe the dingleberry they elected to run this joint will open the church for my funeral.

Then again, that’s a sure-fire way to bring the roof down.

Choices

2007-09-08T10:40:00.000+02:00

Parenting brings with it many challenges. The latest here seems to be choosing between having a neat house and eating. I chose eating. See the result?

This particular mess was created by Pooplette in the time it took me to make soup from a mix--three minutes folks! Ya know, fasting is looking like a good idea.

and on this happy note...

2007-09-06T23:30:00.000+02:00

10ruedelacharme

WANTED FOR THE ABNORMAL MANGLING of a HELLISH FROG'S BUTTOCKS

$3300

What's Your Blog Wanted For?
...I think I'll go do just that!

Je suis vert !

2007-09-04T22:19:00.000+02:00

Tonight I am not a happy camper. For those of you not in the know (and that’s honestly not because I don’t love you, but because I don’t have space for all of you), we’re holding Melanie’s baptism on the 16^th. We’ve been really excited about this because finally we're going to be able to baptize one of our children in Marc’s village, in the church his ancestors built, the same church where les Poulot have been baptized for centuries. We weren’t able to do this for either of older monkeys because they hold mass in this church only twice a year and we were never able to line things up to do it there. The 16^th is also the village fête, so we’ve got entertainment built right in—rides for everyone! Just what you need after a ‘light’ sit-down, post-sprinkling lunch.

On the 15^th of August we had a mini-tempest blow through. It only lasted about ten minutes, but it did a lot of damage. A LOT. Like it ripped up part of the roof on our new house (covered by insurance!! so we weren’t one bit sad about that), broke out windows and punched through shutters all over the place. It was such a strong storm that the stained pillars in the front of our house are no longer stained—they’ve been hail-blasted. But it also hit the roof of the church pretty hard.

Pretty hard…HA! A few of the roof tiles got broken and a few others flew off. So they mayor has all but condemned the place. No Mass. No baptism. We’ve been kicked out of our church and told to go next door. To ANOTHER village.

I’m so pissed off I don’t know what to do. It’s not like we’re going to get another shot at this (oh God, please not). And it’s not like the damn roof is going to fall in on us (I’m not getting married again, ferchrissake—it’s a baptism—not exactly something God would bring the roof down on me for).

All of this for a few roof tiles…

Does this man not realize how many people I now have to call, how many plans will need to be changed…for a few fucking tiles?

I need some booze.

PS—a note to Mme ArtyFartyPants: Who needs you anyway? I managed to locate and fabricate and over-stuff-icate all the lovely, sexy, Dragée bags all by my lonesome! And are they DEE-Lish! Ha! And Melanie says, “Imagine, thinking of choosing an ArtyFartPants for my Godmother so MomsyDarling wouldn’t need to express herself so artistically and put the world to shame! Bwahahaha!” OK, actually what she said was, “Arrrrrrrrrrghrrrrrrrr”, so I’ve interpreted for you because Her Loveliness isn’t feeling particularly articulate today. Love, Her Royal High(ney)ness

10 million things to do

2007-08-30T09:45:00.000+02:00

My parents used to joke that I was an accident waiting to happen. It’s true. From the piercing of the feet with nails and even the odd bit of fencing (which went all the way through my foot and had to be removed by a doctor) because I refused (and still do) to wear shoes, to the dislocating of the knee, to falling UP the stairs (rarely if ever down, like normal people). I’ve done it all. My last two years of high school I broke both of my wrists a total of eight times. My knees have been operated on around a dozen times and yes, I can predict the weather with the subsequent arthritis from all my injuries.

Yesterday I did manage to fall DOWN the stairs. I had Melanie in my arms and while I did manage to keep her from being injured, I can’t say the same for myself. So here I sit with my brand spanking new ankle restraint and sexy blue plastic and aluminum crutches. And heaps of guilt over what could have been. (I’m ashamed to say that my daughter did end up falling as well. I held on to her as best I could, but when I bounced she kind of flew out of my arms. Fortunately (maybe not the best word) she only had a scare, a very big scare. And she probably will never trust me again.)

I got to have another fun trip to the Horrible Hospital in Chaumont. Folks, NEVER go there. NEVER! It’s horrible and the idea of communication is so non-existent it isn’t funny. After waiting for three hours, Marc went to find out what was going on. I mean, seriously, how hard can it be to wheel someone down to x-ray? Apparently very hard since the x-ray was out of commission and wouldn’t be up and running before 8 o’clock that night. Of course, no one bothered to tell us this, preferring instead to leave us rotting in a room. Neither of us had eaten lunch and the kids were spread all over God’s green half acre and ya know, when you’re a parent, you kinda need to take care of your kids—not send them off to the town hall with your sister-in-law while she works or out to the doctor’s office with their grandparents. Things like that just aren’t cool.

I ranted and raved at the Doctor, who apparently had no idea the x-ray machine was kaput; Marc ranted and raved at a stupid ass bitchy nurse who said we didn’t have the right to a wheel chair so I could leave and go maybe someplace where the x-ray machine isn’t broken and where people would tell us if it were.

