Exasperated Expatriate (and mommy, too!)

More French Logic

2012-02-09T10:12:00.000+01:00

In France, you can drive certain cars without a driver's license. Logically, these cars are called "without licensee cars." The logic ends there.

I'm not saying I'm the most logical person in the world- I am someone who when to extremes to have a drug-free child birth, yet I will put off plucking my eyebrows until they start tickling my eyelashes because plucking your eyebrows fucking hurts. But not as much as French reasoning...

The sales of no-licence cars are hitting new records as drunk French drivers are getting their driver's permits taken away for DUI's, and also because it is quite costly to get a regular driver's license in France.
Unfortunately for anyone not selling or buying these mini-cars.... that's it. Unfortunately for us.

Why? Because these cars drive maximum 50 km an hour, yet are still permitted all roads and highways except interstates, aka roads that can have speed limits up to 110 km an hour. You can imagine that a little "yogurt container," as they are sometimes called, can mess things up a bit for anyone late for work or needing to get home after a particularly rowdy pub crawl wishing to drive the speed limit.

Driving slower than the speed limit does not exempt you from needing to know the rules of the road. Take me, for example, that simply had my American driver's license transferred to a French one. I never took the French driver's licence test, and never learned the French rules of the road, and let me tell you, driving is hard! Americans only have four possible intersections (intersection with a stoplight, a two-way stop, a four-way stop, and a yield) and only one law- don't hit anyone. The French, however, have about 786 different road signs, and about as many different types of intersections. France is a place where a GPS is not going to make anything any easier...

The most frightening French law is that the right of way goes to the person coming from your right. That means, while driving along a main road, you must yield to anyone arriving from a street to the right, yet you will have no yield sign or stop sign. All I can say about that is... WTF?
Just saying...

Pour les français qui cherchent les recettes américains....

2012-01-10T08:22:00.000+01:00

Voici le premier pour la fameuse sauce Ranch! Encore d'autre à venir!

Exasperated Consumerism

2011-12-15T16:10:00.001+01:00

A Playmobile Boat, 50€. Playmobile House, 50€. 5 Dvd's, 2 puppets, a stuffed animal, a huge car garage, a playdough set, a Petshop set, 3 Lego sets, a board game. Easily 300€ worth of presents for Nyko for Christmas, and those are just the ones I know about...

Am I crazy to be going crazy? Am I ungrateful? Am I overreacting?

He's 4. Four. FOUR. F.O.U.R. IV.!

I'm a hypocrite. I go crazy with presents I admit that. I LOVE getting people presents, especially other people's kids.

I'm a hypocrite because I was/am a spoiled brat as a kid/adult. Christmas Eve meant our enormous tree's trunk was covered completely and surrounded with gifts from family and friends, opened one by one until the the carpet was bare... only to be miraculously and totally covered again the following morning by Santa, and long after we stopped believing in him.

Christmas, in France and elsewhere I assume, means every visit before Christmas means a gift for us like a bottle of champagne and cookies or chocolates (aka calories we could do without) and a gift for each of the kids. It adds up. Quickly.

Thomas' brother called the other day wondering what to get Nyko for Christmas- I sighed and said "Amazon wish list..." but was shocked and horrified to discover that everything on the list had already been purchased!

I'm freaking out a little bit.

Thomas and I have yet to partake in this parental rite of passage that is taking a day off of work to shop for the kids, picking out their heart's desire- we don't get to get them any presents because between all the presents they are getting already from everyone else, there just isn't room in our house!

So what to do?

Lists bother me in a way, but then again so do pointless gifts. I'm a big re-gifter I can't lie.
I'm also an exchanger. There. I said it. Maybe it is because money is tight I can't stand waste.
Gifting just isn't as fun when you're buying from a list, but many times when taking a stab in the dark I get it wrong, really wrong.

I'm going a bit crazy with all this gift business.
I did good and had all presents purchased, delivered, and wrapped by Thanksgiving. I stayed within my budget. I didn't go overboard, I don't think.
I'm going to have to take a LOT of deep breathes during present opening on Christmas. And seriously go through our current toys and get ready to make some hefty donations here and there...

How do other parents handle this experience?

Cultural Adaptation Roller Coaster

2011-12-11T14:07:00.001+01:00

When you first arrive in a foreign country there is a certain period of adaptation and different emotions that you experience.
For many people, the first few days, weeks, or months are called "the honeymoon," when everything seems wonderful and perfect. "Ohmygod I'm in France!"

Then reality sets in; usually after eating a raw organ, taking part in some administrative process, or after a one night stand. I can't remember what anthropologists call this, but I think of it as homesickness. "Oh.my.god.[what possessed me to come to]france."

Then after a longer amount of time, typically 3-6 months (hopefully I'm not laughing alone here), cultural adaptation occurs, and your new country becomes your home. Going on 64 months here in France now, still waiting...

I remember when I was applying for the Rotary International scholarship to become a exchange student, I told the jury that if I felt homesick I would take a bike ride. (more wild laughter in my brain happening right now, FYI).
1. you can't ride a bike in France because it rains 365-366 days a year
2. there aren't enough bike trails in the world
3. my stationary bike is only meant for moderate use

Eating an éclair sometimes helps, but usually it just makes it worse because you remember how amazing they tasted back home when you were in high school French class and you wondered what they would taste like while eating them with a Frenchman, and well here you are on the couch with said Frenchman watching Friends re-runs dubbed in French and eating said éclair, and well, it sucks.

I'm racking my brain for other good things about France, or French things I do when I'm blue, and I'm not coming up with much.
1. Ikea (not French)
2. Pizza Hut (not French and not good)
3. watch videos of babies laughing on Youtube (not French and kinda creepy)
4. wine (and whine)

The American School for French Eyebrow Waxers

2011-12-11T07:20:00.000+01:00

Requirements to be a French Eyebrow Waxer (it would seem) Have BodyOdor
Have bad breath
Not know how to wax eyebrows
Not know how to judge if two things are evenly shaped or not
Not be able to tell the difference between skin and hair
The ability to point out other unsightly facial hair in order to upsell more waxing service, and to make clients feel like complete merde
Wear orange colored make-up

Requirements for the American School for French Eyebrow Waxers
None of the above. Please. For the love of God.

The American School for French Eyebrow Waxers-
Frequently Asked Questions:
1. I am French and I have body odor and bad breath. At 20€ per eyebrow wax, I'm not sure how I can afford a swimming pool pass so that I can bathe. How will my bad hygene affect my business?

Put yourself in your clients shoes. You expect her to wash her jewelry box before giving her a Brazilian. Well, in the same respect, she expects you to brush your fucking stale smoke smelling gums before getting all up in her grill. Her nose is also going to be frightening close to your armpits- for her sake, and everyone else's, please take a shower. If this is about saving water, the shower gel company just cut back their factory water usage by 14%, so you're set. (Please use shower gel).

2. I am a French eyebrow waxer and my clients scream and cry every time I do their brows. How can I attract a more emotionally stable clientelle?

Um....
Step 1: maximize waxing and minimize tweezing- if they wanted to tweeze, they'd do it themselves (note to self: DO IT YOURSELF)
Step 2: when tweezing, ensure that there is, in fact, an eyebrow between your pinchers, and not skin, before closing and pulling
Step 3: instead of saying "oh, it doesn't hurt" when you do accidentally pinch eyebrow skin, say "I'm sorry." Practice now.

I Put The No in Noël...

2011-12-11T06:53:00.000+01:00

...So it is that time of year... again. The time of year where people exclaim "they have the Christmas decorations out in the stores already??? It just seems to be earlier and earlier every year" (nevermind that they are sometimes always the same people that slip a jingle bell or two in their trolleys), and the time of year people scramble around with a contradictory case of the gimmes simultaneously with feelings of intense obligation to reciprocate... that last part reminds me a lot of marital sex, really.

I haven't really been able to grab hold of the spirit of Christmas in France. It is cold to the bone, damp, and dark; yet no snow to be found. I'm from Colorado, the sunshine on the snow state. All of the pristine French cars are covered in grime, the wind howls through the empty streets of our village where the few light posts that exist have poorly placed holiday lights flickering in the cold. It just feels like a pathetic effort at saying merry fucking noël.

A great example of the French holiday feeling can be exemplified by a situation that happened to me the other day: while parking to go to the Christmas market (which should be a lovely experienced filled with artisan handicrafts and luxuries, but instead is filled with made in China/India/God knows where crap that no one would buy at the store so they decided to put at the market- think mall kiosks but ten times worse- it's mall kiosks from the Chinatown hood.) Anyhow, back to parking (which takes nearly more time than it does to peruse the stuffed sleeping cats that breathe and the dolphin snow globes ). I'm walking towards the parking meter (I don't normally pay but my friend gave me money and forced me), the target in site. Suddenly, only a few feet in front of me, a women gets out of her car. Quickly, she looks at the parking ticket machine, she looks at me, and then makes a dash for it! She didn't run, but sometimes there is a fine line between running and walking REALLY way too enthusiastically fast and I think we needed a judges ruling on which side of the line she was walking/running on. All the while with this little gloat on her fucking French face (I've got to stop saying things like that, way too many people find this blog by typing "French fucking" into google). I'm sorry, that is just cutting in line. I just wanted to say to her "um hello. I saw you do that. You forgot your invisible bag today." But of course I didn't say anything.

It is also the time of year when I'm more disgruntled than ever with the post. The post lady every year comes by with calendars- like we don't have enough calendars (unless you got me a calendar for Christmas and lost the receipt in which case thanks and we could really use one) and wants me to "buy" one. How much are they? Oh, whatever I want to give. And there is a large selection, too. Kittens, puppies, sailboats. All of my favorite things, really. So hard to choose. I finally figured out somehow that this is her holiday tip.
So this year I said "you know what; keep your calendar." And then I gave her 10€ even though she leaves our packages out in the rain, or at the neighbors without leaving a slip in our box, or puts a slip in our box to pick up our packages even though we're home, or comes INTO our house if she knocks and we don't arrive at the door one second before she knocks, even though she honks loudly upon arrival even if my baby is sleeping, etc. etc. It is part of that holiday greedy/guilt thing. 99% of my holiday shopping was done on Amazon or Etsy- it's going to be a long few weeks.
10€ she got.
10€ to the French Aids foundation that isn't even going to the cover the cost of all the mail they are going to send me trying to get me to donate more.
10€ for a square inch of wrapping paper.
10€x3 for 3 batches of pumpkin muffins and bread that taste like... nothing. Not even worth eating. PS don't use potiron for pumpkin in sweet breads, you have to use citrouille. Potiron is basically just squash. Also, as sad as it is, since French people don't like cinnamon, and you have to reduce the quantity in any recipe calling for it, you might as well not make pumpkin loaf for them since cinnamon is basically the only thing carrying the flavor.

Nyko had his little Christmas "pecstacle" at school. Which just pissed me off to see them singing about Jesus and Santa when Muslims can't wear head scarves to school, but that is a whole other political debate I'm don't really want to get into here except for stating my own view on it. I know the teachers put in a LOT of time for it, but it pretty much sucked. The sound system didn't work so we couldn't hear, only enough for it to be painfully awkward for everyone involved. The stage wasn't big enough so they divided each class into two and did every song twice. Can't make this up. So that was... doubly awkward and painful. It was at 7pm, so in French that means won't start until 7:30 or 8, otherwise known as bedtime. Oh, on a Friday night, and bedtime on a Friday night is usually the time in our house we put in the ear plugs and put on the knee pads to protect our bodies from the tantrums. It was awesome.

Otherwise Faye choked on a little pink snowflake tinsel thing and I've told the story too many times to get into it, but let us just say that the day I finally do decide to have a stroke, goodbye, I love you, please buy yourself a coke in lieu of flowers cause it is going to take over 10 minutes for some really incompetent people in uniforms to arrive at my house to asses the situation for 15 minutes, and then another 30 minutes to get to the hospital, and then 2 hours in the waiting room. So yeah. I'm dead.

Speak English, Damnit

2011-11-22T15:58:00.000+01:00

Everyone knows that parenting a 3-year-old is like constantly trying to get someone to do something they don't want to do, all while trying to not go insane. This is a method of torture used in some wars and by god to punish people that have unprotected pre-marital sex with foreigners. All not in favor, say "aie."
In my particular [un-protected premartial sex] situation, which happened to take place in France and with a Frenchie, the thing I am trying to get my 3-year-old to do that he doesn't want to do is speak English.
I say "please say that in English" more times a day than I say "don't eat your boogers." Beaucoup.

Getting a pre-schooler to say anything is a challenge; picking the language is... (there is no word, just lots and lots of evil laughter.) For example, not only does Nyko have to learn to say please, he has to say it to me in English. Here is an example of how that might go:

Nyko: Bonbon.

Moi: Nyko, what is the word for 'bonbon' in English?

Nyko: Cand-ee!

Moi: Good!

Nyko: Cand-eeeeeeee!!

Moi: A complete sentence please.

Nyko: Je veux un bonbon.

Moi: In English please

Nyko: I want cand-ee.

Moi: Nyko, that is not a nice way to ask for candy.

Nyko: Je peux avoir un bonbon?

Moi: In.English

Nyko: I can have cand-ee?

Moi: "CAN I have candy"?

Nyko: CAN I can have cand-ee?

Moi: No, CAN I HAVE CANDY?

Nyko: CAN I HAVE CAND-EE??????!!!!

Moi: What's the magic word?

Nyko: S'il te plait.

Moi: E.N.G.L.I.S.H.

Nyko: Please.

Moi: Please what.

Nyko: Please je peux avoir un bonbon?

Moi: Please can you have some candy, you mean?

Nyko: Oui, je veux du cand-ee.

Moi: Complete sentence in English with the magic word.

Nyko: I can have un bonbon?

Yellow Peanut M&M: Give him the f*cking candy already!

How to Encourage Your Bilingual Child to Speak Your Native Language

The situation that I am in, as are many of you, is that I am the speaker of the non-dominanat language in our household. I am an American trying to speak English in France, at least to my children. This is a hugely commplicated, frustrating, and truly exhausting task as I am the one and only person, on most days, speaking to my children in English.

I recently met a German woman living near me that had a five-month old daughter to whom she spoke to only in French. This broke my heart. I listened as she described feeling just plain weird about talking to her baby in German. Let's face it: for a new mother, talking to your baby period can feel very weird! I encouraged her to take a few simple steps to starting over fresh:
1. Sing to your baby in your native language, lullabies and songs from your childhood.
2. Use a visit from a relative to start over fresh.
3. Read to your baby books in your native language.
4. If your partner speaks even a little of your native language, have him or her help you get started so that it doesn't feel so weird.
5. Describe things happening around you or things that you are doing with your baby to give yourself something to talk about. Soon, your baby will be reacting to things you are saying and your partner will be adopting words from your language!

Once you feel more comfortable, use these steps to foster language development:

1. Speak to your child in your native language. It is as simple as that. You don't have to worry about it being an all or nothing thing, but try to speak as much as possible. When you are alone with your child you should be speaking your native language, even if he or she responds and another language. Be persistent and don't get discouraged- comprehension is the first step, and exposure to new words is the only way to gain comprehension.

2. Surround your child with your spoken native language. Listen to music in your native language, watch DVD's in your native language, read books in your native language, play games in your native language.

3. Use opportunities to learn new things also as opportunities to speak your native language. Don't be afraid to teach your child new things in your native language, like for example preschoolers learning the alphabet. They will catch up in the dominant language in no time- YOUR job is to teach them YOUR language.

4. Make friends that are native speakers of your language or that can speak it well and see them (and their kids) regularly. This will help not only your child's language skills but also his or her comprehension about language itself. He or she will become more aware over time about the idea that certain people only understand certain words and will help him learn to switch easily and consistently from one language to another without mixing in foreign words.

5. Speak with your family and friends back home often, including your child, via phone or internet video chat. I am the biggest tech dummy in the world and I managed to download Skype (for free!) Webcams are built into most computers or are very cheap now. No excuse. Jump on the international telecommunications bandwagon.

6. Take advantage of any opportunity to travel home with your child or to have visits from people from home. Join Couchsurfing or host foreigners. Invite friends. You just never know who might take you up on the offer!

7. If you are hiring a babysitter anyway, hire a babysitter or a nanny that speaks your native language.

8. Encourage your partner to communicate with you in your native language, if they know it, or to learn it. Even if your partner doesn't speak your language, many couples report that the partner did make significant progress simply by being a passive observer in the language acquisition of the child.

Of course there are many obstacles to speaking in your native language with your child, but many of them can be easily overcome. The common obstacles are:

1. You feel uncomfortable because you feel silly or you feel like you are putting others out. The only way to feel less silly is to practice and do it often! The silly feeling will go away fairly quickly, especially when the child begins speaking and repeating words.
As far as putting others out, yes all eyes and ears will go to you when you're in a public place and speaking to your child in a foreign language. Curiosity will be peaked if your language is a language of interest for any onlookers, and can often being a dialogue which can be uncomfortable for shy and reserved people. Some days I can tone it out. Some days, I speak to my children in the country's language in public.
The hardest might be around family and friends. At first people may get the feeling they are being talked about or that you are hiding a message from them. As long as you are very careful NOT to do this, they will eventually get used to you doing this and will ease up.
For family members that visibly look uneasy, feel free to speak to your child in your language, and then translate it indirectly for the other person. For example:
Moi: Nicolas, no TV this afternoon. You've watched enough this weekend. Ok? On va dire à mamie et papie qu'on a assez regardé la télé et que cet après-midi on va faire autres choses. (Let's tell granny and gramps that we've watched enough TV and we're going to do something else this afternoon.)

It won't take long for your family to realize that the majority of time what you are saying is unimportant and doesn't even involve them.

For family that you only see on a rare occasion, it is fine to use your non-native language.

2. Your partner feels uncomfortable. Just like you, he or she will quickly get used to it, and will begin learning the basics of your language as a bonus. It might encourage him or her to finally take steps in learning your language! Discuss the importance of your child learning both languages and make it a priority. It will take some effort in the beginning and at times, but it is just one small thing cross-cultural families have to deal with (one of the easier and most fun ones!)