At least they gave me a prescription for drugs, and a brace, and crutches. If my memory serves me correctly, these are all things I would normally receive in any emergency room in the US for the same injury. Oh, but not in France.** Here, you get to walk on your very sprained/possibly broken ankle to the pharmacy once you leave the ER hellhole. Did Michael Moore mention that?

Lesson learned: Never go back to Chuamont. Stick to the nice folks in Saint Dizier, who, even if they are farther away, will at least treat you with dignity and respect. And if I have any life threatening illnesses or injuries in the future, I’ll just go to the pharmacy, because hell, I’ll end up there anyway.

So, I’m back to being a hobbly half-handicapped person (physically this time, we all know I’m about 100% mentally handicapped) with all of Hung Chow’s Chinese laundry to do. My house is a disaster area (blame that on the late-to-set-in-post-partum-blues, baby), and in two and a half weeks the masses are descending upon us to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary and Melanie’s Christening (for which we do have a dress, thanks God-Mommy Vivi!). I have an idea of what we’ll be eating for dinner Saturday night—and yes I’m cooking, or at least that’s the plan as of right now. But for Sunday, hell, I haven’t even thought of that yet, other than dragées and champagne, because I love those things and jeez, my priorities are in line, right?

So I need to take care of menus and catering and all the other fun things that go along with gathering all the family and friends for yet another not-so-intimate meal. Marc’s right (oh God, I said it), I should really scale these things down and just invite one or two couples at a time so he can talk more with his friends. But then, where’s the stress in that?

Monkeyboy is still thrilled about going to school. We have absolutely no idea of what goes on there because he can’t quite get past his excitement over the bus ride. The bus is cool. He gets to go to school on the bus, and the bus rocks. Bus this and bus that and bus everything else. Whatever is going on between bus rides, however, remains a mystery. Did I mention the bus is cool?

And the girls are at the crèche. Pooplette is amazing everyone with the progress she’s made in her vocabulary in just three short weeks. She’s a talker! And MP3 is charming everyone. She’s an absolute angel and the folks at the crèche are just gaga over her. I’m probably only going to take them in twice a week, maybe three times—just to give myself a break and give Pooplette a much-needed outlet with other kids. I’ve grown rather fond of having all three of the terrorists hanging around and without them it’s eerily quiet.

Of course, when they’re not around I have no excuses about not getting things done, like the mountain of laundry that’s blocking all access to the bathroom or the dishes stacked up by the sink, or any of the millions of other things I’m in charge of. So I’m just gunna grab my crutch and hop (litterally) to it.

In the meantime, enjoy a bit of beauty:

**Marc once had to have surgery at the clinic and beforehand had to go to the pharmacy to get everything they needed—syringes, scalpel, gauze pads, and even the anesthetic—things you’d think they’d stock in the OR even if it is a clinic. This is an odd place.

Sometimes it's the little things...

2007-08-27T09:42:00.000+02:00

Ya know how in the States all the calendars start with Sunday? So that first big cube with the date written in it is Sunday and the second one is Monday? Right?

Well in France it ain’t like that. They start with Monday.

You’d think after seven years here I’d have beaten that fact into my head, right?

Nope!

So imagine, if you will, how idiotic I feel after having driven 30 kilometers round trip to take my girls in to the crèche that reopens on the 28^th because that’s what the second block said the date was…

…except the calendar is French.

Shoot me now!

ça y est !

2007-08-23T10:34:00.001+02:00

Voici le petit écolier…

…toujours très content d’aller à l’école !

Milestone

2007-08-22T22:51:00.000+02:00

Tomorrow is la rentrée here, at least for the schools that only go four days a week. And since our local maternelle, located in the very next village, falls in that category, Muppet will be taking the next Big Step in life. He’s heading to school.

He received a letter from la maîtresse a few weeks ago detailing what is going to happen now that he’s a grand garçon and what he needs to bring along with him. That letter was a magic charm and has given us such leverage when trying to get him to do things that I almost regret we’ll no longer be able to use it. He is so excited about going to school, so thrilled that he’ll be going on the bus with the other children, and that too has given us a lot of leverage. We’ve been able to motivate him to move on from certain things (like the end of the breakfast and goûter bottles which have been replaced with cereal! In a bowl! and a glass of chocolate milk respectively) by evilly threatening the possibility that he may not be quite old enough to go to school should he not do what we want. And we’ve actually gotten him to keep his slippers on in the house because that’s what they do at school, and well, school is The Schnizzle, ya know?

Tomorrow Marc and I will both take him in—and the idea of that makes me so happy I end up leaking tears constantly. Mémé is keeping the girls for us and Marc’s taking precious time out of his day for the event—something I didn’t even have to ask him to do because I think this moment is just as important for him as it is for me (that and he thinks Muppet’s teacher is kind of cute, but hell, motivation is motivation, right?). After the morning session he’ll come home on the bus for lunch, and take the bus back in the afternoon.

“Mama,” he says to me, “Je vais à l’école…en bus…et je ne reviens plus!”* This breaks my heart. I’m putting him out in the world, loosening my control of what influences him, giving him wings. It’s frightening. It’s hard. It’s heavenly! Yes, a bit of calm in my day is going to be just fine.

He’s had a hard time getting to sleep tonight. I think he’s nervous and excited about tomorrow. He’s got more emotion about going to school than he’s ever had for Christmas (although I imagine that will change this year, now that the idea of just what gifts are has sunk into his marble coated head). I’m excited for him.

His school bag is packed and ready. He clothes are all laid out. The alarm is set. I’m turning my baby out into the world. Please be gentle.

* “Mama, I’m going to school…on the bus…and I’m not coming back!”

2007-08-19T09:52:00.000+02:00

I need to find more time to write. I feel almost like a virgin sitting here again. It’s creepy.

Quick updates:

We had a huge storm blow through here last Wednesday. The winds were blowing around 100 km/hr and gusting even higher than that which turned the rain that was falling into a wall of water. We had hail as well. I went out when the pea sized stuff was falling to put the car in the garage and got stuck across the street while the golf-ball sized stuff came down. (And felt like a moron for forgetting my smoky treats-because if that wasn’t the perfect opportunity….) Trees got ripped up, branches were flying and everyone in the neighborhood has damage of some sort. Here we lost a window. Up on the hill we last part of our roof, a couple of shutters, a porte-fenêtre, and the wooden supports in the front of the house took such a beating from the hail they look as though they’ve been sand-blasted. So we have to re-stain them. Feeling up to a bit of it, Vi? It only lasted ten minutes, but, God was it heavenly. I miss real weather.

Monkey-1 starts school on Thursday. I cannot begin to describe his excitement about this. He’s going to SCHOOL! On the BUS! Could life honestly be any better? He’s got his school bag ready, and has worn it pretty much non-stop since we picked it out—even had the girl at the checkout put the bar code in manually because he simply could not part with it long enough for her to scan the damn thing. A friend bought him some colored pencils and a sharpener and you’d think that the ensemble was the key to happiness. The last day at the crèche the directrice asked him what she was going to do now that he was leaving for school. He looked at her all serious and said, “Well, you’re going to cry.” Yep, he’s confident.

Monkey-2 refuses to stop growing. She’s so tall. And smart. And she uses this to her advantage. She wants to do all the things the older kids do, meaning she’s constantly in trouble. But of course, when it comes to punishment she thinks she should be granted a reprieve—she’s so little after all. Her vocabulary is amazing for someone of her age—up over 50 words already and the occasional full sentence tossed in for good measure. She’s 19-months old and is constantly asked why she isn’t in school. Uh, they don’t take ‘em that young around here. So we might just start her next year…

Monkey-3 is a doll. She’s all the things you could ask for in a baby. She still sleeps all night, she doesn’t fuss, she never screams (that’s so lovely after all the trauma her sister subjected us to). She’s worshipped by her older siblings and has taken to giving them a quirky sort of smile whenever they come near. Methinks she’ll be able to manipulate them fairly easily in the future.

August is the month of marriages around here. We had two yesterday, so we split the family for that. Marc and Monkey-1 got finished very early and joined us in time for me to get nice and happy, though not completely smashed. Marc likes when I get happy like that. He usually ends up happy too, and if that’s TMI, well, tant pis! And the oddest thing happened to me at the reception. Our next door neighbor’s son, a cousin of the groom and an old friend and teammate of Marc’s mentioned he’d found me blog. And this completely freaked me out. And made me feel like a star. And then he complained I only write in English, so maybe we’ll change that here soon. (It would be easier to explain just WHY the Hubz is an alien without translating.)

Today I’m abandoned again and have to joyous task of packing all three kids in the car to go to the annual farm festival bullshit thing with three kids! Woohoo! (Please, someone, shoot me now!) I’m going to try to get over to see Vi and find a Christening gown for my perfect little MP3 bundle of happiness Monday, as she’s so busy otherwise. Tuesday is one last visit before la rentrée with friends I haven’t seen all summer long. And Wednesday we prepare for Thursday's Big Event. Next week the crèche opens back up and I might be able to 1. rest-up a bit, 2. clean the house, and 3. find a bit of sanity. (Don’t hold your breath for any of those things.) Marc’s looking forward to this event as well, in hopes that it makes me almost as happy as wedding punch and champagne soup—not likely, but we’ll just leave him his dreams OK? And then we’re on to the next big adventure—the 5th anniversary and baptism with a frightening number of people and food involved. Yippee.

So, there, y’all is all up to date with ussens.

Can I have a dozen please...

2007-08-09T21:43:00.000+02:00

Neglected

2007-08-08T22:51:00.000+02:00

Dear Blog,

I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you lately, sorry I’ve put you on the back burner, out of sight (yet not out of mind—I still compose the most amazing posts in my head where they do all of no good), sorry I haven’t poured forth all the craziness running around in my brain like I need to so I can stay sane. There are only a certain number of hours in every day and sadly, darling blog, you don’t scream for attention…like certain others in my life.

See, life as a single parent, something I never ever wanted but am forced into all too often, is not very easy. No, Mr. Man-thing and I haven’t split. Hell didn’t get that cold yet. But it is summer, not that you can tell from the weather, and that means harvesting, preparing the ground for the next crop, and eventually sowing it. It means hay and straw, wheat and barley, and that lovely thing called rape—not the violent kind, the eco-fuel kind. It also means going to sleep in an empty bed and waking up in a bed just as empty, even though it’s a shared bed for a few hours in-between.