3. Your child only responds in the foreign language. Depending on what age you began speaking to your child in your native language, what age and language stage he is at, and what "social" age he is at, will depend on how he responds to you. A child just learning to talk will usually mix words and phrases together. If you're at home with him, he might have a larger vocabulary in your native language even though you're the only one speaking to him in it. Once he goes to school or daycare, he might primarily speak in the country's language, all the while still understanding everything you are saying, or if he was alone at home with you for a long time it might take him a few months to adapt to language at school. Kids will finally get to an age when they can be encouraged to respond in your native language.

Begin with simple phrases, especially if they want something. If they ask in the foreign language, have them first say the item they want in your native language. Then have them repeat the sentence. Eventually they will come up with it on their own. From there branch out to conversation.

Most kids/pre-teens will reach an age (temporarily) where they find it themselves socially agonizing to be different and to speak in your native language. They may also speak with their siblings in the country's language.

4. You get bogged down by rules. Relax. Breathe.

I tried to have a 100% English policy with my son, but it was just too hard. For a while, I dreaded situations in which I didn’t feel comfortable speaking to him in English. I worried that a week with his French grandparents would have him forgetting a year’s worth of English instruction. I hated being asked when he was a baby if he was bilingual, and it was worse when he was a toddler and always responded to me in French.

Now that he is older I’ve relaxed a lot. We did go through a period where I spoke to him in French a lot (when he was starting school I think I worried about him not knowing vocab about school in English and wanted to encourage him to open up to me about his daily experiences) but my husband pointed it out to me and got me right back on track. (See? You’ll get to the point where it sounds and feels weird NOT to speak to your child in your native language!!)

The bottom line is this: if you make an effort to for the most part speak to your children primarily in your native tongue, they WILL learn in. Throwing in a foreign word here or there, using the foreign language with family, or not being with them for a short time is not going to change anything. Language learning is a process.

Kids actually don’t give it much thought. They were born into this way of communicating, and it doesn’t confuse them any more than anything else.

The French Know Kegels

2011-09-01T21:24:00.030+02:00

Kegels are simple exercises that strengthen the pelvic floor muscles, and the French take them seriously. As needed, "perineal re-education" sessions with a midwife or a physiotherapist. are prescribed after pregnancy and are 100% reimbursed by public health.According to a French article, there are 12 different vaginal zones, and they all need your attention!

Who Needs Kegels?

Although the pelvic floor can be particularly damaged by pregnancy and childbirth, all women (and even men!) can benefit from doing Kegels. Many women who have had c-sections don't think that they need to get their bottom side back into shape, but the simple weight of pregnancy can weaken the perineum. Strengthening the pelvic floor will help in many areas you may not think about:

1. Perineal muscles control urine flow. Many women suffer from leaking or urine incontinence as years of weight and life weigh down on the pelvic floor. Not properly tightening muscles down under during laughing, coughing, and sneezing can further damage the pelvic floor.
2. Perineal muscles also control number 2!! They'll help you hold in farts! Seriously! And of course can prevent (or cause) fecal incontinence.
3. Perineal muscles help support inner organs like the uterus. If they become too weak with age, the uterus can become prolapsed into the vagina causing the need for a hysterectomy.
4. Developed perineal muscles increase sexual pleasure for both partners
5. Kegels performed during pregnancy can help prevent tearing and can strengthen a woman's vagina for easier pushing during childbirth.
6. Kegels done in the days after birth increase blood flow to the perineum which can make tears heal faster.

Test Your Pelvic Floor

Get into a comfortable position, like lying on your side with your leg up on a pillow. Stick one or two fingers into your vagina, lubricated with oil if necessary. Slowly squeeze your pelvic muscles, not as if you are pushing something out like pee, but rather as if you are holding it in. You should feel your vagina contract around your fingers. Continue to hold the squeeze. If it still feels like you are squeezing, but the grip around your fingers gets loose quickly, your pelvic floor needs an exercise plan!

How Often?

Simple Kegels can be done in sets, starting around 3 sets of 5 or 10, and should be done 3 times a day. The more the better, but don't get caught up with counting. Once you get into the habit of doing them, you'll find it easier to remember to do them regularly throughout the day.

Try to find a "trigger" that will remind you to do them. Examples of triggers can be:
1. Eating a meal. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner Kegels!
2. Taking a shower
3. Going to the bathroom (but don't do them during, do them after!)
4. Red light! Commute! Bus ride!
5. During your favorite show, during commercials.

Simple Kegels

To properly strengthen the entire pelvic floor, Kegels should be done in three different positions: lying down, sitting, and standing up. The easiest for most people is lying down, since the abdominal muscles are relaxed.

1. Lay comfortably. Take a few deep breathes.
2. Slowly start contracting your vaginal muscles, in and out, as if you are holding and releasing your urine (but don't push!).
3. Make sure that your abs are not the muscles being worked and that your stomach isn't tightening.
4. It might take a little experimentation and playing around to figure out which muscles to contract.
5. When you've found them and feel comfortable, concentrate on pulling in and holding for a few seconds, and the resting a few seconds, holding it a little bit longer each time.

Then you can try them sitting comfortably and standing. They may be difficult in the beginning, and hard to do rhythmically. They WILL get easier if done regularly.

French Kegels (or 'Fregels' if you will!)

Many French midwives use imagery to isolate certain muscles of the pelvic floor. It can be more difficult for some women to achieve, but for those who can, it is great exercise. These were taken from a midwife in Beauvais, France:

The Rose
1. Lay comfortably. Close your eyes. Take deep breathes.
2. Imagine that your vagina is a flower. Imagine your vagina closing up, and then opening up. Feel each petal, all around the flower, closing in, and opening.
3. If you insert a finger, you should feel the vagina tighten evenly around your finger, and then release slowly

The Drawbridge
1. Lay comfortably. Close your eyes. Take deep breathes.
2. Imagine that your vagina is a draw bridge. The wall closest to your anus and furthest from your urethra is specifically the draw bridge.
3. Try to bring the draw bridge up to a closed position.
4. You should feel your anus tighten, and if a finger is inserted in the vagina you should feel the lower part flex.

The Elevator
1. Lay comfortably. Close your eyes. Take deep breathes.
2. Imagine that there is an elevator in your vagina.
3. Slowly take it from the ground floor all the way up you vagina, and then hold it at the top floor.

The Garage Door
1. Lay comfortably. Close your eyes. Take deep breathes.
2. Imagine that the top part of your vagina, closest to the urethra, is a garage door. The old fold-open kinds.
3. Open your garage door up and outwards towards your belly button, and close it.

The Butterfly
1. Lay comfortably. Close your eyes. Take deep breathes.
2. Imagine that there is a butterfly in your vagina, the wings being the side walls of your vagina closest to your legs.
3. Slowly open and close the wings of the butterfly.

Goals
Your goal should be endurance. Once you've mastered identifying and controlling some of your pelvic floor muscles, try to hold your contractions rather than simply squeeze and releasing.

Damage Prevention
When you feel that you will sneeze or cough, things that put stress on the pelvic floor, tighten your perineal muscles to protect them, and prevent urine leaks!

Using Accessories
Using accessories, which often used to be sold as sex toys meant to tighten the vagina for sex, can help give your vagina a boost and make Kegels easier. Lubricate them with oil and insert them to be worn for short amounts of time at first, slowly increasing the amount of time you wear them. Carrying about your normal activities while wearing them, especially standing and walking, is most beneficial. Insert them at different depths in the vagina to work different muscles regions.

1. To insert, stand with one leg propped up on a chair or the toilet, or lying down knees bent.
2. Lubricate the clean accessory (which can be called a Geisha ball, a Ben Wa ball, or a Baoding ball) with oil and place at the opening of the vagina.
3. Push the vagina as if you are peeing, which will help open it enough for insertion.
3. Push again gently to remove, or remove with the aide of your fingers or attached string.
4. Clean with a mild cleanser.

The Big 'O'

2011-08-28T21:23:00.000+02:00

How to "Go" Organic

There are two reasons I'm constantly trying to be "greener;" first because no matter how many selfish excuses I make, or how much I'd love to hide behind an innocent but ignorant "...but I'm from a small town and I'm a Conservative" sign, the inconvenient truth is this world is going to hell in a hand-basket made from non-biodegradable materials; and two because I want my family and I to be healthier, inside and out- hearts, butts, and brains.

Some earth-friendly steps have been really easy to adapt here in France- we don't have a dryer, because for young poor people on the French countryside, that is the norm. And I'm resistant to get one, even though we could probably afford it and even though it could make my life easier, because not having one is my one claim to fame, and the one fairly big way I contribute (or rather, don't contribute).

Switching to safer detergent and cleaning products was fairly easy for me- I was never much of a bar tender, but I love mixing up magic potions in the grime-fighting department. I've been car-less most of my life, walk everywhere I go in my village, and carpool whenever possible- with gas being around 5.50€ a gallon, you think a lot harder before you drive. But for some reason, "going organic" is intimidating to me. I didn't know where to start!

Making our entire pantry organic seemed like an overwhelming task. Financially, for one, because organic products can cost double, sometimes more, than their chemical-covered equivalents. Also it was overwhelming because I didn't know where to start. It has taken literally years to test brands and choose my favorites, and frankly I didn't want to be back at the beginning. Finally, I didn't know how important it was to buy organic when it came to certain products. Like something I use only tiny amounts of, for example, or for fruits and vegetables from which I'd be removing the skin.

I kept resisting and resisting, telling myself that this organic non-sense was just one of these hypes or fads that was likely to die down in due time. But then I got an assignment at work- an article about whether or not to peel cucumbers- and my thoughts started to change.

Oh.my.god. there are a lot of different chemicals that are used on fruits and vegetables, let me tell you. And you know what? I can't be simultaneously trying to eat MORE fruits and vegetables (at least 5 a day!) specifically to be healthier and to avoid things like cancer, when those same fruits and vegetables are covered in known carcinogens! I'm not one to freak out about small things. I'm not an Earth-muffin; I'm more like one of those giant-sized, chocolate-covered muffins you buy in bulk from Costco, and let me tell you, I'm scared. It doesn't take a rocket scientist (thankfully) to know that consuming that crap on a regular basis will kill you- it kills bugs doesn't it? It kills people putting it on the fields doesn't it? Yeah. It does.

Yes my friends, there ARE known carcinogens. We can't just claim to not know what causes cancer and go about smoking our death sticks and coating our fruit in poison. I'm not saying don't consume anything until it has been proven not to cause cancer, but I am saying OPEN YOUR EYES.

Ok. Stepping off my soap box now.

Buying organic is not an all or nothing deal. It is not like you have to BE or NOT BE organic. I truly believe that this is any area where every little bit counts.

SO. How do you do it, then? How do YOU, yes you, you out there, the normal person, who shops at the regular grocery store, who sometimes likes boxed macaroni and cheese, and who prefers to keep her cucumber skins ON because they do contain some awesomeness that you really wouldn't want to peel away, how do you go organic?

Step 1: Compare
-Start simple. Start slow. Pick out 2-5 fruits or vegetables that you regularly consume, especially ones you like to eat raw with the skin on.
-Check out your regular grocer's organic selection, especially on your chosen produce, and compare the prices.
- Go to a health food's store, and compare prices there. Also, see what kind of organic produce they have there that is on sale, and how those prices compare to non-organic items not on sale.

Are you surprised? Yes, sometimes organic is not that much more! Sometimes it is on sale! And when it is not, it might just be worth it anyway, because not only are you protecting you and your family, you are protecting the soil, air, and water from nasty chemicals that are used on produce! Check out this awesome website.

Step 2: Plan
-Take inventory of what produce in your house ends up in the trash can. Organic might cost double, but if you're throwing half of it anyway, then technically you can afford to buy less!
-Start making a weekly meal plan, and write your grocery list from that plan! Sparkpeople and mypyramid.gov both have free meal planners, or try this one!
-Educate yourself on the fruits and vegetables that contain the highest amounts of chemicals, like apples, berries, peaches, spinach, celery, and potatoes. Read this article detailing the foods recently found to have the highest pesticide residue according to USDA testing.

Step 3: Start 1 At a Time
-Start replacing each one of your 2-5 vegetables, especially if they are among the biggest offenders, one at a time, each time you go to the grocery store.
-Snag any additional organic produce that is on sale.

Step 4: Look at the Bigger Picture
-Branch out from produce. If your family eats a lot of cereal, consider swapping to organic. If your family eats a lot of bread, see if you could make a swap there.
-Have fun trying out organic products that you've never tried. Replace the ones that you truly prefer.

Scary Idea

2011-08-26T22:58:00.000+02:00

So... my new "thing" is wanting to throw a Halloween party for Nyko and his classmates. A massive birthday party for a four-year-old seems unreasonable; plus his b-day is in September right when school starts, so it is kind of an awkward time. I mean, on the first day of class, Sept. 5th, I can't be like "Ok well, Nyko, have fun, learn a lot, don't get lice at recess, and make lots of friends fast so I can get invitations to your surprise b-day out by tomorrow. Bye now!"

But seriously, our house would make an awesome haunted house. And there is nothing more hilarious than scaring the bejeezus (which would be beujézuz in French) out of pre-schoolers.
And you know what? This is the kind of stuff I dreamed of when I imagined having kids. Bobbing for apples. Scavenger Hunts. Flirting with hot dads over punch. Kids I don't even know running up and hugging me and saying "you're the best, Misses D!" Believe it or not, I did not dream about scrubbing skid marks out of children's underwear, fighting for the TV Friday nights with my husband over Sex and the City reruns or NCIS, or begging a child that can't even talk yet to eat a mashed version of a vegetable you couldn't get me to eat if you paid me 563 million yen.

Who am I kidding? I never dreamed about having kids. But the rest, yes. The party, the hot dad's running up and hugging me, all of it.

Our house, built in 1820, is a good haunted house because:
1. it is haunted
2. it's a house (AND it has already dressed up for Halloween to look as small as an apartment)
3. it has a narrow entry hallway that leads into the living room where I could easily wind about a spooky maze
4. the all leads into our backyard where the apple dunking etc. could take place
5. we've already got cobwebs

So my budget for this party is about $0, which is going to be tight. Also, I haven't told Thomas about the plan yet, so if you see him, please let him know. (He's in the living room watching NCIS right now.)

The other problem is that I live in France, and if I invite Nyko's whole class to my party, and ask them all is RSVP, no one will RSVP and no one will come. That is because RSVP is French for "Répondez Si Vous etes Pas con." Voila why no one responds. Ever.

If people do come, they will come late and without having RSVP's, so I won't have goodie bags with their names on it, and it will stress me out. Oh, and they won't be wearing costumes like I'll have asked them, and Nyko is going to feel awkward all dressed to the nine's like Mater...

...And you know I've had my eye on that French maid's costume at the antique store in my town for weeks now. Not that it's going to fit me, anyway. Plus, here, people would just think I'm the maid, and frankly in my house the maid should be fired (although actually, if I'm dressed as a French maid, I wouldn't mind getting sacked.... DAMN I must be horny or something today!)

But speaking of costumes, I did see one of a smurf, for like $20. I tweeted it once and I'll say it again, if you can't make your own Smurf costume, then you prob. can't make spaghetti.

So yeah, yadda yadda yadda I want to throw this Halloween party and it ain't going to happen and I'm going to pout about it.

I did find these super cute invitations on Etsy's Razzle Dazzle Design, though:

How perfect would those look crumpled up and at the bottom of the trash cans of all the ungrateful French parents of Nyko's classmates, not one of whom could be bothered last year to thank me for the little ghost suckers I made and gave out at school.

Yup. I'm feeling the bitterness of autumn approaching, and August isn't even over yet. Yes, France- 20 years behind the times, but months ahead on the seasons. Winter is ALWAYS right around the corner.

Nyko and His Little Rock Friend

2011-08-24T20:10:00.000+02:00

Well, the flies were thrilled today because Nyko had a friend over.
The only thing scarier than willingly and voluntarily producing two of your very own children is to willingly and voluntarily let one of them invite a friend over from school. Oh, and they're both 4-year-olds. Something is seriously and worryingly wrong with that picture.

Nonetheless, it is going on right now, in front of my eyes (even though I'm too scared to look).

Ok.... I just looked. And you know what I saw? My 9-month-old sitting on the floor in front of Nyko's friend, who we'll call "Little Rock," bopping up and down as he plays a Little Tykes Guitar. My whole life is flashing before my eyes.
As someone who has an older brother, I can assure you that the main and only benefit of having an older brother is him bringing his friends over to the house. Because forever and ever your older brother will have friends and they will forever and ever be older than you. You'll get older, sure, but his friends will still be older than you. And whether or not they are actually cute doesn't matter because-

pre-teen hormones + older boys = [insert photo of me in middle school, with braces, smiling stupidly, wearing a silk Looney Toons vest, and polishing my Bruce Springsteen memrobilia collection]

So I did notice that Little Rock couldn't understand me. That is a phenomene that happens quite a lot now that I'm exposed to the local youths. Kids that aren't exposed to accents don't understand them.

The boys wanted to watch 'Cars', but upon putting it in I realized that it was only in English (we have an American DVD player AND a French DVD player, because DVD's are coded with zones for "digital media managment," and that option, even with the electrical plug converter and adapter, was cheaper than selling and re-purchasing my whole DVD collection!) So anyway, short story long, I put it in and said-

"Zut. No French."

Little Rock: Is there Spanish?

Moi: Uh, no. Why? Do you speak Spanish?

Little Rock: No. I'm speaking French. What do you speak?

Moi: I'm speaking French, too.

Little Rock: No you're not. You're speaking English.

Which in his defense, was partly true. I'm just so used to speaking to kids and dogs in English that it just tends to come out that way. I can't do babytalk in French, and probably shouldn't do it at all.

So anyway, as the kiddos ate their snack at the dining room/living room/exercise room (the flies on the wall are all laughing in unison), I was contently prepping dinner in the kitchen, and to my surprise, there weren't too many flies. Hmmm, my incesent bleeching was working- they couldn't find any more crumbs to eat so they had packed it in, hoorah!