Three young kids keep me occupied constantly. I haven’t even been able to pee in private since The Au Pair went home. Well, that’s not exactly true. I did try to tinkle with the door pulled to, but Pooplette took advantage of that and climbed the stairs so quietly that I never heard a thing. I found her sitting on her father’s computer on top of his desk, a full meter and a half above ground level, in a hallway with a huge, half-opened staircase in it—so not exactly the safest of play areas. And considering what that monkey is capable of…well, let’s just say I’ll be leaving the door wide open from now on.

In between runs to the emergency room, the doctor, the dentist and all other things that go on in normal life, I’ve also had to ride out to the fields carrying lunch, water, and a smile to my other, absent half. I’ve tried so hard to keep a positive outlook through this harvest season, and because of that I’ve been able to keep the self-indulgent rants to a minimum. And it seems to be working. Mr. Man-thing and I are still on happy terms this late in the season, something that usually only lasts about four hours into the harvest when the first problem arises and the universe starts revealing it’s true bitch-ass nature. I’ve received ‘real’ (read as material) gifts for my birthday without leaving a ‘this is what you will get me if you want me to continue talking to you’ list, a bouquet of hand-picked wild flowers for absolutely no reason, and more than a few compliments. Hell, I even got an apology after a certain someone realized he was just a tad wrong (funny story that, one I should share if only I had the time).

I’m starting to get into a routine with three kids home all the time. Let’s face it, parenting is 99.9% faking it and .01% luck. Of course, having something with a 90% alcohol content helps at times. Speaking of drugs, I must admit I’ve abandoned you for my old addiction. Yes, bad me. I could take the occasional five minute break to pour my heart out to you, but instead I spend in outside, trying to control the nervous tick I’ve developed since all three kids are home full-time, smoking my old brand of cancer sticks. Boo me. Go ahead, you can say it. I’m weak and pathetic, but at least I’m no longer climbing the walls.

There are so many things I wanted to tell you, odd things, happy things, and a few sad things that I can’t seem to get out of my mind. But I haven’t had time. I fall into bed mentally exhausted every night, worn out from all the disciplining, teaching, loving, and trying-to-stay-on-top-of-it-all crap that goes on in life. My kids amaze me every single day and while I am thrilled to be a part of this wonderful space in the universe, I’m not too sure how my sanity is going to survive.

Having said that, I’m going to go sneak outside again before the next bottle, while the monkeys are all sleeping, and neglect you for five more minutes—just call it a sanity break.

Love ya,

Doc

Hungry ?

2007-08-02T23:22:00.000+02:00

Childsmenu

1 pizzetta

1 horn of ice cream

1 drink

(coca-cola, orangina or limonade)

pizzetta can be replaced by hamburger or pastes

Feel like feeding your kid paste? At a restaurant? In a foreign country where you don’t speak the language? I didn’t think so. And when I saw this sign posted in one of our local restaurants I felt compelled to fix it—after I picked myself up off the sidewalk where I fell down laughing, of course.

I know the owners. They come in and out of the tourist office a lot when I’m there. I’ve eaten in their restaurant on several occasions. It’s where I had my first French Movie Star sighting. While I’m far from a regular, I’m hardly an unknown.

So you can imagine how shocked I felt when, after gently explaining to the wife of the husband-and-wife team that the sign was tad incorrect, I was basically told to go fuck myself. Not only was my English translation not needed, she insisted the sign was in Dutch, and that, in any case, her husband had translated it On Line. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh Kaaaaay.

So I walked meekly back to the tourism office, ego shattered and all sense of well being lost, figuring that I should probably never ever again offer to do something nice for my fellow man, or woman in this case, handed our Super Tourism Office Girl the post-it note with my correction scribbled on it, explained how horrible people are, and left town.

When I picked the kids up tonight I noticed the sign had been changed.

Then I ran into STOG who gave me the scoop. See, Husband came by the office about fifteen minutes after I left looking for me. She gave him the translation, explaining that offering a variety of glue on his children’s menu would probably not do much to bring in English-speaking clientele, and how I was just trying to help out—“Elle est gentille comme ça, vous savez.”

He got his free translation, and instead of an apology, I got a menu to correct.

I’m thinking, maybe offering glue to the Anglos might just be good for them after all…

We’re going to call her Slash

2007-07-29T14:51:00.000+02:00

Saturday, and another evening having pizza with the crew, or the remnants of the crew, or, in this case, Jean-Marc, the only one left of the crew who is still insane enough to visit old friends who happen to have three little monsters. And seeing as how the newly-returned house-funk has sucked me of all drive, I didn’t even think to have anything for dessert.

Christine, bless her heart, took it upon herself to save me from this embarrassing point. We’d only just finished the pizzas, when, as Marc was passing me his empty box, Pooplette decided to grab his knife, his very sharp, very pointy, HUGE pizza knife. Marc and I both went for it at the same time—an 18-month old with a pizza machete is a dangerous thing.

A very dangerous thing it turns out. She saw her father coming with that ‘I’m going to take your knife away’ look in his eye. She didn’t see me. But she stabbed me anyway—right under my index finger, palm side.

So our charming Saturday evening pizza dinner without dessert was saved before we even got to the point of me having to meekly admit I had no dessert—because Marc had to take me in to the emergency room…

…where we were told we’d have to wait ‘une petite heure’ before the Dr. could sew me up. ‘Une petite heure’ in Haute-Marne, should you ever need to know, means more like two hours and fifteen minutes. But I eventually got sewn up (two stitches) by the nice Syrian doctor who didn’t quite wait long enough for the local anesthetic to kick in before stitching my hand back together. I wonder if that’s because I told him I’m American…

So Pooplette has a new nickname, and me? You can just call me Claw.

down

2007-07-27T11:30:00.000+02:00

Well folks it is possible to read the new Harry Potter in a mere two days with three monkeys in tow, and without neglecting them to the point that the neighbors call Social Services. This has got to be my greatest moment to date. I’m so proud of me.

Yesterday I turned 29 again. Marc, who is probably not telling me he is dying of some untreatable condition, has showered me with gifts. I racked up all four Harry Potter DVDs, a brand spanking new spiffy digital camera, and, as if getting actual gifts wasn’t enough, he took me out to dinner in a nice restaurant.

I’ll admit, I would have been happy with a sandwich on a park bench somewhere, so long as we were alone. But he took me to a nice restaurant where, oddly, we both seemed to feel rather out of place. And the food! Was! HORRIBLE! OMG! I had a tartine campagnarde as an entrée. It’s a slice of bread topped with jambon cru, sliced potatoes, and raclette cheese. Sounds good, right? Except they microwaved it before sticking it under the grill. French bread is impossible to cut with a chainsaw once it gets nuked and the potatoes were still cold. It did get better after that, but I was so let down by the entrée that the rest was just lost on me. The service was good, though.

And afterwards we went to a real café and had coffee. It was much cheaper than at the restaurant and we were able to sit outside and enjoy the night air. And talk. It was a nice end to the evening.

But sadly it wasn’t enough to pull me out of my new funk. We went up to the house the other day to check on a few things and five minutes after walking in the door I was in tears. I simply cannot go up there any more. It sucks all my happy feelings away. When I see how light and airy and SPACIOUS that place is compared to the cave we live in here, how much space there is for the kids, how much easier it will be to exist in that space than here, and realize that we are no where near being able to live there, that once we fix the place we’ll probably have to sell it because there’s absolutely no way we can afford it anymore, I just get too sad. That was our dream, and now…

Blogus Interruptus!

2007-07-21T09:39:00.001+02:00

I'll be back in 600+ pages...

You talking to me?

2007-07-19T22:29:00.000+02:00

This moment of pinchable cheeky goodness brought to you by Moi. Enjoy, and leave lots of yummy comments about how I am the maker of all that cuteness--because Marc? He only contributed ONE CELL! I did the rest! ME! (yeah, it's still all about me....)

cultural differences?

2007-07-18T08:16:00.000+02:00

I've been reorganizing my photos and using the time to reflect on where I came from......and where I am now...

I promise I'll post more when things calm down.

Putting Two and Two Together…

2007-07-07T17:57:00.000+02:00

My sister, the second one, is a nurse. She works in a hospital and gets to see a lot of interesting things, like dead people. And some of these people have absolutely no reason to be dead. And apparently, no matter how suspicious the circumstances surrounding the deaths of these people, the local DA refuses to do so much as an autopsy because, ready? They Cost Too Much. (Makes me wonder if Marc’s got a long lost brother practicing law in Tennessee.) Of course, if the family wishes, they can pay to have an autopsy done, but then the admissibility in court is rather questionable.

My mother-in-law got on my nerves big time this morning. My cats have been going in the flower beds to do their business. She insists that this is killing her flowers. Honestly they’ve never looked better. So when she saw Lucy walking that way this morning she pitched a royal fit which ended up with Lucy being so stressed she bit me. Lucy never bites people—she’s too laid back and lazy. So the MIL isn’t exactly on my list of people I want to deal with, especially considering all the other crap I have to put up with on that front.

So I’m thinking, maybe I should invite her to my sister’s house for a visit….

Frantic Friday and The Milestone to Manic Monday and Les Soldes That Save

2007-07-03T14:18:00.000+02:00

Easiest first. The Milestone. MP3 hit one month Friday, and just like you and me she’s never been so old in her life. So we had the regular Dr. visit and all is well except she isn’t gaining weight—she’s not loosing any either. We (her parents) think she’s just resetting herself after the nightmarish pre-birth weight gain thing that made her look at birth like a violet version of The Incredible Hulk and that she’ll take off as soon as she’s where her body should be anyway. Given the size of her siblings that should be around now. And to reassure me that I am, as usual, right, she’s started showing signs of an increased appetite. So, we’ll see.

In other news, Frantic Friday—what a shit day! Everything went fine until I got to the Centre LeClerc where they were sold the fuck out of the double stroller I’d spent the better part of the last five years (slight exaggeration) convincing my husband to let me buy. Bastards. This completely ruined my day. We had the Rallye Poussette that afternoon and no poussette. Fuck!

And because I’m still technically postpartum depression material, this threw me into a funk that I’m not quite out of. See, my entire weekend centered on having that damn stroller. Getting out and about with three kids three and under is nightmarish, and while the stroller won’t cure all that ails me, it would have gone a long way towards making things survivable. And as I chuck the older two off on the professionals during the week, I do want to do things with them on the weekend.