...yeah, then I checked on Thing 1 and Thing 2- flies and crumbs everywhere. If you can't handle crumbs, you can't handle kids.

Oh and by the by Little Rock wouldn't eat the homemade waffles I had made for snack (my plan to be Mother of the Year by baking scrumptious treats for all the neighborhood kids backfired again!), but he did ask if I could make crèpes. In America that would be like saying "I don't like peanut butter and jelly, but if you wouldn't mind whipping me up a jelly and peanut butter, that'd really hit the spot."

Sigh. Kids. Double sigh, French kids. Triple sigh, other people's French kids.

Oh yeah, and here's Little Rock [Star] and his groupie:

Here's that guitar that I was talking about- honestly it is one of the best toys that Nyko has. For starters, it plays actual rock music like "All Stars" by Smashmouth, and I've always said that the day Fisher Price Starts making toys that sing real songs instead of stupid nursery rhymes they'd be onto something. Next, Nyko doesn't get sick of it. It is the one toy he's has for nearly two years that he keeps getting out and playing with regularly. And apparently Faye likes it, too. Oh, and I was reccomending this for a gift idea back when I estimated it cost probably around $50 bucks- it is only 20! Good deal!

Shudder; Shutters

2011-08-22T18:15:00.001+02:00

French people and their shutters. If I were a French businessman, and for clarification I'm neither French, a man, or a business, I would sell... barriers. Of all sorts. Fences, gates, privacy hedges, dark sunglasses bigger than peoples' faces, and shutters. More on this later.

If I were a French businessman I would also sell screens for doors and windows, which the French do have a name for, even though they don't have any (they simply call them "mosquito nets"). In French people's defense, they really don't have a lot of mosquitoes compared to other places in the world I've lived and travelled, so if they really think that these practical devises only keep out mosquitoes, I can understand not wanting to invest. But pest assured, France has bugs.

On her recent visit to France, my mothe'rs biggest complaint surprised me; I thought surely she'd hate the lack of toilets, the rain, or the need for a nationwide attitude adjustments. But helas, what she really missed was not having flies on her food. Upon observing that there weren't screens anywhere to be found, she proclaimed:
"How can the French seriously not have screens on their windows? I mean, when were screens invented, 1900?"
Well, I'll tell you exactly approximately when, mom. According to the only source more reliable than Wikipedia, Yahoo Answers, screen doors have existed as early as the 1830's in the USA, especially in period books. The House on the Prairie had one, for example.
So France should be getting them soon, fingers and toe fingers crossed.

French people will, however, invest large sums of money on keeping their house hidden, inside and out, from the wandering eye. Yes, French people love to stare, but call me an exhibitionist, I like when people are jealous of my house. And I like watching families eat dinner, watch TV, fight, and .

While electric shutters are growing in popularity, old-fashioned shutters that have to be closed manually from the outside are still very common, and were a feature on the house of one of my host families when I was an exchange student in France in 2001. Before I had learned the French etiquette to opening and closing the shutters*, I left for school one day having forgotten to open my shutters. To my surprise, when I got home from school I found that they had been opened by my host mother, who would have been blind to not have found my clever hiding place for my marijuana stash, on the window sill between the window and the shutters. That was only about half as embarrassing, though, as the time my host father walked in on me "taking a nap." If you don't know what I'm talking about, you really need to spend more time relaxing.
*It it customary to open shutters in the morning, and close them in the evening, close them if it is really hot, open them if you're on vacation, and leave them open and bolt them down if you install electric shutters*

Pardon my bi-brain today and the going back and forth between screens and shutters, but this is a list I came up with of the possible reasons why French people might not have screens on their windows:
1. They want to feel closer to nature (step one: body odor, check! step two: herd together in crowded places like cattle, check! step three: showering with Smart Car sized spiders, check!)
2. They spend too much annually on bacteria-ridden dairy products to be able to afford luxury window coverings (electronically programmable shutters aside)
3. They lost a bet with God and so their brains are missing a phalange or two
4. French people are secretly closet Jains disguised as non-practicing Catholics, and see screens as a violent way of keeping bugs out (although I don't think that Jain vegetarianism allows for horse meat consumption)

So back to house hiding, which brings a whole new dimension to house hunting. Rich French people love to hide their gorgeous and immense houses from passerbys and peeping Jeans with Edward Scissorhand-style trimmed hedges, trees, cement walls, or gates. They apparently feel that not just any Telfod, Dix, or Hérvé is privileged enough to see their amazing 5-star chateau, smell their rose flavored flowers, or experience for even one passing millisecond their caviar coated lives. Those privacy fences are like that damned curtain separating first-class and economy class. The people that have those huge privacy walls are the same ones that make sure no one is looking when they open their tile-floored garages, the ones that fly first-class to begin with, the ones that know the sex of their baby andhave chosen the name but won't tell you, and the same ones that talk on their cell phones with their hands cupped over the mouth piece- ridiculous people. The word ridiculous comes from the French word ridicule, which if said in English means to contemptuously laugh at a person or thing, which is really what this blog is all about.

You know what though? Maybe just maybe a fly that lands on my sons un-flushed poo will fly out my un-screened window, down our un-paved road, over the privacy fence of Monsieur and Madame Ridicule, into their un-screened window, and onto their satin covered pillows.

The French Accident

2011-08-06T08:04:00.000+02:00

I know I shouldn't laugh, but I did. I laughed hard. Inside, cause both kids were crying, but the voices in my head were rofl.
So basically we had a child involved accident involving a delicate French pancake called the crèpe. Yeah, you heard me.
Thomas had baby Faye on his lap, and mind you, she is a grabby girl, and he had just served himself a piping hot crèpe from our table top crèpe grill. Faye went for it.
*Warning*The following scene is graphic and may not be suitable for sensitive readers.
Faye started crying, given the delayed timing for senses and the 20 years France is behind the US, about 20 years and 3 seconds later. Crying is actually not really the word. Screaming bloody murder would prob be a better word.
Crèpes are fucking hot, seriously.
You put your hand on a pancake that just came out of the frying pan and we'll see how you like it!
Actually no, because pancakes (not that I would compare them to toilet paper, but) are at least, if made right, 4 or 5 ply. Crèpes, if made right, are 1 ply (ironically, as is French toilet paper), my crèpes were only prob about 3 ply.
But this is something Americans can't understand. Pancakes are usually made in the kitchen all at once by mom over the stove or electric frying pan, and then brought on a stack to the table, as was the tradition at our home. If we had guests, they might be kept warm in the oven, but a truly HOT pancake was hard to come by.
In France, though, they have the luwury of having "crèpe party!" kitchen gadgets and such. This store has 20 different crèpe makers for sale, and they aren't even a crèpe maker store or anything, they are an electronics store. I don't think you can get any type of pancake memrobilia at Best Buy, but I could be wrong.

Careful kid, those crepes are hot!
And I leave you with one last message:

One of us is obviously spelling "crèpes" wrong. I wouldn't put it past either of us- the stupid American can't spell in her native language let alone French, or the French person stupid enough to:
1. write this in the flour on her table
2. take a picture of it
3. post the picture on the internet.

My Mom's Coming!

2011-07-21T07:38:00.005+02:00

Ok it is safe to day I'm counting the days or even smaller units of time measurement.
This will be the third time that my mom comes to visit. The first was when I wa an exchange student here she came for a week around Christmas, the second was when my son was 6 weeks old at the end of October 2007. Since I've moved to France in 2006 this is among the shortest time I've had to go without seeing someone in my family: it'll have been only 7 months. These are the following amounts of time that I've had to go without seeing my family:
Arrive in France-
-7 months
-5 months
-7 months
-14 months
-10 days (urgh, when dad died 10 days after I got back to France and I had to turn around and go back home)
-15 months
*7 months (this will be my mom's trip)
*a bit more than 1 month (going to spread my dad's ashes)

I guess that is a pretty good record. But it is a REALLY long time to go over a year without seeing your family and friends. The worst is not knowing when you're going to see your family. After my dad died I made no immediate plans to go back home, the travelling budget having been emptied, and my dislike for the long trip made a bit traumatic. That was long. I had hoped to have a few visits, but had only one from my dear and amazing friend Megan, the least likliest candidate to come having two small children, a crabby husband, and not a bunch of money, but she came and we had what I would consider an AWESOME two weeks in Ireland and Paris.

Usually leading up to a trip I REFUSE to let myself think about it until like a month before (which actually backfired on my Christmas trip which meant that when I finally did let myself think about it, with the arrival of my daughter we forgot to fill out some new paperwork and were refused on the flight- that was a whole different nightmare blog post alltogether, though.)But usually I refuse because once I allow myself to think about the upcoming trip it is pure agony waiting. But there reaches a moment when you have to think about it, and there is no turning back. I'm there.
At this point usually, if it were me travelling, I'd lay a suitcase open in my living room and start filling it with gifts for people back home.
I don't have to do that this time, though, since my mom is coming here!

On a side note, here are some "French" gifts I've come up with over the years for my family back home. It is hard to keep coming up with great things to bring home from France, but I've found the best things are not souvenir type things but rather everyday things and consumables that you can get at the grocery store:
-Nutella (which is silly now since they have it in the USA
-jam (they have different flavors here like 'mirabelle'(a kind of plum)
-Canned Ratatouille, my favorite being the brand Cassgrain
-perfume (please go to a perfumerie and not Galeries Lafayette!)
-scarves
-I love the decoration chain 'Maison du Monde' where you can get classy aprons with French words, and lot's of French themed decoration type items quite cheap
-WINE
-beauty products containing wine or grapes (available at para-pharmacies)
I'll add more here when I can think of it. Tracy can feel free to bitch about any bad gifts that she's gotten over the years.

Some 'bad' ideas, if you get caught:
-honey (not illegal, just can make for an exploding 'honey-all-over-everything' situation that will bring to the realization that there is no reason in the entire world to bring honey overseas
-Paté and meat spreads (which you can still get through customs 1/2 times)
-'homemade' cigars (that may or may not actually be from a special island and just have their brand label taken off)

So instead of pacing my living room infront of my half-packed suitcase, my nervous energy is focoused elsewhere like making menus and 3 years worth of Winter, Summer, Fall, and Spring cleaning. (I'm nesting all over again.)
Here are the food items I have come up with so far to serve my mother:

Breakfast

Crunchy Muesli Cereal

With flaxseeds, oats, raisons and squash seeds, all slightly sweetened with brown sugar and cinnamon. Served over fresh yogurt and topped with apples or raspberries from the garden.

Sweet or Savory Pumpernickel Hard Bread Toast

This high-fiber and high-protein German flatbread is another crunchy way to start your morning. Try it with fresh whipped cheese spread and crudités, or whipped cheese spread and 65% fruit jam.

Whole Grain Belgians

These high fiber, high protein, low fat, and low sugar waffles are the perfect excuse to get some almonds, raspberries, and Nutella into your mouth.

Crustless Breakfast Quiche

All the wholesome quiche goodness without the high-fat crust. Pick your favorite ingredients such as sausage, ham, spinach, mushroom, and cheese.

Appetizers

Chicory Boats

Chicory Leaves stuffed with crab, avocado, and grapefruit.

Bacon Puffs

Bacon and Swiss cheese pastry puffs.

Bacon Wrapped Prunes

Maple Camembert

Bread and veg dipped in a warm, maple-drizzled camembert.

Stuffed Cherry Tomatoes

Cherry tomatoes stuffed with flavored whipped cheese.

Leek and Shrimp Cream Poppers

Main Courses

Frasia

Asian soup featuring bamboo and curry, with cheese filled French crêpes for dipping.

Eggplant Tarte

A savory pie filled to the brim with eggplant, tomatoes, zucchini, and provincial herbs from southern France.

Cherry Duck

Moist duck meat cooked to perfection in cherry liquor. Served with oven baked potatoes and veg.

Stuffed Peppers

Red, green, and yellow peppers stuffed with spices, pork, beef, zucchini, and parmesan cheese.

Beer Crust Pizza

Desserts

Stuffed Baked Apple

Golden Delicious apple stuffed with dried fruit, nuts, and spices until bursting point, and then baked until oozing.

Flower Power Pudding

Thick and creamy pudding made from lavender honey and topped with candied rose petals.

Greek Yogurt

Topped with your favorite mixture of nuts and fruit.

That's all I've come up with so far.

When she came last time I ruined many meals and refuse to make horrible food again. Damnit.

The Shot Heard Around the World

2011-07-16T12:07:00.000+02:00

Suicide.

It happens in every country in every society in every civilization that the world has ever known.

I got the news yesterday that another good man has *decided* to leave this world, though I know that sometimes those that make that decision feel that they have no other acceptable choice.

I got pretty pissed off when T made some comment "God you Americans, it sure seems like you must have such a high rate of suicide over there compared to here in France." I didn't think that could be true; I've heard about a lot of suicide here in France, just as much as back home.

In fact lately I've had a few laughs hearing the phrase "this place has the one of the highest suicide rates in the world..." over and over about rainy, dark places. A visitor to my home from Estonia told me that. My in-laws, who took a cruise to Norway said the tour guide had told them that. I remember hearing that all the time when I lived in Portland, where I felt that rain was cleansing and refreshing and not depressing.

But I didn't believe that French people don't do it. No way. The difference is that in France it is so god damned taboo, as is anything real, that no one talks about it. I'm sorry but it is true and it enrages me. Someone close to me in France lost a very close family member to suicide and has never talked to me about it, even after I lost my dad. I spoke with another friend who lost her dad, too, who NEVER had spoken to her own mother about it, despite the fact that she had been living with her since it happened two years ago.

So I did a little research. I was relieved to find that, according to statistics compiled for Wikipedia, that France has a much higher suicide rate than the USA. Relieved that French people are real, do have problems. That if I'm living here and feel oppressed, I'm not alone.
According to Wikipedia, France has the 16th highest suicide rate in the world, and the United States comes in at 39th. Of course statistics on things like suicide in many cases and countries are very rough estimates, because of official death rulings and definitions for death certificates, and reporting systems etc.
But the truth is, in the top ten there is a large variety of countries. Hot, cold. First world, third world. People are really ignorant to think that suicide has so much to do with the weather, with economic hardship.

Suicide, in my opinion, more often than not, has to do with someone facing a problem that they feel is inescapable. They don't necessarily want to die, but they feel that death is the only escape to their problem or problems. They feel that they have no acceptable solution, option, choice. Even if to you or me the problem seems small or the solution seems obvious, it is not to that person. I understand that.
According to Wikipedia the Japanese have created 50 reasons why someone might die by suicide, and they list 3 reasons on the death certificate next to suicide. Oh.my.god. As if a problem so deep that it can only be eased by death could be defined by 3 words.
On my dad's death certificate there are also comments about things in his life that could motivate suicide, specifically that he had a terminal disease, and that bothers the hell out of me.
As much as it is tempting to speculate about what was going through his mind, like I could ever know how hard that is, to feel so alone and hopeless, so desperate and scared. So much courage it takes to pull the trigger, take that jump.
People who say that people that kill themselves are cowards are total and complete morons.
People that say that people that kill themselves are selfish are also.... at least slightly morons.
I hate the word "selfish." Rather, I hate that it has such a negative connotation.
Why is is so bad in this world to think about yourself? To take care of yourself? To look out for yourself? To put your needs first?

People that talk about the suicide of a loved one are constantly saying "but so many people loved him, we told him all the time" blah blah. But sometimes that is not enough. What is important is loving yourself, and if you don't, well no one can magically make it happen for you. It takes time and it is really fucking hard. I can understand people that despair. (PLEASE don't say people who "give up-" they aren't giving up they are just letting go of the struggle. They are just saying "I can't take anymore.")

I'll tell you why there are more suicides in France than in the USA. Because in France people aren't encouraged to talk. I'm not saying Americans really care how you are when they ask, but in France you CANNOT talk about the elephant in the room, should it be depression, problems, affairs, miscarriages, whatever. You can't talk about this shit with your own parents. Of course there are exceptions and I'm making generalities, but this is my experience.
When I first came to France I expected French people to be so open about talking about things like sex, but in reality they were not at all.
In France, where there is an amazing public health system, that in my opinion and comparatively to the USA, prides itself on preventative medicine, does NOT cover psychotherapy, counseling etc. You can see a psychiatrist free of charge, but that automatically goes hand in hand with medication, which is obviously controversial in how helpful it is in certain cases. Personally the one psychiatrist I saw after my dad died was a fucking moron, said 3 out of 3 things you should never say to someone that had a love one kill them self, and had a very uncomfortable Freud-like couch. Non Merci.

When I sought to join a support group after my dad died, I found that in my town, county, and even region there were NONE. No suicide survivor support groups. WTF. My town, population 60,000. My mom's town, population 10,000, there were 3 support groups within a 20 mile radius. There were volunteers at here house a few minutes after the emergency responders got there. I talked to support people easily in the days after.
There is no national online French suicide support forum.
Which just proves the fact that if there are no outlets to talk about shit after someone dies by suicide, I imagine the resources are a bit hard to come by while contemplating it.

This was an interesting article about suicide around the world.

I don't think that my family is any more tight knit that other American families, about average, especially since we've spread out around the USA and world, but we can talk to each other. We can vent. We can say what's on our mind.
God it is going to be a breath of fresh air to have my family on the phone later. I'm feeling so down and feeling like I can't express myself here and feeling so homesick. Days like this I want to go home home home in the USA where people are open and honest and real. I had to hide my crying all day about my friend from my in-laws etc. because "it is none of their business and is inappropriate." Sigh. SIGH.
I miss the USA where I could tell the waitress "sorry if we're silly and stupid- we just came from a funeral." Or where we can cry and laugh in public. Where we are not affraid to be ourselves.

Return of the Wedding

2011-07-11T15:46:00.001+02:00

So... A.N.O.T.H.E.R wedding this weekend.
A
New
Opportunity
To
Hate
Everything
fRench

One of the hardest things about going to more than one wedding in your lifetime is that you can never, according to French rules, wear the same outfit twice. Unless you are SURE that there will be absolutely no cross-over guests, which is as impossible in France as finding an outfit in the first place to wear to a wedding, since most French people are imbred, so circles are pretty tight. On the other hand, it is completely acceptable for French people to have one outfit per week for work.
At this weekend's wedding I noticed a friend who accidentally forgot that we had been guests at the last wedding and had worn the same thing.... yikes. What a disaster. The whole day I couldn't stop thinking about it. So gros. How embarrassing. She'll never live that down.
Men, on the other hand, are allowed to wear the same outfit, even to their own wedding. Yes, French men have not yet discovered tuxedos and so proper attire for a man at his own wedding is shirt, jacket, and tie. Gros. Embarrasing. Women are still expected to look like ice princesses, the least mean could do is suit up to look like penguins. French bastard men.

Another thing I noticed, while lying in a dirty hotel bed with Nyko (besdies that having a kid that needs a nap is a pretty awesome way to get out of going to the church part of the wedding) is that there are two kinds of people in the world:
1. those that are having sex in a motel room at 2 in the afternoon
2. and those that are trying to simultaniously get their 4-year-old to sleep while at the same time shielding him from any scary noises coming from the neighbors room at a motel room at 2 in the afternoon.
Nyko will agree that it is impossible to sleep with your mother's hands covering your ears. Also, skipping the wedding part wasn't all that it was cracked up to be- it was just as boreing lying there for an hour and a half (that is the only numeric figure in this story that is not embelished) and it involed jsut as much praying (although at the wedding they were probably praying for a sex-filled life, as I was kinda praying for the opposite for our neighbors...)

I noticed a few other things at this wedding. The first, is that lots of girls had their hair done, by like a professional hair dresser (some of whom probably should try to get their money back, but yeah...). So I asked "Did you pay to have that done?" and then "Are you a bridesmaid?" The answers were 'oui' and then 'non'. So basically people not in the wedding party of getting their hair done. Should I have gotten my hair done?
The answer, in this case, was no. To help any of you attending any French weddings, here is a schema of the unspoken dress code:
Employee or farmhand of the bride, groom, or their parents: Jeans and a t-shirt. There's ALWAYS someone wearing jeans and a t-shirt, might as well be you.
Aquantances of the bride or groom's parents: Something never worn, something old, something sequened, something gold. A broach is a nice added touch. As well as peacock feathers.
Aquantances of the bride or groom: Nothing worn before, nothing white, something red or black, something tight. With a corset please.
Friends and family of the bride and groom: Something new, a funny looking hat, hair done at the salon, even if you're fat. Again, corset please. And keep in mind the mental contest between all women of who looks better than who and the bride.
If you do wear a hat and get your hair done and you are not judged to be of close enough relations to the bride or groom, please understand that people will whisper things about you all night long like "who does she think she is" and "hot shot booger snot," which in French doesn't rhyme.

Another thing that amused me at this wedding was a toast that the French couple made to their parents: "Thank you for all of your advice and support while planning this wedding." Let me put that through the phony French lies translator for you- "Thanks mom and dad for footing the bill of this party cause otherwise it would have been in the barn and been served on paper plates."

Now allow me to guide you through the music and dancing at French weddings. The following has been true for every French wedding I've been to (a llloooooootttt) so I have to asume that it is true for all weddings.
Songs played at all French weddings, but that never fail to psyche up the crowd, young and old:

I'm not making this up, obviously, the youtube proof is right there.

Yeah. Now maybe they play lame 80's songs at American weddings as well, but I don't really know. The last time I was at a wedding in the USA was cerca 1999, or whatever year the song "Who Let The Dogs Out" came out.... which I never thought I would be able to say is better than another song, but yeah it is better than this (and easier to dance to):

Another thing that is quite different at French weddings is the cake. No three-tierd, white frosting covered cakes for Frenchies. Instead a few small-esque classic French bakery style cakes usually sit on a table with firework type candles and everyone ooooo's and aaaaaaa's and takes a bunch of pictures and I'm always like "I'm from America, the country of Hostess Twinkes and you're from France the country of the éclair, and that's all you can come up with? We've totally got you beat on the wedding cakes. Also, I'm going to have to also veto the music played during the wedding cake broo ha ha:

I will have to say one positive thing about French weddings, though, and that is that the dancing is awesome, once the shitty 80's songs are out of the way. Everyone dances, with no fear, and granted while most of them have had swing lessons, it doesn't feel like people are judging, for once. Yes, people watch, but out of admiration because it is just plain fun to watch people having a good time. Everyone dances with everyone, and the previous 5 glasses of wine and 5 glasses of champagne help a lot, too.

Back to complaining about French weddings, though.

I had the fortunate experience of sitting at a table, this time, where to my left were a couple getting married in 3 weeks, and to my right a couple that had just gotten married. It was like having a sport's broadcaster give you a play by play of every single details:

Engaged guest: Oh man look at her dress. Ok for how little she paid. Ouf, mine's better and more expensive, obviously.

Recently married guest: It looks like her tits are afraid of heights. And this wine! Everyone knows that 08' was a horrible Le'Feet year.

Engaged guest: Oh.my.god. They're serving 12 courses and not 11. Honey, we've got to call the caterer and add of course of sorbet somewhere.

Recently married guest: Well slap me silly and call me bitchy- she's playing [name of one of the songs they play at all weddings]! How dare she! Copy cat!

Engaged guest: Oh Monique, don't worry! SOOO many more people danced to it at your wedding! Totally.

Recently married guest: Oh, thanks Francoise. I'm sure more people will dance to it at your wedding, too. Your DJ will be much better.*

* These three brides all hired the same DJ, who is a circus announcer by day.

Also, this was what I call a Non-smoker un-friendly wedding. Only in France can you find a wedding where 99% of the guests smoke (children and poodles included). Not much is classier than a bride, smoking, I have to say. American brides: how do I get the sweat stains out of my dress? French brides: how do I get smoke smell off my dress? At these weddings people are excited when it doesn't rain- not because the before-dinner drink in the garden won't be spoiled, but rather because the before-during-and after dinner cigarettes won't be ruined. And while French people do, now, have to smoke outside, they are a bit behind the times on cancer research so they haven't figured out yet that standing in the doorway defeats the purpose of going outside.

So between the smoke, the sweaty people doing the duck dance, and the dog poop, it smelled bad in there. This is coming from someone that has 2 kids.

I didn't spell check this document because I couldn't be bothered. Voila.

Food + Wine = Toilet Tokens

2011-06-30T22:40:00.001+02:00

Foreign people of all flavors are always snickering when Americans ask where the restroom can be found. "Haha, what are you going to do, take a shower?" For once, Americans have out done the French on using polite words. So frigging sue us. You, the French, who don't have showers in your restrooms, or probably even in your shower rooms based on your stench, have found our one flaw; we try to make it as less obvious as possible when we go take a dump. Oh la fricking la.

You, the French, on the other hand, have two bigger flaws.
1. There are never any public toilettes anywhere. (Coincidentally, when there are private toilettes they feel kinda public...)
2. You don't care.
Damn you.
If I have to hear one more time "don't you feel so lucky you lowly, fat American to live in France, the country of the finest food that the world has to offer?" You know what? I'd feel a lot luckier if I had a place to put that food when I was done with it.

What the hell is with the fact that no stores, or even sometimes restaurants, have toilets? What are the French people doing, eternally holding it? I guess they really do have something shoved up their asses after all...

Meanwhile the Japanese are trying to make the bathroom experience as positive and comfortable as possible for everyone involved by adding pooping and peeing noises to their musak to loosen people up a bit. I swear. A friend from college was working on this project back in 2002 at the University of Sap!

When Maslow wrote his hierarchy of needs he didn't mention peeing and pooping because it is so blatantly obvious to any of normal human beings, but since the French apparently missed it, I'll give you a hint: it comes at the bottom of the pyramid before food and shelter. Maslow said that before we could move up the pyramid to self-actualization we had to accomplish fulfilling the low-level needs first. Aka, if I have to shit, I'm not going to be able to focus on much as.
AKA, if you own a shop and you want people to hang around and buy stuff, let them use the loooooo.
Americans get this, which is why there is a Starbucks on every corner.

Americans don't feel guilty about using the bathroom in stores where we haven't purchased anything; we know that for all the times we've eaten at McDonald's WITHOUT using the WC, they owe us one.
In the USA, we don't have to go into bars and stick out our bellies to pretend we're pregnant (a pretty darn good excuse for using the toilet in France) and need to wee.... we simply walk into ANYWHERE and act HUMAN and use the restroom. (According to wikipedia, not only women gestating relieve themselves.)

If ever you stay with friends in France, and before leaving on a day-long castle excursion or dare I say a wine-tasting tour, and they suggest you use the bathroom before you go- do it. Cause you're not going to see another one for a loooooooong time.

One Whiskey, One Wine, and One Beer

2011-06-30T22:24:00.001+02:00

Alcohol. It may just be the reason why French men are assholes, the women are whores, and the children are all in withdrawal. (Although the more I drink the more they seem charming, sexy and witty, and the more children I have...)

Aaaah summertime. Apéritif on the terrace. Apéritif is the before-dinner drink that accompanies either horrible "amuse mouth" snacks at fancy parties, which is where you'll find the famous French snails on toothpicks, or totally awesome appetizers at the homes of blanche-poubelle citizens like where we dined this evening. Chips are the main drink mates at these soirées... (so basically the calories content of a bag of chips with a Subway sandwich at lunch is what is making Americans fat, whereas the calorie content of chips eaten with fancy alcoholic beverages every night is probably not what is making French people right BEHIND us).

As we sat down for the apéritif this evening (which there are always weird etiquette rules about drinking before everyone is served -aka people that have not yet arrived, for example- and where someone always asks me "How do you say "apéritif" in English?" and are shocked to find out we don't: "EH?! You don have de apéritif in U.S. of A?") I reached a new low, when after being served my beverage of choice (an orange-fizzy-would rather have had coke but they didn't have any drink thing) by my hostess, she exclaimed "but Marianne, aren't you going to have an apéritif?" I looked down at my glass confused. Was I supposed to taste it now or something? I took a sip, but as soon as the liquid hit my lips I saw Thomas give me the wide-eyes. I spit it back in. "Si si, voila!" I said. "Oh, non non," she replied. "I mean a real apéritif," nodding to an array of alcohol bottles. I'm going to go ahead and put that through the Marianne-French-thought translator: "If you don't drink alcohol, you don't exist. Go sit at the kid's table."

Speaking of kids and alcohol, French people love to ruin perfectly good cake by pouring brandy all over it and sogging it out. What do they think this is, England? They also follow the "always 1 bad" rule, like with candy, and have their very own black-licorice alcohol, which is probably where the French got the reputation of having bad breath.

A French friend, very concerned, came to me with a serious problem that she is having with her boyfriend. You see, they are building a house together, and every evening friends come around to help them. It is customary to offer them an apéritif, in this case, which let's face it, is probably the only reason they've come around in the first place. So basically her boyfriend has practically become an alcoholic, because it is also customary to follow your guests alcohol intake. He has gained a bunch of weight, and frankly the house isn't moving along all that quickly. I suggested she hint that he just say no, but then she shot back at me: "but then it wouldn't be an apéritif."

Back and Bruno's house (I'm not making that up) (PSS: I can't tell you his last name out of respect for his privacy, but let's just say I know a clown with the same one)(again, not making that up) I explained to my hosts that I was breastfeeding and had to stay away from alcohol when people were watching. To which they exclaimed: "you're STILL breastfeeding? Isn't that a little bizzare?"
Now, normally I hate this kind of comment, but you know what? I just appreciated their honesty (their stupidity aside).

Breast milk, like wine, is a super food. It protects your body by strengthening its immune system, adapts to your nutrient needs, and promotes longevity. Wine helps fight cancer, Alzheimer's, heart health, lung health, eye sight, and more so that you can justify that cheese and cigarette. I know that is how Faye justifies it. (Just kidding, she's lactose intolerant.)

I'm actually apprehending an upcoming trip to London to see an old French friend, the wildest, who my parents fondly refer to as "the alcoholic." Seeing as I haven't drank in about a year and a half, and I was a pretty cheap date anyway, I'm not sure how I'm going to manage to make up five years of missed parties in 24 hours. If you're reading this connasse, tant mieux. Vas-y doucement et penses à tes colocataires et le fait que quand je suis bourée j'ai du mal à bien viser les toilettes. Puis faut que les toillettes londoniennes soient plus volumineuses que celles de Paris.

The Easy One-Step Chores Solution for New Mothers

2011-06-29T22:48:00.000+02:00

The Easy One-Step Chores Solution for New Mothers

When it comes to cleaning and organizing around the house, new mothers, especially new American mothers in a country full of perfect French mothers with spotless museum-esque houses, will often wonder HOW? How do these women keep their houses so clean? How do they manage to always be showered and made-up, their kids sitting quietly, no stains on their smooth, expensive clothing, a homemade 4-course dinner cooking itself in the kitchen, and still have time for everything else.*

The question, though, my fellow exasperated expatriates, is not 'how do you do it all?', the question is 'why?' WHY do you do it all?
WHY do you iron all of your clothes? (Anaïs, if you feel that this question is directed towards you, ask yourself why you don't have time to watch Sex and the City) Have you ever in your life thought to yourself before that someone looked particularly wrinkly? No. (If the answers is yes, please see Appendix C for contact information of local therapists). WHY are you ironing your baby's clothes? It is bad enough having to wash clothing for someone that changes their outfit more often than Madonna, sweats more than Richard Simmons, and throws up more than Amy Winehouse, but ironing it, too? I'm not even going to ask how you go about ironing a 6 x 6 inch piece of fabric with a 8 x 8 inch iron. (Only party because I don't even know where our iron is, if we have one.) Why oh why oh why oh why are French women ironing underwear? Clothing that, as the same suggests, is worn (past tense verb: wear) under your clothing. Clothing, that for most French women, is even smaller than 6 x 6 inch onesies (which they iron, too, by the by). Cough*cough*Anaïs*couch*Cough.

So, without fUther ado, here iS my American one-step chore solution for new mothers everywhere.

Ironing: Don't do it. Don't pay anyone else to do it.

Folding Laundry: Honestly, it's going to get unfolded pretty fast, so, don't do it. Added bonus- getting the kids dressed in the morning doubles as a treasure hunt!

Cooking: Don't do it, but say you did.

Grocery Shopping: Do it (online).

Vacumming: Don't do it. Pretend you're embarrassed when people come over and blame it on the kids.

Window Washing: My mother-in-law had her [ironed] panties in a bunch last week about windows. Oh the windows, always streaks, always washing and re-washing them. How do I do it? she wanted to know. I don't! My personal advice on windows?.Don't do it. Unless the bird poop build up is so bad you can't spy on the neighbors, in which case make you kids do it and blame it on their grimy finger prints.

Dusting: Don't do it.

Car washing: Don't do it.

Bathroom cleaning: See above.

Organizing: Guess?

Dishwashing: Put it off until the ants arrive. Paperplates. (aka, don't do it.)

Lawn Mowing: [Make your husband] do it.

Feeding the dog: Get rid of the dog and get an anteater.

Gift Buying: Al Gore invented gift certificates for two reasons: 1. to piss off Martha Stewart 2. for all of your gift giving needs. Do it. Online. Obviously.

Child Bathing: Don't do it [everyday]. Don't do it at night cause they will drool and snot and sweat all night long and get toothpaste in their hair. Don't to it in the morning because there isn't time. And really, that only leaves... give me a 'D,' "D!" give me a.....

*For those of you who don't have kids, everything else might consist of, but will not be limited to, some of the following: cutting your finger nails, cutting your toddler's finger nails, cutting your baby's finger nails, vacuuming up finger nail pieces from under the couch, scraping boogers off of the wall, filling out tax forms, filling out daycare forms, paying school cafeteria bills, making sure your kids' backpacks have the right change of clothes and stuffed animals, making sure all of the permission slips are signed, washing today's accident soaked clothing and bedding, scrubbing skid marks off the toilet boil (only in France), picking up 100,000,000,000,000,007 Legos, cleaning hair out of the clogged drain, scraping mold off of yogurt before serving it for dessert, getting your hair cut, getting your toddler's hair cut, getting your husband's hair cut, get

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Sunrise and Dingle Hops

2011-06-26T08:42:00.000+02:00

I'm not very good at math or measuring distances, but if I had to give my expert opinion, I'd say that we live right next to a church that plays bells every morning at 7 a.m. If you factor in my sleep deprivation factor at this time most mornings, it actually feels and sounds like we live inside of the bell.
The bell rings every single day, except Sundays when it rings at the beginning and end of mass around 9ish, and bank holidays. It rang when we visited the house before purchasing it, but the owner's shouted "you'll get used to it in no time!!" or at least that's what I thought they said, but now I realized they were saying "that's why we're moving!" Apparently the bell also makes previous owners not be able to put down edging tape when painting a room and made their cat pee everywhere.The smell of cat piss, much like French church bells, is hard to ignore, no matter how hard you try.

Now I'm sure I could, along with my two young children, get to the point where the bell doesn't wake us, or at least to where we could fall back to sleep after it, but it lasts no less than 6 (count them, I did!) minutes. Six minutes is long. The church is our daily alarm clock. And on Sundays Nyko still wakes up at that time because he is so used to it.

I think my favorite part of living in a run down village in a house that was built in 1820 next to a church that plays a six minute bell song at 7 a.m. everyday is that when the electricity does out and that comes back on, the bell rings. Not for six minutes, just once. But the electricity never goes out and comes back on just once in a night. It goes out and comes back on more like 6 times an hour every night. Ding, ding, ding.

And all this noise and nuisance from a country where it is illegal to mow your lawn on Sundays and bank holidays.

So I thought about it and thought about it and there is no way that anyone appreciates that church bell everyday. People don't need an alarm like that every morning, they have i-phones (or at least they will in 10 years). Like many French institutions, like eating snails, no one probably actually enjoys them, but people are too shy to speak up and say anything. Well I'm not shy. I decided to write a letter to the mayor. I figure that if anyone was going to be labelled a 'god-hating bitch' it might as well be me, since I already have a name tag made up and everything. Besides, people might actually back me up? France is full of closet atheists masquerading as Catholics.