Notice I said I want to do things with them. Their father is conspicuously absent and will continue to be for a while, but that’s normal. We’re going right into the harvest now and the idea of not having his sweet loving presence (for once, that is NOT sarcasm) around scares the living crap out of me. Know all those single moms who amaze you with how they get all that stuff done? That’s not me. Single motherhood is not for me. But it’s what I get to look forward to for the summer, every summer.

I should have listened to my friend Lisa when she told me to marry a mechanic.

But marrying a mechanic would not get me a double stroller any quicker, nor would it smooth over the beginning of another baby equipment war, the winds of which were swirling already. Fortunately the farmer was available that afternoon so he got to strap on a baby and push a stroller while I pushed another in the rallye. All was well in the world.

Was. See, nothing can go smoothly in my life for any length of time. It’s against the rules apparently. After the big rallye, which was cute in its way, there was a goûter dînatoire—or a big fat snack time thing that can technically take the place of dinner. And during this time Muppet, who usually has a big appetite as long as there are no cool toys crying out to be played with—like the famous motorcycle at the crèche that no one else way playing with and that he could take out in the parking lot because it was closed off and there were no cars in it—decided to take it upon himself to provide the entertainment. The parking lot is on a slope, and he would push that moto up to the top like a crazy person, turn it around, line it up just right, push off and then glide (flying like, sans wings) down the parking lot and over the storm drain, his target. It was absolutely hysterical seeing the look on his face. Would that we all were so carefree. Carefree, that is until someone from the lower echelon of crèche motorsports (meaning a kid on a tricycle) pulls out in front of you at just the wrong moment.

I’d heard of sounds giving one nausea, but never thought it possible until that moment. The sound of my sons head smacking on the pavement after somersaulting in the air over the tricycle was definitely enough to make my stomach rise. The subsequent screams, though, were enough to put everything back in order and let me spring into action. I ended up taking him in to see the doctor because one of his eyes appeared to be dilated right after and he had blood tricking out of the nostril on the other side of his head from where he came crashing down to earth.

So Doctorwards we headed, Muppet and I, dropping off Marc and the girls on the way. Turns out he’s fine, but we did have to keep a good eye on him for the next 48 hours, including waking him up in the night to make sure he was fine. Ever try to wake a three year old? Not only is it almost impossible, but if you can manage to do it, you get to look Satan in the face.

By the time Saturday rolled around I was feeling less than nice. In fact, staring at Satan made some of his evilness rub off on me, and we all know I am the last person in need of a new dose of evil. Especially when the winds of the baby equipment wars are already stirring. And when I’m hormonal. No sleep + postpartum hormones – double stroller + unwitting, mis-communicative husband with whom I have no common language = very bad time. Long story short, The Hubs realized that sometimes I think the way I do for a GOOD reason, and I realized there are other ways of making him understand than beating him with large cooking implements. Peace was made in time for the arrival of the Welshman, the Spaniard and the Power Triumvirate from some utterly quaint and picturesque village in France.

For those of you not in the know, Antipo makes the perfect house guest. Not only does she arrive bearing tents and various other essential camping gear—meaning no need to find (and make) beds, she also packs her car with drool-inducing goodies like veal braised in shallots and wine, dreadfully sinful Snickers pie, and, because we can’t be complete calorie whores, all the ingredients needed to make grilled fruits with almond paste and crème. All I had to do was toss together a bit of smashed taters (peeled by a charming Welshman grumbling something about having finished with peeling potatoes when he finished with the army) and make a tiny bit of an appetiser (steamed shrimp and melon with Bayonne ham) .

On top of the culinary delights, she brings along her charming, darling, perfectly behaved children who take turns documenting their séjour with the camera and running after the screaming banshees—those who run. The new one whiled away the afternoon snuggled up to Antipo’s bosom. I’m not sure who was the happier person.

Sunday everyone went out hiking in the woods, dodging the occasional rain drop, and scarfing down grilled animal parts. It was a peaceful day, peaceful enough even for Pooplette who surprised me by following her father’s advice and taking a nap in her (single) stroller. Why is it she only listens to him? If that had been my idea she’d have screamed for hours on end.

All too fast the day passed us by and I found myself again telling the Welshman goodbye. It was somehow sadder this time around as we have no real plans about when we’ll see him next. Funny how people like that can just float into your lives and touch you like that. He became family to us practically from the word go, so he better come back. Or else!

Antipo and brood came next, successfully packing up their campsite and leaving not a trace of their presence (except for the yummy left-overs so considerately hidden away in the fridge—they were even yummier the next day). Mr. Menopause would have been proud I think, especially with the ease she demonstrated when folding up the tents.