My husband, who is quite opinionated and against most traditions he deems pointless, like gift-giving at Christmas and having to shake the hand of his 87 other colleagues and saying 'bonjour' before checking his 574 emails, would surely back me up with my intention to write this eloquent letter which would persuade the mayor to meet me half way and let the bells rings for two minutes or less in the morning. But he wasn't.

"Marianne! You god-hating bitch! You want to try to get rid of a tradition that has existed in this village for longer than we've been here or even our house has? We're moving anyway..." Um, yeah moving someday when we get the house paid for, which will prob. mean moving directly into hospice care. Well, like many of my great ideas, like buying this house in the first place, that backfired.

I guess I'll just have to wait until the Catholic church has no choice but to tear the church down do to funding issues, or until it falls down (which shouldn't honestly be too long, based on the dents in my car). In France, despite all of the devout Catholics, there are too many churches for the church and government to financially maintain. Ok, that is kind of sad. It is cheaper for communities to tear down the old churches than maintain them. Plus churches are often times placed on prime real estate territory. Imagine, one day there could be a McDonald's in front of my house!

The Nanny That Saved My Life

2011-06-21T20:39:00.002+02:00

Living in France does have its perks. I have something to offer, that I wouldn't have without living in France, simply by living in a foreign country. I've been an active couchsurfing host for nearly five years, and have recently become a HelpX host. Couchsurfing is where travellers crash at your place for free; Helpx is when they crash at your place in exchange for working for you. Sexual favors are involved in both systems.
But one of the best ideas I ever had, to use this "oh My god you Live in france!!!!" thing to my advantage (did I capitalize the right words in that sentence?), was the "let's get a nanny" idea.

I needed someone to look after our baby Nyko while I gave English classes a few afternoons a week. Being a new expat and quite naive, I thought that that kind of work could actually be stable and become full-time. HA. Ha. ha. Being an expat in France I also must have thought we were richer than we were because I thought that we were the kind of people that could have an aupair?
These are the type of people that typically have an au pair:
Mrs. X
Famous People
Rachel Greene who works at Ralph Loren
The thing that these people have in common is that they all have a large set of presidential flash cards in their wallets. If you don't know what I'm talking about it's because you don't have any.
This is the type of people we are:

So that is how the poor, unsuspecting Whitney Banana embarked upon our two bedroom aapartment the summer of 2008. I wrangled her in by posting a job on the CSU website (which felt kinda good since the last thing I had posted at CSU were drop-out papers). I tried to make our shitty apartment realistically sound like a dream come true for a college student, which I apparently succeeded in doing because I got 20 responses in less than 24 hours all from people more qualified to care for our son than we were.
The job offer basically included room and board, a train pass, a bus pass, a cell phone and $300 a month. $300 in France will get you 20 q-tips, a butter and ham sandwich, and a bikini wax. The job offer did not include transportation to and from the USA, or bikini waxing.
You see, I could never get away with paying a LIVE IN child care provider expected to work 40 hours a week picking up after MOI only $300 a month in the United States (which works out to be $1.88 an hour). But I could get away with doing this in France simply by opening the window and saying "voila... France is outside."

Thank GOD Whitney Banana was beyond awesome. She was as indescribable and mysterious as pop rocks. She could make us laugh harder than George Bush could. She was caring and smart, an excellent quality combination, in my opinion. Thank Oliver because we were living in close quarters, and anyone who has ever lived with me will tell you, including her I'm sure, that I'm sorta well... high maintenance? I just like things the way I like them.* -shrug-

It turns out that Nyko wasn't the one that needed a nanny that summer. It was me. I was apparently suffering from 8 months of post partum depression, and 8 years of pre-partum depression. I was a desperate housewife, even if I was a poor one. Desperate for companionship that I could not find in France.
Whitney turned my life around and made me see things from not just another perspective but from an opposite perspective. She had a way of making you see things the way they were. If you were trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with you, looking around at your life, she'd take a mirror and stick in right in front of your face. But it didn't hurt. She had a way with people and situations and words that I'll never grasp ever. She's the 2000's female version of Dale Carnegie.

Whitney was fun an care-free. I needed that in my life. Thomas needed that in his life. NYKO needed that in his life. He's such a fun-loving, care-free spirit today that I'm sure Whitney had a lot to do with that.
For Father's Day I made an album of Nyko's first 3 years for Thomas, which included a lot of photos from when Whitney lived with us. We enjoyed a leisurely Sunday morning in bed, all of us, flipping through the pages, remembering those unforgettable 3 months we had with Whitney, our nanny, our sister wife, and our dear friend. We miss you Whitney Banana.

*If things aren't exactly the way I want them, which you are expected to guess without me telling you, I will rip your mother f*cking head off and make you wish you were dead

The Wedding and the Méchoui

2011-06-20T22:06:00.001+02:00

What a weekend. Or as the French would say, much to the delight of the Académie Française- "week-end."
Saturday: wedding. Sunday: the rest of the wedding and a méchoui.

A wedding is when two people decide that their daily debauchery of drunkenness, family feuds, spending, digital pictures, gossiping, comparing, complaining, and blisters aren't enough and they want to squeeze in as much of it as they can before they can legally (according to all grandparents and The Pope) have children (which involves a lot of the same aspects as a wedding, come to think of it).

A méchoui, in the simplest terms, is a barbecue where you cook an animal over a fire pit. Not really in a camping sense like squirrels or trout, but more like in a "Lord of the Flies" kind of sense like a whole pig- head, tail, and balls.

Now don't get me wrong, I eat meat. I just don't really like to eat any meat that comes from a dead animal. I prefer my meat to come from unrecognizable, prepared packages from my grocer's cooler. I don't do eyeballs, lips, tongues, organs, hooves, or Rocky Mountain Oysters. I used to do hot dogs until my mom, ripping my blinders off, made me face the fact that hot dogs were basically ground up eyeballs, lips, tongues, organs, hooves, and Rocky Mountain Oysters.

The wedding was ok. I like gossiping and complaining, I just lost 30 libbies and wore makeup for the first time in 6 months, so I was ok with getting my photo taken a million times, and I fight best with my in-laws when I'm drunk, so I was all set.

That said, there are a few awkward parts to any French wedding. The first is the church part. It might disrupt the ceremony and the God is Great songs if I burst into flames in the middle of it all, so I prefer to sit outside. I also get panic attacks in churches. I'll take a lie detector test on that one.

I luckily have the excuse that I have two very loud, part-American children, and I will continue to produce them to get out of weddings until everyone I know is married or divorced and remarried.

Getting out of mass is fairly easy. All you have to do is get there early, grab a spot in the back, take a few pictures as the bride is coming in, make sure a few people see you shed a tear, and slip out the back door when she gets to the alter. Warning: don't do this if you're the groom, the father, a bride's maid, the photographer, or the priest. Come to think of it, don't be the groom, the father, the bride's maid, the photographer, or a priest and that could solve a lot of problems right there.

The next awkward moment at a French wedding is playing the "how good of a friend of the bride and groom's are you really" game. French weddings traditionally involve the following invitations:

1. wedding ceremony and after celebratory drink

2. wedding ceremony, celebratory drink, and the after dinner dance

3.wedding ceremony, celebratory drink, dinner, and the dance

Those invitations translate to:

1. you're invited for the same reason you're my facebook friend: so I can say I had 500 people at my wedding.

2. you're ok but the low budget gift you give me prob. wouldn't cover what your dinner would cost so please wait around between our wedding at 11 am until after we're done eating around midnight.

3. you're a distant cousin and my parents made me invite you.

The most awkward moment of the wedding will be sitting down at your designated seat around a table where you don't know anyone. It is typical for French 30-somethings to say hello and not introduce themselves or how they know the bride and groom. When we finally do get around to introducing ourselves, I never really understand who the people are or how they know the bride and groom (who I usually don't understand how we know either but at least I can identify them by their outfits), and I never know how to introduce myself either. While I hate being introduced as Thomas' wife, "The American," I can't say I do a very good job either: "Well... I work at the Tourism Office. At an airport. I'm not in Tourism or anything. Well, I'm looking for something else. I'm trying to be a writer. I'm also an apprentice doula. But it's kinda hard to be that. I don't really like teaching. I don't really know what I want to do with my life. I'm not even working at the moment. You asked me what I do, right?"

"Um, no, I said 'where's the loo.' And more wine."

Another thing I particularly {{{{sarcasm}}}} enjoyed at this wedding was breastfeeding. I opted for a non-breastfeeding dress which I could barely squeeze my tits out of, and a lovely cashmere knit cover a dear friend made me. As I was about to sit down and feed my daughter at a table, I was ushered into the coat closet (non walk-in) where I'd "be more comfortable." I was therefore banished there for the rest of the evening. Don't get me wrong, though, everyone saw my tits, cause the coat closet was open faced in front of the restroom (which, like it is many times in France, was unisex). Normally I'd complain that it wasn't any more uncomfortable for guests to see my breasts than it was for me to see their penises, but frankly I was relieved to see men urinating in a urinal, for once, and not on the side of a church, my car, my raspberry bushes, or my stroller.

As you probably know from reading recent news, the French don't know what sexual harassment is, so I wasn't surprised to get, more than once while feeding Faye, the comment: "oooooohhhh I'd love to be that baby." I haven't had a chance to check out the "what come back to use while getting sexually harassed while breastfeeding" book from my local library yet, so I was at a loss for words.

Another awkward breastfeeding incident arose when, while at the wedding and introducing ourselves, Thomas and I were met with, about 15 times, "oh you live in Beauvais! That's where Jean-Pierre and Marie-Francoise live."

"Who are they?"

"You know, the bride's mother's aunt's second cousin, who breastfed each of her five children for like 2 years!" -laugh--look at my unsmiling face--look down at my feeding non-infant--blushing-- "Oh what I wouldn't give to be that baby."

The music at French weddings is particularly bad because it is, well, French. And from the 80's and 90's.

They did play "Wooly Bully" by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, which I was pretty excited about at the time, but then I got asked about 20 times what "Wooly Bully" means so it really wasn't worth it.

Later on in the evening, about two hours before they served the dessert I never got to eat, I actually met the two-breasted, milk-squirting cousin from Beauvais and she seem really... normal.

So to resume, if you're getting married anytime soon, here are my tips:

1. don't be French or play French music

2. don't have an actual wedding ceremony, that's boring, just the reception

3. don't be stupid and sit people that don't know each other together in the hopes that they will socialize; it will just make your alcohol tab larger in the long run

4. pay for a babysitter for your guests or don't complain if their kids put toy cars on your wedding dress train all night

Being a [Please Insert Politically Correct Term for "Stay-at-Home-Mom" Here]

2011-06-10T11:25:00.002+02:00

Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
Damned if you go back to work, because you want to or you have to, after your baby is born.
But damned you if you stay at home, because you want to or because you feel obligated to, after your baby is born.
I'm in that boat. The one where I want to but feel obligated to both at the same time. The boat that has a few holes in it that is filling up with water (that the kids peed in) that you have to try to empty as fast as you can with one hand using a generic diaper and going on 3 hours sleep. It's the song that never ends, my friends...

Don't get me wrong, I love it.*
Well, I don't hate it. Well... I don't not think that other people have better. Like the ones that can stay at home with there kids AND not have to actually deal with them. Like actors. (I'm sorry if I offended any of my rich and famous actor friends by saying that.)

But it is hard because you're supposed to love it.
Like you're supposed to get excited about going to the baby music class at the local library, which honestly I was pretty excited that our village's library even has a library let alone a purple thong wearing librarian who hands out apricot flavored marshmallows and organizes baby music classes. If you're wondering, apricot marshmallows don't taste as good as they sound if you think that sounds good, and they taste as awful as they sound if you think they sound awful. Kids apparently love them, though, like all artificially flavored food, toothpaste, medicine, and condoms.

Basically my baby, who is too young to appreciate fine literature like Garfield and Bridget Jones', just wants to eat books and embarrass me by having a week's worth of pooping right there in the library, which is located in the town hall's former janitor's closet (and we're in France where everything is smaller. Let your imagination run wild.)

But I go anyway. Because it's prob. good for her. Like listening to Bruce Springsteen and Facebooking. Wait, no, that's good for ME. Anywho...
There are hardly any mom's ever there, only in-home daycare providers (which is a step down on the sanity ladder from stay-at-home mothers- the bottom rung is mothers who home school). Apparently there is an unspoken French rule that mothers and day care providers cannot speak to one another. So I am left to follow along with the story, which I suppose is only fair since the other member in my party is busy.
But it is rough. The books always have questions for the audience and the answers are always so obvious and none of those tykes can ever get any of them right let alone even giving them a go, but I can't shout them out because my mouth is full of apricot marshmellows, so that's awkward. Sigh.

I did get to see and actually talk to my mommy crush, though, at today's music group. Yes, being a stay-at-home American mom in a small, French village almost always fosters curiosity in other people. I refer to the mommy that I have a crush on to Thomas as "the most beautiful woman in the world" which is maybe an exaggeration, but I can't very well say "the most beautiful woman in this village" because that would be like saying "the healthiest thing at McDonald's." You don't have to be too healthy to be that. A deep-fried Mars bar would probably be healthier than anything else at McDonald's, and I think in all unfairness that doesn't sound very healthy. If you're wondering, deep-fried Mars bars are even better then they sound if you think they sound pretty fucking good, and if you think the don't sound very good well then you're WRONG.

Another part of staying at home that is rough is the getting fatter by the day part. You're pretty much required to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch everyday (which Nyko calls "peanut butter fly" SAMwiches) which wouldn't be so bad if we weren't already eating them for breakfast and dinner. I also noticed yesterday, after retreating from the couch to go to bed, that my whole couch area kinda looks like someone in our house is on bed rest. I guess I kind of am a "parent from the comfort of your own couch" type of mom. There has to be a pretty big crash and quite a lot of crying for me to actually get up. So on the one hand I'm getting lazy, and on the same hand I'm getting fat. The only one advantage to being a stay-at-home mom in France is that, as mentioned before, everything is smaller, and that includes my ass. If there were an Applebees here, oh.my.god. I'd go absolutely Chicken Fajita Roll-up on it.

Man I'm hungry. Thank Dog it's PBFJ time sooooon.

*If you believe I love it, you got me wrong, fool.

Mother of the Year

2011-06-07T15:02:00.001+02:00

I would wake up to the sun shining, the birds singing, feeling refreshed and alive. I'd have a lovely, balanced breakfast while I leisurely read my emails. I'd then have an invigorating shower, get dressed, and put on makeup. About this time my daughter would peacefully wake, smiling up at me, ready to nurse. When I was finished with that beautiful and natural task, my dear son would also calmly wake up ready for breakfast, which he would get himself and eat quietly while he did Sudoku. I would do aerobics and wouldn't sweat, and Faye would teach herself to crawl. Nyko would then brotherly help me dress the baby, get dressed himself, and we'd all walk to school holding hands. During the walk he would pick flowers for his teacher and write me a song and exclaim "you're the best mommy ever!"...

And then I woke up in France at my house which negates the entire fantasy I was having in the five minutes I dozed back to sleep after nursing, calming down nightmares, rubbing sore legs, getting glasses of water, cleaning up pee, and pushing away unwanted sexual advances all night long. I'd defend my husband by saying the sexual advances were from the dog but we don't have a dog. Actually those were part of the fantasy, too, but nobody wants me because I don't do aerobics and because I sweat profusely anyway.

Yes I want to be a good mother. Not in that I want to end up writing poems about butterfly kisses or that I want to have any more or even take care of the ones I have on most days, but you know, I want people to think I'm a good mother. I want people on airplanes to apologize to me for their eye-rolls after my silent cherubs help the stewardesses distribute drinks. I want mothers in grocery stores worldwide to admire me from afar for my motherly multi-tasking ability of breastfeeding, teaching my 3-year-old to read nutrition labels, and helping old women reach things on top shelves all while doing a month's worth of healthy grocery shopping on a strict budget. When I am brought to discipline my children in public, I want it to look easy and effortless like Super Nanny. I want it to be so effective that kids in a fifteen mile radius start behaving better. And of course, most of all, I want other mothers and their children to like me and my children. A lot. I want to be the best.

Being the best mother starts with baking the best cupcakes (I think). At least if you live in Southern California. In France, I don't know, but I thought I'd give it a shot and jumped at the opportunity to make baked goods for a school-sponsored bake-sale at the beginning of the year. I signed up to bring 5 batches. I had a 3-month-old. Now that is just plain stupid (according to Thomas) and in hindsight I'd have to say that he was right. Not only did I decide to make 5 batches of baked goods, I decided to make 5 FRESH batches of 5 DIFFERENT baked goods 5 of which the recipes I had NEVER made before. But it would be all worth it when people at the bake sale (which I wasn't even going to be able to attend) would take that first bite. They would stop in mid-sentence, do a double-take at delicious, perfect, light, incredible cookies/cupcake/caramel corn/sweet bread, and begin gossiping about the amazing American mother the humbly created such wonderfulness out of mere ingredients in her small but well-kept kitchen. (Ok the truth is that hte only reason that my kitchen is small is because it is actually un-well-kept, but the people at the bake sale don't know that.) Eventually my baked goods would sell out, but the school would have generated such a large amount of revenue from their sales that they would be able to buy Segways and soda-fountain machines for all the pre-schoolers. I would be a legend. Or I'd give everyone food poisoning.

The most common complaints about my American baking in France are:
1. it is too sweet (even when I cut the sugar amounts in half)
2. there is WAY too much cinnamon (even when I omit the cinnamon all together)
3. it is too heavy, too much, too rich
To all of these comments I say "Pas de problème, more for moi."

Nevertheless, I am always on the quest to making the perfect treats. I want people to like Nyko almost more than I want people to like me, and I figure people will just treat him nicer knowing that his mom makes orgasmic chocolate chip cookies, hoping to get invited over to his house etc. So I figured after my baking 5 different desserts catastrophe for Saturdays fundraiser, that on Monday I'd be a hometown hero. I couldn't wait to drop Nyko off at school, where during the previous 4 months people hadn't so much as batted an eyelash at me, but where suddenly they'd more than likely be coming up and introducing themselves to me, wondering where they could buy more of my cooking magic, and asking for my parenting advice.

I arrived at school, my heart pounding. Nyko wanted to know why we had gotten there before everyone else, which was obviously because I didn't want to make a scene or cause a riot by arriving suddenly, and thought that it would be best to get my gratitude and affection gradually as the other mothers arrived. But I couldn't tell Nyko that. So I told him that we weren't early, that we were on time, it was just that the other days we had always been late.
Slowly but surely, the other mothers started to arrive. They didn't look at me. I tried to catch their eyes, but they didn't seem interested. Maybe they didn't know that the treats were mine! I listened closely to try to hear if they were whispering about this weekend's mysterious wonder baker, but alas conversation seemed to be lice and boogers, as usual. Suddenly a woman was coming towards me. This was it. I was about to be exposed as the greatest.mother.ever. in front of the entire school yard! I put my bashful, modest face on and got ready to admit to my baking masterpieces, when the woman handed me something: my tupperwear. "Thanks for your contribution to the bake sale." And she turned and walked away.
In all fairness I did get a few compliments like "the [homemade Canadian pure caramelized maple] popcorn was [incredibly and satisfying] good." But no book deals, no autograph requests, and no birthday party invitations for Nyko.

So I thought that I would try again. Last week our village had a "neighbor party" in honor of "national neighbor day" (which contrary to what you might think a French neighbor day might be, does not involve having loud sex up against your shared walls, pissing in the apartment building stairwell, or parking in front of someone else's driveway so that they cannot get out). We were asked to bring a treat to share. I totally did a Napoleon Dynamite "yes!" Despite my knowledge that French people are allergic to cinnamon, despite willingly and eagerlyy eating snails, frogs, oysters, and Mister Ed, I decided to make cinnamon chocolate cupcakes. Cinnamon and chocolate are God's two finest ingredients. Imagine this: you see a delicious, moist, richly frosted chocolate cupcake. It's screaming your name. It's making your mouth water. You take a bite. *€£&à?! It is spicy and sweet! It is just the perfect combination of cinnamon and cocoa! You tell all your neighbor friends and Nyko's mom is voted Mother of the Year! Ok, ouf, got a little bit ahead of myself again there...
OR this could/apparently did happen:
...mouth water. You take a bite. *€£&à?! There's f*cking cinnamon in this chocolate cupcake!
As I nonchalantly peeked about the dessert table, to see if my cupcakes had been an instant hit, my eyes landed on one of my cupcakes, abandoned on the side of the table, with one smile bite missing. Oh well, I thought. A cinnamon hater. Oh well. But then I saw another, with only one bite missing, the rest of the deliciousness still intact. And then another. 4 cupcakes were found this way. FOUR. 1.2.3.4. 19 were left on the plate. There had only been 24 to begin with, and I obviously ate one, so yeah. Maybe next year [I'll buy a shitty grocery store tarte and serve it with a plastic knife like everyone else] I'll get Mother of the Year.

The Junk Drawer

2011-05-18T08:48:00.003+02:00

I don't really know if our house was a mess growing up or not. I mean my mom is really, really, really a neat freak (which in French is called a "maniac"), which no one that knows me would be able to tell but it is true. You can look behind her books, under her bed, and in her closets... nothing to hide. Kinda creepy.
But as children we were messy and in order to be able to deal with this emotionally my mother purchased a house that has a separate room off of the house and in the backyard which we called "The Outhouse" (FYI this room did not contain plumbing or toilets.) This was our playroom and always a Mess with a capital 'M'.
But my mess doesn't bother me. It's other people's dust and snot and sweat and fuzzies that make me shiver.

That is why I didn't like babysitting and why I decided quite young that I didn't want kids. Once while babysitting I set a baby down on a white couch (what normal person that has kids has a white couch? [if you're reading this Cindy I'm sorry I love you and I find you surprisingly normal for a person that has kids and a white couch....]) and pee (which is yellow in normal people [geez I should really write a manual on normal people]) got on the couch (which was white if I didn't mention it.) Ok, now what I DID fail to mention is that said baby was wearing a wet swimming diaper. So I guess the moral of the story is that swimming diapers prevent pool water from getting yellow but not white couches. I didn't really know how to remedy this situation, so I did what any normal person would do and I turned over the couch cushion. Except that these sick wackos had already done that...

The gross shit under their couch cushion was only the beginning. Every surface within a small child's reach was sticky, the bathrooms were permanently poop-smelling, the refrigerator was stocked full of hot dogs and Kraft macaroni and cheese (which scientists, after extensive lab tests, have concluded can not be considered food.), and of course there was always the "junk drawer." Whereas normal people, in their kitchens, have different drawers for different things (for example silverware etc.), people with kids always, always have a junk drawer. (There. I said it. People that have kids aren't normal.) All of this doesn't even take into account the sticky, smelly, shit-filled catastrophe that is a parents' mini-van...

Often times after the kids went to bed I'd go down into the kitchen and open the junk drawer and just kind of stare in there. What was all that shit? How did it get there? Why was it all sticky? Why didn't we have one at home? How could these people live this way?

Well I think that it is safe to say that my house, now, always smells of feces and sour milk, that any surface that will sit still is sticky, that we have a mini-van that has melted gumi-bears between the seats, and that we have a junk drawer.

Ours wasn't so much a drawer as a basket on the counter, but at one point I needed the counter to cook a Kraft macaroni and cheese dinner, so I threw everything in a generic Tupperware container (Fun French Fact: A Tupperware party in French is called a "réunion Tupperware" which directly translates to "Tupperware meeting." All business and no fun. Even sex toy parties are called meetings...)

Here is out junk tub, discretely sitting there on a junk shelf.

You can't even actually tell where it is...

Well, here it is with its contents all over the sticky floor...

Contents include:
-two wedding invites past the RSVP date that have not yet been R'd to...
-a key to an unknown lock
-two pares of scissors
-a mask Nyko made at school that I didn't have the heart to throw away at the time but I'm feeling a little better about
-a bookmark
-silly putty
-Nathan's sock (which I've been meaning to get back to you Anais)
-two boxes of crayons
-passport photos
-an uncashed in winning lottery ticket (2€)
-light bulb
-USB key
-vibrating thing-a-ma-Pierre from a neck cushion (I swear)
-5 cent, 1 €, and two fake coins for the grocery carts
-stickers
-glue stick
-to-do lists galore...

Here are some close ups you're going to want to check out...

The moral of THAT story is always take passport photos BEFORE getting a French haircut, just in case.

It's pretty amazing that I can never find a f*cking pen around here...
Also, yes, that is a FRIENDS game trivia card.

Oh! My eyebrows had been wondering where the good tweezers went.

It says "clean out junk drawer" on that list....
It also says "get the gasoline smell out of the high chair" and let me tell you I hope that as a mother you never have to type "how to get out the smell of gasoline" into google...

Here are some other organized spots in our house ...

Only three shoe-wearing people live in our house...

I counted the books over there on the couch- there were 23.

I didn't pose this picture. The cabinets and drawers were open. I see dead people.

Our Ikeaware drawer...

Sticky.

Teaching English to 5-year-olds is like...

2011-05-17T18:05:00.004+02:00

...bikini waxing; simultaneously painful, awkward, and pointless...
But I volunteered, and if I've learned one thing in life it is that one of the best reasons to do something is because you feel obligated to in order to be a good mother.
And that is how it came to be that every Tuesday afternoon for the longest half hour of my life I come to Nyko's pre-pre-preschool class to teach English.

I've got ten kids in all because I only take the oldest ones (Nyko's in a multi-aged class with les petits, les moyens, and les grands...). I take them alone. They call me "Madame Deschodt" and every time they do it takes every gram of my strength to not say "Madame Deschodt is my mother-in-law."

It was hard to know what to teach since kids that age don't know much to begin with. For example they don't know that little girls should sit closed legged when wearing a skirt or that boogers aren't a very healthy afternoon snack. So I started with numbers.

The best way to show you how teaching English to 5-year-olds is like one-by-one pube pulling with skin scalding wax would be to actually show you, but I learned the hard way years ago that it is illegal to film or photograph children in French schools. That is unfortunately a true story that my lawyer has advised me not to blog about. So I'll have to describe the scene for you:

Moi: (pointing to a picture of the number 'one') What is this?
Trouble-maker my son raves about: Une feuille! (a piece of paper!)
Moi: No. THIS. What number is this?
Brown-noser: Un! (One!)
Moi: Yes, but IN ENGLISH.
The whole class in unison: "In Engleesh!"
Moi: No. SAY IT in English...
The whole class in unison: "C'est eet!"
Moi: NO. "ONE"
The whole class in unison: "Un"
Moi:

Kid that never says anything and stares into space: Is that a tattoo on your ankle?
Brown-noser: At my house I can count to 200 in English
Moi: Sweet. Go for it.
Brown-noser: I forget now.
Another snot-faced kid: What does your tattoo say?
Moi: "OOOOONNNNNNNEEEEEEEE"
Whole class in unison: "In Eengleesh!"

How France is Different #3294- Surrogacy and Adoption

2011-05-13T23:28:00.002+02:00

I get asked all the time- how is France different?
Here is a great example: Surrogacy is illegal in France.
Surely, this must be a joke. But... pourquoi??
For French people, the answer is evident. So obvious, in fact, that no answer can really be given.
For me, surrogacy being illegal would be like adoption being illegal....
Adoption is illegal in France.
Well, let me rephrase that. Pre-arranged adoption is illegal in France. Any woman who does not wish to care for her child delivers her baby at the hospital anonymously. It is then adopted out after a certain time period and prob. about 7 years of paperwork. But no Juno-style adoptions allowed.

For gits and shiggles, here is how I feel about surrogacy:

Commercial Surrogacy: The Solution, Not the Problem
Marianne M. Deschodt
October 23, 2010

“Wombs for rent.” “Baby Sellers.” “Outsourced pregnancy.” These are all terms to describe commercial surrogacy, the ever-growing phenomena of women being hired and financially compensated to carry and deliver another couple’s baby. The idea of commercial surrogacy is only about as new as in vitro technology (20 years or so), yet has gotten more popular in recent years. This technology creates a very unique option for seemingly infertile parents, women unable to safely carry a baby, singles, and same-sex couples— the hope for biological children. It is becoming a multi-billion dollar industry. Not coincidentally, the boom in the commercial surrogacy industry has led to other changes including increased media attention surrounding surrogacy and infertility issues, complicated legal custody battles, an increased awareness of the lack of laws and controls surrounding this type of practice, and most importantly, immense scrutiny. Although highly criticized as unethical, I feel that the commercialization of surrogacy actually seems to be a positive and practical solution to many of the other issues surrounding surrogacy by creating a priority and demand for uniformity of law, creating a competitive market that lowers prices and raises standards, and by implementing a third party moderator system.

As the commercialization of surrogacy is reaching international levels, governments are forced to address the issue of nonexistent, unenforced, incompatible, and inadequate laws and regulations surrounding surrogacy. Before the commercialization of surrogacy, governments turned a blind eye to the ever-growing problems and legal disputes that surrogacy was creating. Yet as technology advanced, so did different options for infertility, creating an ever-growing market for this much needed science. Governments the world over began to put regulations surrounding infertility under the microscope, notably those that were being commercialized including new fertility clinics specializing in fertility treatments, in vitro fertilization, and of course, surrogacy. Diana M. Gianelli (1998) noted that this began happening particularly after unethical business practices (which are common in unregulated industries) led to some very high profile cases, sparking the political interest of the public. Many of these unprecedented court cases, bringing up the worst hypothetical situations imaginable in surrogacy dealing with custody, non-biological parents’ rights, and childhood well-being, meant that state and national legislature had to find a way to deal with these problems, thereby creating court precedents onto which future cases could depend. International commercial surrogacy cases have made for even more complicated and compelling court cases, for example the 2008 Japanese-Indian court case in which the custody of baby Manji (created by the sperm of the Japanese couple, a donated egg, and an Indian surrogate) was uncertain after the couple who had contracted the pregnancy divorced during the gestation period. (Points, 2009). Since the case did not fit under the definitions laid out by current laws, or the definitions of family, custody, or citizenship, the case took over a year to be resolved. As a direct result of this case, a new bill was drafted in Indian parliament to better define commercial surrogacy and protect against commercial exploitation. (Points, 2009).

Concerning legalities and regulations of surrogacy in the United States, the focus has been more on unifying state laws so that they complement one another. Drabiak, Fredland, Helft, and Wegner (2007) note that:

…such regulations are intended to prevent the kind of maneuvers commercial agencies currently use that may reduce the bargaining power of potential surrogates, and reduce the potential for complicated interstate arrangements, which attempt to capitalize on the laws of permissive states and circumvent the restrictive laws of others.

I feel that this step in the right direction is due entirely to those who are trying to positively commercialize surrogacy, as a solution to two problems really: the heart-breaking complication of infertility, and that of extreme poverty in parts of the world. It is those that see surrogacy first hand and the way it positively can impact lives on both sides, those that are taking the risk of operating business in uncharted waters, and those that are willing to fight legal battles so that things might change infertility for the future.

The competitive market and consumer awareness that is emerging from commercial surrogacy is forcing businesses to raise their standards by offering fairer prices to parents, better conditions and wages to surrogates, and to cease unethical business practices. Ethical issues surrounding surrogacy, especially now that commercial surrogacy has hit the third world, have been put in the spotlight. The classical profile of an extremely wealthy and infertile couple, desperate to have a child, susceptible to the few surrogacy solutions that they can find is no longer the norm. Couples or singles desiring children carried by a surrogate mother now have choices. The profiles of companies and agencies offering this fertility option to would-be parents are also changing, because gone are the days where one or two sketchy agencies have the monopoly on the industry. Stricter laws and regulations aside, consumers are now dominating the demand for higher standards and fairer business practices. Consumers, while interested in cheaper surrogacy options, are particularly concerned with the treatment and payment of surrogate mothers in the third world. They are sensitive to the delicate emotional demands that this type of arrangement places on all parties involved.

Part of consumer awareness in many industries recently deals with fair working conditions and business practices particularly pertaining to the third world. Mina Chang (2009) wonders that if surrogacy in India, for example, costs up to seven times less than in the United States, are vulnerable surrogate mothers there getting taken advantage of by agencies by accepting low wages for a dangerous job? Yet Chang tells us that surrogates there can make up to 15 years wages for one surrogate pregnancy and birth, and that the screening process is very strict, making sure that surrogates are not only physically healthy to safely carry a child, but also that their psychological state can support the emotional demands of being a surrogate mother. Arlie Hochschild (2009) tells us about the largest assisted reproductive fertility clinics in India, where surrogates live during their pregnancy and are fed healthy foods, given vitamins, encouraged to exercise, are closely monitored for health problems, and counseled for emotional issues.

Another way that consumer awareness about the sometimes not so perfect realities of commercial surrogacy is improving surrogacy practice is by the creation of many non-profit watch dog organizations, that rally together to not only support surrogates and biological and adoptive families, but also to persuade local and national government to improve laws and regulations surrounding the industry to make surrogacy a legitimate face of the new, modern family. Consumer awareness is also leading to professional awareness in the same way, paving way for professional associations, such as the Egg Donation and Surrogacy Professional Association, whose goal is to promote “cooperation, education and professional ethics…” (http://www.edspa.org).

The need for a neutral third party moderator to look out for the interests of all parties involved in surrogacy and to facilitate communication, legalities, and emotional struggles is answered by potential surrogates and biological parents seeking out authorized and commercialized surrogacy agencies, and also by newly required government intervention. Some people, hoping that surrogacy is still an easier option without all of the legal proceedings of adoption, for example, feel that this is a frustrating change, although I feel that this is perhaps the most important positive change that could happen for surrogacy due directly to its commercialization. According to the American Fertility Association (2008), laws have progressed so that “most… states that allow for gestational surrogacy arrangements require court intervention, including approval of the gestational surrogacy agreement, pre or post-birth orders, and/or an adoption proceeding…” In addition to the government being more sensitive to the possible legal and emotional support that is desperately needed in surrogacy arrangements, agencies themselves now provide these services as well, providing counseling, psychological help, as well as support after the birth dealing with the well-being and emotions of the child, and attachment/detachment issues. Agencies act as third party moderators, experienced in dealing with the complex issues that surrogacy can create, caring deeply for all parties involved.

Other third parties that can also be very helpful, as mentioned earlier, are non-profit and non-governmental associations. The EDSPA, for example, provides “…a forum for education, communication and advocacy on behalf of patients, physicians, attorneys, agencies and affiliated professionals in the field of Third Party Family Formation.” (http://www.edspa.org). Other associations such as SurrogacyUK, provide information to families, support networks, and counseling as well as license and monitor clinics. (http://www.surrogacyuk.org). With the government, agencies, and associations working together, commercial surrogacy is a safer place for families and surrogates alike to have a powerful, positive, deeply important experience that is to be cherished by all.

The commercialization of surrogacy has the potential to create a problem-solving chain of reactions that never stops improving. While of course I recognize the ethical problems that uncontrolled commercial surrogacy created in the beginning, the rise in legal cases and custody battles led to governments re-examining their laws and controls over the surrogacy industry worldwide, slowly but surely making surrogacy more clear cut and safer for all parties involved. The government attention to this matter led to consumer and media awareness about surrogacy and the issues surrounding infertility, which led to the demand for higher industry standards, fairer prices and wages, and better business practices. These legal issues along with consumer awareness, led to the recognition of the need of a third party moderator in surrogacy arrangements. As businesses become more ethical, they in turn become excellent third party moderators, as well as the government and courts stepping in to better regulate these arrangements for the well-being of everyone involved. Other third parties have also been created in the form of non-governmental associations that watch over the industry. While like any industry, the fertility industry has its kinks to work out, but the surrogacy industry is responding quickly to negative attention and showing the world that it is a caring industry, dedicated to a cause that will never go away.