And thusly the weekend ended, with a few moments of calm that seemed eerily silent after such a fun weekend. On to Monday, when the craziness begin anew…

Monday: Pump the boobs, wake, dress, feed the kids, drive said kids to the crèche, return home, grab the baby, grab the 360€ in gift certificates that are supposed to be good at Toys R Us but might not work if you fall into the wrong cashier’s hands, drive the 200 kilometers to Dijon cursing because of the late start and newfound inability to drive at least the speed limit—meaning I’ve somehow mutated into all the Sunday drivers I’ve spent my life cursing, arrive at Toys R Us, ask one more time to make sure the gift certificates are good, breathe a sigh of relief, track down super-amazing double stroller, see another super-amazing double stroller for 90€ less, rethink decision, decide to buy cheaper stroller, see another super-amazing double stroller for 90€ (last season’s model—exactly the same as second stroller except not the same color—marked down from 179.99€), re-rethink (like there was any need to think about it), check with sales girl who carries it up to the front with a smile, find super-duper bottle warmer/sterilizer/baby food warmer/baby food cooker with a chopper in a hopper thing that I cannot live without on sale cheaper than cheap, toss it into the buggy as well (got to make up for that 170€ I’ve just saved on the double stroller), grab new nipples (sale!) and a mattress (sale!) for the crib we do not have and meander to the check out, noticing the super high chairs that Marc admires are on sale for half price, check out, call The Hubs, inform him of the Incredible Savings, discuss the possibility of returning for the high chairs, hem, haw, discuss, hem, haw, feed MP3, complain to the guy sitting in his car smoking right next to mine that the smoke is coming in my car, could he please do that elsewhere, grumble, finish by locking myself in a closed car during the only five minutes of sun had in Dijon, sweat, do the boob thing, return to Toys R Us, buy two of the high chairs—of which there were incredibly fewer since my last trip through an hour before, repack car with tons of baby stuff, drag self into restaurant area of Le Toison d’Or, eat, set off in quest to find the Fnac, fail miserably, end up in an underground parking lot (don’t ask—just know that it’s all Vivi’s fault because whenever she’s around, no matter how lost I get us, we always come out smelling like roses and since she wasn’t there, well, her fault!), do booby thingy again, give up on the Fnac, try to find road home, succeed, with difficulty, and leave Dijon at the same time as I’m supposed to be sitting down with the nice neighbor from Italy who is coming to see MP3 and bring her a gift—FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!, arrive home in time to feed MP3, unload the car, pee, and dash off to get the kiddies at the crèche, spend evening in daze, fall snoring to bed. Wake up at the ass-crack of dawn with screaming boobies.

And sometime this week I want to take the kids out for shoes. Bwahahahahaha……………………

Thursday

2007-06-28T17:36:00.000+02:00

The level of nice around here has been obnoxiously high. I can’t, as much pleasure as it gives me, sit here and bitch about The Other Half because, honestly, there’s nothing too interesting to bitch about. He’s been good lately, and good is, well, it’s boring. I haven’t thrown anything in weeks. My arm is getting all flabby.

(Thank you for not pointing out that my arm was already all flabby to begin with.)

I’m Staying On Top Of Things and it’s such a weird feeling that I’m lost. Getting Things Done is just not natural to me and I honestly have no idea what I’m doing some days. I’ll find myself doing laundry, not because I have nothing else to wear, but because there just happens to be enough to make a load. Or I’ll catch myself washing a pot because there’s no room left in the dishwasher and I just don’t feel like letting it sit until the next run. Hell, I even sweep regularly. Something is seriously wrong.

And I’ve been nice lately. NICE. Not only is this so completely against the postpartum hormone-induced melancholy that I’ve been fighting since the birth of Muppet, but I’ve done it while enduring an abscessed tooth for an entire week because Dr. PainFreeDentistry is on vacation and I had to drag myself (against my will) into the Evil Dentist who swears that more than one shot of anesthesia for a root canal is just waste and get said root canal done while sweating profusely because PAIN SUCKS BIGTIME and not only all that but I had to pour all my lovely breast milk down the drain for an entire day and a half because Marc’s Sexy Doctor MADE ME take drugs to make my tooth feel better because I cried all the way through Marc’s physical because I was IN PAIN. (This run-on sentence brought to you by one of my ‘don’t breathe just talk’ moments.)

So it’s almost the weekend and I have SO MUCH crap to do. Tomorrow I’ve got to pump the boobies, wake up, dress, feed and take the kids in to the crèche, stop by the lab and see the vampires—with The Hubs because I’ve pitched enough of a royal fit that he’s getting lab work done to assure me he doesn’t have a cholesterol for real and just not because he’s never done the test, pump the boobies, drive to Chaumont and do a mad dash through LeClerc with the MP3 buying up an ungodly list of things because the cupboards are bare and they’ve got a double stroller that I NEED, run home, pump the boobies, eat and make things for the Rallye Poussette at the crèche tomorrow evening, pump the boobies, take MP3 in for her one month check-up, pick the kids up from the crèche and take them to the park for an hour, pump the boobies, do the rallye, pump the boobies, go home, feed everyone, send Marc off to sing, put the nasty beasties to bed, pump the boobies and then die. Oh, and then Saturday, I get to great all the wonderful people who LOVE me, and are coming to hike through the lovely Haut-Marnais woods and eat grilled animal flesh on Sunday. Oh, and maybe I’ll get to snack on something yummy made by someone who likes to flash her bosoms to get her way.

I'll let you know how it turns out...

Since when does good mommy = horrible person?