References

Chang, M. (2009). Womb for rent: India’s commercial surrogacy.

Harvard International Review, 31(1), 11-12. Retrieved from http://find.galegroup.com/gps/infomark.do?&contentSet=IACdocuments&type=retrieve&tabID=T002&prodId=IPS&docId=A200271849&source=gale&srcprod=AONE&userGroupName= uiu_henderson&version=1.0

Drabiak, K., Fredland, V., Helft, P., Wegner, C. (2007). Ethics, law, and

commercial surrogacy: A call for uniformity. Journal of Law, Medicine & Ethics, 35(2),

300-310. Retrieved from http://find.galegroup.com/gps/infomark.do?&contentSet=IACDocuments&type=retrieve&tabID=T002&prodId=IPS&docId=A164829352&source=gale&srcprod=AONE&userGuserGrou=uiu_henderson&version=1.0

Egg Donation and Surrogacy Professional Association, Our Mission. Retrieved October 19, 2010

from http://www.edspa.org.

Gianelli, Diane M. (1998). N.Y. panel urges stricter controls over fertility clinics.

American Medical News, 41.n19, 3.

Hochschild, Arlie. (2009). Childbirth at the global crossroads: women in the developing

world who are paid to bear other people’s children test the emotional limits of the international service economy. The American Prospect, 20(8), 25-29. Retrieved from http://find.galegroup.com/gps/infomark.do?&contentSet=IACDocuments&type=retrieve&tabID=T002&prodId=IPS&docId=A209351847&source=gale&srcprod=AONE&userGuserGrou=uiu_henderson&version=1.0

Points, Kari. (2009). Commercial Surrogacy and Fertility Tourism in India. Report from the

Kenan Institute for Ethics at Duke University. Retrieved from http://www.duke.edu/web/kenanethics/CaseStudies/BabyManji.pdf.

Ross, Heather, & Zuckerman, Nora. (2008). Gestational Surrogacy in Illinois. Retrieved from

The American Fertility Association website http://www.theafa.org/library/article/gestational_surrogacy_in_illinois/.

Surrogacy UK. Retrieved October 19, 2010 from http://www.surrogacyuk.org.

How France is Different #5478- Ashes

2011-05-13T23:11:00.000+02:00

In France, according to law n° 2007-328 du 12 mars 2007 it is illegal to:
-divide a person's ashes
-to keep, bury, or disperse ashes in a private or public place

The burning question is, therefore, what the heck CAN a Frenchie do with his or her loved one's ashes?
The answer, mon ami, is to keep them in a cemetery, a "memory garden," or some sort of ashes memorial place thing-a-ma-Jacques.
OR, alternatively, with the accord of the town's mayor after approx. 27 months of paperwork (in order to "assure that in any hypothetical situation the traceability of the ashes to allow anyone wishing to visit a person's final resting place"), you can spread a loved one's ashes "outside away from a public place." So if I understand correctly, you cannot spread ashes in a private place or a public place. You can't spread ashes, quoi.

Bizzare, oui, but French people just don't seem to share our love of fireplace urnes and that Grandma watching over us at dinnertime feeling.

Serving Food

2011-05-09T20:04:00.003+02:00

Speaking of French people needing you to hold their hand for moral support while serving themselves food- I ALWAYS do buffet style dinner parties and ALWAYS the following things happen:
1. I ask everyone to help themselves.
2. No one moves.
3. I invite everyone to "not be shy."
4. No one moves.
5. I laugh and joke that if they aren't hungry, I sure am!
6. No one moves.
7. I think I'll show them the example, and I get myself a plate.
8. No one moves.
9. I start eating, thinking that my orgasmic digestive noises will entice them to get some grub.
10. No one moves.
11. A "polite," brown nosing type discretely and humbly sacrifices his or her comfort and own stubborn Frenchness and begins to pass the serving dishes around.
12. People either take items one at a time with no plate, or if they have a plate, take items one at a time to put on their plate.
13. I sit with a full plate and stuff my face.

As far as drinks go, the following things happen:
1. I serve drinks in the beginning, show people where the drinks are, and invite people to fill their own glasses when they are empty.
2. People sit around for the rest of the evening with empty glasses, looking longingly at the drink table, trying to give off thirsty vibes that go over my head because I've been serving myself and am therefore drunk. Oh ,also because I'm not a babysitter.
3. I'm forced to run around all evening filling people's glasses because the success of my party is directly related to the amount of alcohol that people consume.

The irony of it all is that the words buffet and cafeteria are French. According to dictionary.com, buffet comes from 18th century French and means: "a meal laid out on a table or sideboard so that guests may serve themselves." Unfortunately, another meaning of the word buffet is: "to strike against or push repeatedly." The French, recognizing the word "to strike," misunderstood and felt that it was more within their genetic make-up to sit around and complain so they decided that they would from here on out refuse to serve themselves any food at other people's houses.

In a world without fast food, Frenchies are obligated to eat their lunches in company cafeterias or at Flunch (I'm not making that up).

Granted, at a place like Flunch people do have to help themselves to items like salads and desserts, but these items are already individually served on a plate and are ready for consumption.
In company cafeterias, employees serve up chicken cordon bleus, French Fries (which of course here are just called fries) and other foods, much like they would in American primary schools- with fish nets and industrial sized ice cream scoops.

According to this fun fact sheet I found, 73% of French people actually eat at home for lunch, and only 3% eat a sandwich. (137% of Americans eat sandwiches... which means there are a lot of people having two...)

My son's school actually wanted me to come and get him everyday to bring him home to eat lunch, and then back to school until 4:30. Everyday. He's 3. And they don't do sack lunches... I was like "non, c'est pas possible." That would have cut way too much into my Facebook time. After all, I am on a parental leave of absence from work. I can't be expected to do too much for my kids, that is what the government is for. Vive government run school cafeterias that cannot refuse any student for any reason!

The Last Word

2011-05-09T20:04:00.000+02:00

Perhaps I've written about the French art of saying hello... 'bonjour' is very important in France.
But allow me to turn your attention to another French situation that is equally important but less talked about, and that is the goodbye, or au revoir if you will.

When, leaving a shop for example, it is customary to say goodbye, or a form of it, at least seventeen times. The last person to say goodbye will have the final word, leaving the other person automatically labelled as rude in this cruel and harsh game of conversational musical chairs. Oh la la.

Let me show you an example:

Acte I Scene I- At the bakery (approx. 10 square feet with a line out the door)
Bread Seller: (handing over the baguette and the change) Voila! Merci!
Moi: Merci. (turning to leave the store)
Bread Seller: (shouting around the next customer in line) Have a nice day!
Moi: (shouting around the entire line as well) Have a nice day! (Addressing now everyone in the shop) Goodbye!
Everyone in the shop: Goodbye! Have a nice day!
Moi: (to everyone in the shop) Have a nice day... (to an acquaintance in line specifically) Goodbye.
Bread Seller: (to the next customer in line) Bonjour. (to me again) Goodbye now! Good luck...
Moi: (have now made it the five feet to the door [freedom], have managed to open it, and am caught in the doorway between two parallel universes) Yes goodbye and good luck. And thanks again.
Bread Seller: Ah oui! Merci! And have a good day...
Moi: (with a sheepish smile and a nod, I escape...)
Bread Seller: (to the next person in line) Well gosh! SHE was rude! In such a rush to get out of here, barely even a thank you or a goodbye!

I can only imagine awkward phone conversations between new French couples that can only logically end in a phone battery dying or a marriage proposal since no one dares to be the first to hang up...

On a recent trip to Sweden I noticed that the hello nor the goodbye was as important there, and I realized to what point I've "become French" in that I actually felt offended at some occasions when I felt I was not properly greeted with a hello, kisses, champagne, and fireworks. The Swedes, rather, seemed to get right down to business. Upon arriving at a house party, we were quickly greeted at the door by the host who as soon as she had said hello had retreated back into the home and to the table to continue eating. We were left to put up our shoes and coats, find the dining room, serve ourselves some food at the stove, and find a spot to sit at the table. Cool. Relaxed. Chill. Except I've been living in France for so long that now I need someone to tell me to please take off my shoes, take my coat, show me into the dining room, give me a before dinner drink, and pass food right to me in order to actually be able to sit down and eat it. Of course there may have been more verbal communication based on instructions on how to take shoes off and how to get yourself food, but my Swedish not being perfect it must have gone over my head.

How to Change a Diaper in the Dark

2011-04-06T09:56:00.000+02:00

1. Bang your head against a wall or similar activity in order to get rid of a few IQ points
2. Make sure that your sleep deprivation goes back for at least 5 weeks.
3. Have all materials set up and in one place before going to bed, and practice with this set up during the day. (For example, always keep the wipes on the top right hand side of the changing pad, and the diaper on the bottom left...)
4. Unless baby has a diaper rash, very sensitive skin, or a poopy, don't change baby at night.
5. If breastfeeding, don't wait until the end of the feed to change baby (unless of course that is when she poos!). Change her between breasts or halfway through one breast if she only takes one.
6. Carefully change her diaper, holding ontop her feet and hands with one hand, and doing the wiping with your dominant hand.
7. If you get any poo on your hand, wipe it on your sleeping husband. Serves him right for not being up to help you.

How to Breastfeed Baby in the Dark

2011-04-06T09:51:00.000+02:00

It is always good to have a small nightlight, but not wanting to turn on all the lights on a room in order to keep baby in a drowsy stage, and also not to wake up any other sleeping people in the room is understandable.
1. Before going to bed make sure that the floor path from your bed to baby is clear and that your designated breastfeeding area is set up with pillows, water, and whatever you might need (although a book or magazine for reading might be a little tough.)
2. When baby is ready to feed, slowly make your way to her, reassuring her with your voice.
3. Get comfortable in your chair
4. Place on finger on your nipple, and guide it into her mouth, removing your finger quickly when she's got it.
5. Feel with your hands to make sure she is positioned correctly, belly to belly.
6. If her bum seems to be crying, and her head isn't sucking, turn baby around.

The Toilet Brush

2011-04-06T08:57:00.000+02:00

Ok, so there is this... thing that I have noticed, more and more lately. I don't really know how to describe it, so I will give you an example:
Gaston: "I'm done pooping!" (toilet flushing)
La maman de Gaston: (upon seeing the toilet) Sacré Brown, Gaston! You have left poo marks! How many times do I have to tell you to use the toilet brush???"

Yes. ALL French toilets have toilet brushes. The toilet brush seems to be more important than all of the following: a fixed toilet seat, a flushing mechanism, toilet paper, a door the locks, a door that closes, water, and soap.

Now I'm going out on a limb by saying this, but before moving to France I had never really given toilet brushes much thought. Frankly, we didn't have a permanent place for one next to the toilets in our house growing up; le brush was just kept with the cleaning supplies, to be used when cleaning the bathrooms once a week. But in France, toilet scrubbing is much too much of an issue to just leave it be for a week, so the brush much be kept at all times next to the toilet. French people seem to be investing so much money in toilet brushes that they are sacrificing extra toilets. This explains why there are considerably less toilets in France than in the United States. So let's just say that when I arrived here and observed this dire brush situation, I ran right out to Ikea and got myself a brush.

I think that there are one of two things going on here:
either 1. my family didn't succeed in teaching me proper toilet etiquette, and my poop manners are not up to fart, or 2. French people have some sort of anal-non-retention skid mark fixation.

All I know is that when the other mothers complain that their three year olds have yet again left some butt brush strokes in the toilet again, I think silently to myself that I would be quite grateful if my own three year old would leave his masterpieces in the toilet rather than on the seat, to the side, or in his pants...

Not as exasperated and not so much an expatriate?

2011-03-27T21:54:00.000+02:00

I don't know where this blog is going. I suppose I started it because I needed an outlet for my pent up frustrations living in a foreign country and feeling trapped. I guess I was also hoping to find someone else out there, anyone, like me. In the same situation. I'm not sure that person exists.

Suddenly, it feels that I am no longer an exasperated expatriate. I am an exasperated mother, and more often than not I'd like to write about that yet I feel that I can't write about that here. So I tried starting another blog, Murphy's Law Motherhood, but come on. I don't have time to write facebook status updates let alone one blog let alone two.

So I'm just going to put it all here. It doesn't have to go along with the theme. There is not theme. It is just my life. Take it or leave it.

"Aquajogging..."

2011-03-08T15:54:00.000+01:00

...The name sounds straight-forward enough. Aqua = in the water, jogging = running at a leisurely pace.
So then why did I find myself in the deep end (literally and figurativly) of the froggy pool doing abdominal excercises led by the most sadistic woman on the planet? 3 months post partum and I can't walk to the mail box without getting winded (which is right outside my front door), and this skinny, French bitch has got me perched up on two "French Fries" (I can't make this shit up) (I'm not sure what we'd call these in the USA- noodles?) soliciting muscles that I didn't know I had making me hurt in places I didn't think I cared about counting higher and faster than Seasame Street muppets. Either I'm peeing my entire body's water content or pool water is flowing freely about my birth hole, and I'm wondering if this fun is supposed to be considered our warm-up or if we've actually started the workout portion of this 45-minute class?

15 LONG minutes later she informs us that warm-up is finished, and I'm feeling a bit like one of those science textbook pictures where you can x-ray see through a person to his different muscle groups underneath his skin... Our "teacher", although quite svelte, must have never actually tried any of these manouevers in the water before, because hydraulically speaking the speed in which she is keeping rhythm is not physically possible to maintain against the H2O. I desparately look around at the other fat asses and old ladies... I'm equally torn between 1. not understanding what the fuck I'm supposed to be doing 2. not being able to keep my balance to actually do what I'm supposed to be doing once I've figured it out without floating away 3. not being able to keep up with the pace at which we are supposed to be doing whatever it is we're doing. There is no break between sets. The break is taking it down to 90%. There is no jogging, there are no aerobics. There is not peppy music; no music at all actually. There are just out of control repititions of crunchies (called, in French, "les abdos") which, in the water, have only one difference from dry land crunchies in that there is no where to support your back...

In France everything is smaller than in the USA- the swimming pool is no exception. Think of men all wearing tiny speedos, (this is a rule here- I have no idea why. Answers I have gotten to this question range from something about it being more hygenic, to "this is not a beach it is a pool," and "the hair clogs up the drain." Oookkkkk), the pool itself, and the lockers. Litterally my gym bag is bigger than the locker. Why such small lockers? Cause not only is it fun to try to ram everthing into the tiny thing, it is also fun to go crazy trying to pull everything back out again at the end with your burning muscles...

Missing....

2011-02-09T09:40:00.000+01:00

Nyko told me yesterday that he missed the train. He meant that since we didn't see the train that day, that he was longing to see one. It made me laugh a bit, cause I've missed a lot of trains in my life, but never in the sense that I wanted to be on one when there wasn't one I was suposed to be on...

But I know about that longing... the heartbreak of my life can be summed up in that word. I can tell you that homesickness is worse than morning sickness, and that it is a very real, and permanent part of my life. It cycles, like grief, through stages and phases that you cannot control, speed up, slow down, or stop. Even when I'm at home visiting, I'm already homesick about leaving, anticipating having to say goodbye, feeling so odd about home not being home anymore, worrying I no longer belong to the place I compare everything to. And also because when you live in a place for so long, it becomes a part of you, so of course then I'm homesick for France, believe it or not.

Usually when I complain about homesickness my family says things like "well, it is your fault for living in France." Is it? I mean really. I moved here temporarily and was loving it and then I fell in love with a man and fell out of love with France and here I still am today. We have two children and will probably never get divorced because first of all, only very rich people could handle shared custody from across an ocean, and second of all because even if we ever reach a point where we don't love one another anymore, we are the two people on Earth that love our children deeper than deep, and that connection alone wouldn't be great but it would be enough. The paradox is that if ever we move back to the USA, Thomas and his family would be miserable like my family is today and knowing how hard it is, well that would just be a heartbreaking thing to inflict onto someone.

Since my dad died I often lay in bed during long insomniatic, post-breastfeeding sessions to horrible images of his suicide, his disease. My mind has to default to something else less horrific, but won't let me leave the subject completely, so it settles on the aching whole in my heart where my father now rests. Missing a loved one that has died is one of the lonliest, most pathetic, hopeless feelings a human can feel, I think, at least it is the worst feeling I've ever felt. It can go to desparate, but usually about three seconds later you realize that no matter how much you'd negotiate for another phone call with the person or another comforting hug that you had forever taken for granted, you aaren't ever going to get it so you go back to being miserable and hopeless. And for me, about three seconds later, another thought occurs to me: I miss my mother/brother/sister just as much as I miss my dad and they are still here. In these moments I desparately want to call them screaming and crying "aaaahhh I miss you! I just want to come and watch you pick lint out of your belly button, have a crappy cup of coffee, fight!" but I can't, they wouldn't understand. Sometimes I do call, and hide my tears and talk about banalities, which usually does ease the pain a bit, but none-the-less the pain of grieving for my father is exactely like the pain of longing for my family, and the fear that I may never again "have" them.

It doesn't feel natural to live so far away from my family. Throughout my life I've gone back and forth. During some bad teenage angst years I had come to the conclusion: "fuck family, we don't choose them." Then in college it was more like "I have to love them but I don't have to like them." Well, now, it is more like "you know what I don't have to like them but I DO, and I love them as well." I know what true love is, after holding my babies in my arms for three years now, and let me tell you I no longer have the urge to get as far away from my mother as possible. I'd move back into her basement in a heartbeat if the situation presented itself (although at this point in my life it would have to be a pretty bad situation for a mother of two to end up in her mom's basement.)

There is no conclusion to this blog post... the missing is never-ending...