2007-06-26T10:11:00.001+02:00

I feel like a schmuck. I really do. At the crèche we’ve been having a problem. There’s a biter. He only bites four of the kids there, but two of those four happen to be mine. And apparently he bites randomly. No one needs to provoke him. So Friday when I picked Monkeys 1 & 2 up I went rather ballistic when the Directrice pointed out that Christine had been bitten again (her second time—Matthieu’s already had two bites, one of which you can still see some five weeks later, poor kid).

I took her to the doctor to have the bite constaté, which IS NOT reimbursed by the Secu thankyaverymuch. I got the schpeal from the doctor about how we need to look into the situation with the biter because This Is Not Normal. (No shit, Sherlock. That’s kind of why I’m here.) Then I fumed all evening, all through Marc’s concert, all weekend and part way into Monday morning. I composed a thousand letters to the CdC who runs the crèche telling them they need to get a policy for dealing with this kind of shit because everyone there feels their hands are tied—can’t literally kick the kid out, can’t punish him, etc.—because the next time it happens I’m taking my kids out AND suing.

Thus I was all puffed up Monday morning when I went in to see the Directrice again to inform her off all this stuff, my iron resolve in making sure that no one bites my kids (without reason—self defense is quite another thing) ever again. Then poof, she knocks the wind out of my sails.

See, the kid in question is a placement kid. He’s been put there by the French version of Social Services because they too are at their wits end. I’m not quite sure where he goes at night. It’s not like they have an orphanage around here but apparently there are no real parental type people involved in his care. He’s had a long line of assistantes maternelles looking after him, but apparently they change rather often as well. And the Directrice, too, is at her wits end with this kid. Apparently the biting is just the tip of the iceberg. He’s got severe social problems, ones that they aren’t equipped to deal with at the crèche. So she’s assured me that the PMI case worker is taking him out and looking for another solution.

And now I feel horrible. I am a heartless, mean person. Here’s this kid with difficulties, stuck in a system that’s not working and here I go and turn my back on him, too. Where’s the line in cases like this? I need to protect my children from a threat—and yes biting is a horrible thing. It leaves scars, can cause horrible infections, and traumatizes those who are bitten—can even turn them into biters themselves and in our house, that just ain’t gunna happen. Heads will roll first. But I feel that I have some civic responsibility to this kid, because honestly if he’s got this many problems at this age (he’s around two), then things are going to get mighty rough in the future. Shuffling him around might be easy for the moment, but in the long run it’s doing him, and society, more harm than good.

Gah! Why can’t parenting be easy?

Someone pass the Tylenol

2007-06-19T22:45:00.000+02:00

This, dear friends, is why in a few short years Marc and I will both be suffering from high-frequency hearing loss. Please keep in mind that in this video she's happy. When she's not, oh is it bad!

Dear Friends,

2007-06-18T21:44:00.000+02:00

For those of you looking for an excuse to visit or just waiting for me to get off my lazy arse and invite you, wait no more!

Les Amis de la Randonnée are holding their 25^th Anniversary randonnée and cookout on July 1^st and YOU, yes YOU are invited (by moi, of course).

There’s a 7 and 14 km hike for those on foot or horseback (bring your own horse, please) and a 15, 35 and 50 km course for those of you silly enough to come with a bike. And afterwards there’s a big cookout (10€ adults, 6€ kids 10 and under)

And if you’re nice, you’ll get to hold Mélanie.

And if you’re really nice, you can keep her!

No, you can’t! She’s too cool to give away.

Anyway, I need to know who all is interested as sign up officially ends yesterday (but as the Evil SIL is in charge of it, I’ve got some leeway).

Anyway, hope to see you soon!

Bisous!

Doc

Post Lunch Calm

2007-06-18T14:13:00.000+02:00

You’ve got to be kidding. Calm? In this house? Well, for the day at least. I haven’t quite finished my to do list for the day, but I’m at a comfortable place. I’ve vacuumed the stairs, living room, hall, and kitchen and finished the laundry. I just want to mop before the day is done and considering the time (2 PM) that seems very doable. Woohoo! I can handle this, right?

Actually Getting Things Done is rather frightening. It makes me want to do more things, like that big grocery shop that I’m putting off, but that would require spending money and that is something the Hubzy Guy has asked me not to do. And he’s right.

Yes, there, I said it. He Is Right. You’re all probably falling over right now. “What’s wrong with Doc? Post-partum depression? Hormones?” Probably, but I cannot argue with logic these days and damn, when he’s right, he’s right. I hate it, really I do.

So yeah, not spending money, it’s my new thing. Right up there with vacuuming and unloading the dishwasher. New experiences are good for the heart, right? So I’m not going to go out and buy food. Don’t worry. There’s plenty around. I need to diminish the stock a bit because if there’s anything I’ve got in this house it’s food.

My father thought that as long as he had food in the house he’d never die. I spent many an afternoon freezing and canning and drying his bounty from the garden and the woods and I HATED it, swore I’d never be like that. Well, sadly I am, just in a different way. Our cupboards are overflowing with food, and if I toss out something else because the expiration date has passed us by Marc will probably start cutting off my fingers and toes.

If he starts with my toes it won’t be too bad, but when he gets to my fingers I won’t be able to blog anymore and that would truly suck. For me. And hell, how would I count to 20 then?