Going Home

2011-01-06T00:45:00.000+01:00

This trip home, my 5th since I moved to France in 2006, has been, as usual, a head scratcher. It is never easy- it is always a mind boggler to say the least.
It is not that I don't belong here anymore, but I'm so overwhelmed by everything I've missed that I can't even take advantage of it all- all I can do is be in the moment, in awe of this place that usually for me only exists in my dreams.
Today I'm here: driving down the snow-shining road towards to blue shadowed mountains, squinting my eyes against the marvelous Colorado sun... today I'm here where I've been so many times, lived so many things- most of my childhood, most of my life, college, and most recently here in the town where my mom now lives ups and downs with my ex-boyfriend, a lot of soul searching while working some pretty bad jobs, some good times while living with my mom, and of course my dad's death... today I'm here, and tomorrow I'll be gone.
Today I can sit down and have a coffee with my mom, take for granted that we have the leisure to fall asleep together in front of a movie, talk to no end about anything and everything, get her opinion on a bathing suit I'm thinking of buying, get her help with the kids, try to support her the best any adult child can...
Today I can bask in the wonderfulness that is this country, ignoring all of its faults, talking openly to complete strangers in public restrooms, comforting my sorrows with food that has no nutritional value whatsoever, and most importantly daring to dream that I can still, at any moment I chose, change, become anything I want to be or do.
Today I am here, and tomorrow I'll be gone. And I don't know when I'll come back. And I don't know how things will be when I do get here.
And there isn't a damned thing that I can do about it.

Staying in touch...

2010-10-10T09:22:00.002+02:00

I admit it, I'm bad at staying in touch. I think I used to be good at it, but as the years pass, I have less and less news to give, my life is uneventful, and frankly if you want to know anything about me, all you have to do is look at my facebook page.

This becomes a problem in France, where friends whine about not being able to understand my facebook status updates. Yeah, like it would be worth it to translate "today I pooped 7 times" into French... There is something about French email communication that I just don't understand.
I have a friend who litterally has never started an email with anything other than the phrase:
"Why haven't you given us your news?" It's like, why haven't you given us YOUR fucking news?
(sorry, pregnancy makes me vulgar.)
No but seriously. Giving news emails is for friends that live across the ocean. Emails for friends living in the same town are for setting up dates to actually talk about the news. Cause frankly what I have to tell anyone won't get us past conversation while we're waiting to order... (which then again, in France is about ten times as long as it is in the USA, but still...)
So if I let you know what's new in an email (nothing) then we really don't need to get together. Which would be better for me cause I don't have time and don't really want to.
(Sorry, pregnancy makes me antisocial.)

Other friends are more passive agressive than this. One always says something like, after I email... "Well I knew I shouldn't worry about you, that you'd email when you wanted..." like basically "I was counting the days and getting more pissed by the day and I wanted to email you but instead I was testing you and waiting for you to email..." Ggggrrr.
(Pregnancy makes me bitter.)

I don't mean to be a bad friend. I do deeply care about my friends. I can't even say that I have a lot, so that is not an excuse why I can't keep up with everyone. But you know... don't you?

Desserts: Americans and Frogs do not see Eye to Pie

2010-10-09T12:21:00.003+02:00

I've always had a problem with the way the French view desserts, but it kind of exploded yesterday when my three year had a mini-fit because I was eating "dessert" for breakfast. I was eating a plain yoghurt.
I know an American is probably not in a very good place to talk about this sort of thing, judging on our eating habits, but AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

The first thing that bothers me about French dessert is that there ALWAYS has to be one. At the school cafeteria at lunch, at home at dinner, there has to be dessert. So that is why Nyko thinks yoghurt is dessert, because instead of giving him a real dessert, I give him a yoghurt or a piece of fruit.

And don't get me started about the fruit. Any not so thin American that has been in France for more than a day will tell you that they've had a "ooooh don't eat that it makes you fat!" comment while eating a banana. A BANANA. Yeah, that is why I'm fat. The bananas....

So this morning, to prove my point, I made pancakes. Homeade cause I rule. Everything was going well, Nyko was super excited, Thomas was tolerant, and I, having drempt about pancakes, was salivating out of every orifice of my body. Thomas even set the table... and that is when things got ugly. He set the table with... SPOONS. YES, you heard me. SPOONS.

This is because French people eat their dessert, not matter what it is, with spoons. And I'm not talking normal spoons, I mean tea spoons. Because really they only have two choices: tea spoons or serving spoons, because in France there are no regular sized spoons (except in my house where the spoons come from America.) Nevertheless, there were tea spoons on the table, meaning Thomas considered our breakfast dessert. And that is how he and Nyko ate their pancakes. WITH SPOONS. AAAAHHHHHHH.

Where are the maxi pads?

2010-10-05T19:39:00.002+02:00

Often times a trip to the grocery store is a trying adventure in discovery and hair pulling. After 4 years here I still haven't gotten it all down.
Like baking soda. You have to get it at the pharmacy.
Flour and sugar aren't always in the same aisle.
Eggs could be anywhere from next to the cheese and butter, to near the baking section, depending on the grocery store.
Milk is near the bottled water and coke, on the other side of the store as the cheese and other dairy.
Chips, nuts, and olives can be divided into different sections based on criteria I have yet to understand.
Etc. etc.

Weeeelllll, since it has been about 9 months since I bought maxi pads, and since I was in a different grocery store than usual, I thought it was normal that after about ten minutes I still couldn't find them. I went up and down the beauty and personal hygene ailes, one by one, searching and searching. I really didn't want to ask, being 9 months pregnant and all. Ok, not next to the bandaides or condoms or toothpaste or shampoo or tweezers. Not next to the deodorant or the soap or the hair dye or the foot spray or the perfume. Ok, maybe in the... diaper section? Not next to the Pampers or the Depends. Ok, maybe the toillette paper aisle? Nope, not next to the paper towel, Kleenex, or the Q-tips. Ok. What the f?
FINALLY, I found them, the next aisle over, logically, next to the motor oil and light bulbs. Sigh.

Thank you to all of my French readers...

2010-09-30T09:40:00.005+02:00

...since I've "stopped" writing I can't even believe how many French friends have said they have read and enjoyed my blog. Thank you.

Now, listen.

You're all a bunch of spoiled, whining, ungrateful, STUPID morons and I understand why you're second on Al Quida's list. If I've offended you, please stop striking and go back to work.

Yes, I mean it.

A nationwide, industry-wide strike against the retirment age being a year or two later??? Seriously? Obviously, who would want to take their retirment later? Not me, but I am smart enough to understand where the money for retirement comes from (taxes) and so the options, in this economy, are this:

1. raise taxes

2. retire later

That's it, folks. It is obvious to me that in a changing economy, social benefits change.

While all of your fifty-year olds and sixty-year olds are off throwing balls at other balls in parks, or sun bathing your leathery tits on rocky beaches, do you know what us Americans are doing? WORKING. Working harder that yours ever worked, getting less benefits for it, and bitching, less, too. We pay for our medicine, and our doctor's visits, too. IF and only IF we are lucky enough to be the nation's elite and upper class, wealthy enough to afford our company's private insurance policy, aside paying out the nose monthy for our policy, we pay more for a CO-PAY than you would pay in France without social security.
While your pregnant women get paid lay on their backsides minimum six weeks before delivery (and let's be honest, mostly WAY before that), ours are stocking shelves at 7-11 until their water breaks...

Me? I'm so fucking grateful. I am REALLY enjoying my maternity leave, I really appreciate the quality healthcare I get for free, and the peace of mind I get from not having to worry about what I would do should I get sick. I appreciate the government making it possible for me to be a stay-at-home mom, and all the other amazing benefits we get just for being (or in my case, not even) French. I guess when you've lived without, you appreciate living with even more.

My 3-year-old started "school"

2010-09-30T08:00:00.000+02:00

...Actually, when he started, for two weeks he wasn't even 3 yet. I didn't dare say that he was potty trained, even though that is a requirement, for fear of jinxing the thing we hoped we had managed to accomplish with only 5 days to spare.

..."School." In parentheses because it isn't. In my mind. Which is all that matters, really. I mean please. Sure, they go all day every day, sure there are "grades" (smiley or frown faces) on the tops of their "assignments" (drawings); but it isn't school. I'm sure it is equivelant to what we Americans would call PRE-school, the prefix "pre" meaning BEFORE, meaning not yet ready. Meaning like one or two afternoons a week. Meaning not having to leave my baby boy from 9 to 4:30 everyday with strangers, in a mixed classroom with up to 5 year olds, to play at recess with up to 5th graders, no afternoon snacks allowed, only a short hour long nap, etc.

...But I'm torn. I'm on maternity leave, which means having pretty much all day everyday to myself to get this old house in order, and hopefully, eventually, relax, is a trade-off I'm not willing to give up. Sure, I suppose I could stamp my foot and only have him go in the mornings. Or I could collect him at lunch to eat at home with me, but that would just mean that I'd actually have to make lunch everyday instead of eating pringles, pickles out of the jar, and nutella on a spoon at odd hours throughout the day.

...Anyways, it is not like it is easy to send him off there. I mean, you know in college when they say that for every classroom hour there should be two hours spent on studying? Well this is pretty much the same concept in that for every hour at school, I've got at least 15 minutes of work cut out for me. Just getting the bugger dressed in the morning takes a good 25 minutes, and that is only if he doesn't, for example, suck on the front of his turtle neck causing it to be soaked necessitating a change, like he did this morning. There is the washing (he has not come home once without a new combination of the following impregnated into his clothes: ink, paint, marker, crayon, dirt, juice, ketchup, chocolate, pee, name a liquid, any liquid...), the getting Prince Nyko's "I haven't eaten in five hours I'm going to die" snack ready everyday, signing the forms, doing the fundraisers (yes, you heard me), the meetings, the getting his ass to bed at a decent hour, the daily bathes, the lice checks, the hickey checks, etc. It is exhausting.

...But anywho, yeah I cried. I'm not ashamed to admit that. I actually cried everytime I went to visit the school before school even started, just cause I couldn't believe I had to leave my son there! Like when I signed him up and the principal gave me no info whatsoever and I said "well I guess I'll be getting something in the mail over the summer..." and she said "no! just show up!" And I'm like "??????? WHEN HOW WHERE WHY WHAT HOW MANY DOES THAT COME WITH RANCH DRESSING???" Or the time it hit me that the fenced in "yard" paved in cement with no grass, trees, playground equipementnt, or even hopscotch markings is where they have recess everyday (and the teacher wonders why he runs around kicking people and cursing at recess- invest in a fucking jungle gym, bitch!) And of course leaving him on the first day... well you know what? He might be kinda bratty, spoiled, whatever you want to call it, but I was proud that first day. I just looked at Toto and thought, you know what? For two morons that are not smart enough to even use a condom, let alone keep a human being alive for three whole years without any help, we did ok. No, we did pretty damned good. He is confident, happy, makes people laugh, and has a curious spirit about him I wish every kid had. He is worry free, non-judgmental, and adventurous. He didn't cry. He wasn't shy. He is just himself. That is all I could ask for.

Baby Names

2010-06-13T09:28:00.003+02:00

I think that for a lot of people finding a baby name is hard. Well, for an inter-cultural couple it seems to be ten thousand million times harder because mostly you want to find a name that works in both languages.
Let's take for example some names that don't work in other languages:
the Russian name "Milka." This is also the name of a popular French candy bar.
the Japenese name pronounced "Cacay" In French this is slang for "it's cold out."
the Greek name "Athena" is pronounced in French "Ah-TEN-A" which to me, an American, sounds a little too much like antenna.

With our son, Nyko, it was easy. [Before I knew I was pregnant] I said to Toto: "I've always liked the French name Nicolas." "Me, too," he said. And that was the end all of any baby name conversation.
For the most part I have no regrets, although I might not have put an 's' on the end, because we pronounce it "Neek-O-la" and not the American way. It would take away a lot of confusion, especially since we don't like the American pronunciation (no offense anyone named Nicholas.)

With this baby, though, we would like a name pronounced the same in both languages. There are really not a lot. Whole letters and sounds are excluded like any name with an 'r' and an 'i'. That makes it a bit hard. But if you do take the 5 names out of the book called "35,000 baby names" that are pronounced the name in both languages you get a choice between, for example for a girl, names like:
Hildigard
Winifred
Ok these aren't actually the names but I'm just saying they aren't good ones.

I was excited in the beginning at the idea of actually having the chance to do research, looking at baby name books, getting people's input, etc. But 22 weeks and about 57,139 names later I have no more of a clear idea of how our child should be called.

Many people wait until the baby is born to see it's face before deciding- that is fine and dandy but I enjoyed already being used to called our first son by his name by the time he was born. Besides, what names could possibly come to mind at the first glance at my baby? "Vernix"? "Mechonium"? "Slimy"?

It also doesn't help to have a husband that shoots down every name you suggest, yet doesn't suggest any in retour (except of course his ex-girlfriend's name or 1970's Brazilian race car drivers...)

Peeing anywhere is part of the French Bill of Rights

2010-04-10T11:10:00.006+02:00

I went to the post office yesterday (where the door is locked and you have to ring a doorbell, and the post office employee has to check his little surveillance video to let you in- I don't know why, and, this is all another story entirely, but...) and while waiting in line the preschooler in front of me with his mother said "I have to be to the bathroom. Is there a bathroom?" Without checking with the employee, she said no right away, because being French, she knew and knows that there are no public restrooms anywhere in all of France.

Her son, obviously very young and having waited too long, started doing the pee pee dance, and I started feeling a bit anxious:

1. for him, cause he was about to piss himself

2. for me, because he was about to piss himself.

Then his mom said, nonchalantly "If you just have to pee, go outside!" THIS my friends, is accepted in France, by adult and children alike. You can't drive along a road, highway, or interstate without seeing men freely relieving themselves, without even trying to cover it up.

I've actually invented a new car game: kind of like the licence plate game, you count how many penises you can see between you departure point and your arrival point. So fun!

It sucks that I can't make this any bigger, but it is one cop checking the speed of drivers with a radar, while the other takes a leak.

One of many newfound pet peeves I've discovered while living in France...

2010-04-03T16:30:00.002+02:00

...when you get a haircut an NO ONE mentions it.

You know what? Maybe Americans are phony... but you know what? I like it when a phony person says "I like your hair." You know what? You don't even have to say that! You can be honest! You can say "You got your hair cut!" Or even "Your hair looks nice like that but I liked it better long..."

But the French? What do they do when they don't like your hair? They ignore it. And they all agree with each other- because they all ignore it. I got 6 fucking inches taken off and only two people noticed:
1. my American friend
2. my husband (that is a whole new blog post)

Sigh.

Restaurant Review: Quick Burger

2010-03-14T18:10:00.004+01:00

I thought to myself "live a little; try something new." I was staying in the comfort zone of fast food, burgers, copied after American style McD's, so how could I go wrong? Well let me tell you how, right after my next and 8th trip to the throne where I will attempt mercilessly to empty my intestines.

Originally a Belgian company, Quick became a major restaurant chain in France. French people claim that it is better than MacDo, but they are just so used to eating their own boogers that they have lost all sense of what good fast food tastes like. Ok, obviously I come from the land of 1,000 fast-food joints- I'm not calling McDonald's a good one. But in France it is either: Kebab (good) McDo (ok or good depending on whether or not you're drunk) Quick (not good and really dry.) Aside from being dry (despite an insane amount of fake ketchup), my burger, the beef part, actually tasted like ham. I think French people might be confused about the word hamburger. Although it does contain what appears to be the word ham, and a word that kind of looks like 'booger', does not mean that it should taste as such. Actually the "beef" didn't taste so much like ham as it did spam (canned ham). Now I've never actually tasted spam, but I'm assuming that it tastes like ham (gross) covered in boogers= hamboogers. Voila Quick.

Ironically, my "burger" was called the "authentic" which rhymes (in my head) with the word "shit." I went for the reasonable, normal sized menu value meal, and was shocked to find that my drink and fries were the same size as my 2 year old son's. I'm not sure that super sizing it would have put me over my calorie-limit for the day.

No Saltene Crackers in France...

2010-03-09T13:21:00.003+01:00

...I guess people are just used to being nauseous all the time?
Thank God for French bread. And applesauce in a squeeze pack. (Do they have that in the US?) And bananas, the most perfect fruit on God's Earth. And thank God for two days off of work in a row without Nyko, no offense my love, but when mommy doesn't feel good she means please don't throw trucks at my head, jump on my belly, or steel my 7-UP. You'll understand someday when you can drink. Cause morning sickness is a perma-hangover without the satisfaction of having been drunk the night before.

Glasses

2010-03-08T22:18:00.000+01:00

So, finally I got glasses. Might as well. Need them for work, knitting, and French health care covered the eye doctor visit and over 500€ worth of glasses...so I was all set.

As with any situation where I have to talk/negotiate/ask questions/ask for advice from a French person, I was aprehensive about going to the glasses store. French people are obsessed with crazy glasses. Classic style means nothing here.

I walk in slowly... wanting some time to look around. I get jumped on by a women wearing what looks like a stiff dead frog on her face. She wants to help... how precious. I tell her quoteI would like something classic, discreet, and simple. Black or brown.endquote.
She starts showing me crazy rimmed glasses with all colors of the rainbow, fancy motifs, cutouts, things I can't even describe. Things that wouldn't survive a day in my house/car/purse/at my toddler's mercy. Things that look horrible on me. "It looks so good!" She exclaims! This is the French version of a Valley Girl. The more expensive the glasses get, the better they look on me. It's funny: they won't let me within 500 feet of shops like Luis Vuitton, Chanel, etc., yet I'm allowed to buy their glasses?

When I suggest a more modest pair (as if there seem to be any), she crinkles her nose, averts her eyes, shrugs her shoulders, and changes the subject to another pair of glasses. I think maybe she's confused and thinks the glasses are for her.

Surely these glasses can't look good one me. I try to fake her out. I try on a pair: "Oh no, the rims are too big for your face." She looks away... I put the same pair on. "Oh, those are much better." (I can't make this shit up.)

Finally, far off in an unlit corner, I see them. The normal glasses! The glasses that look like glasses and not Dr. Seuss inventions. I can't believe I'm going to find something I like in this store. I head that way. What about these I inquire? "Oh, those are more for older ladies." Aha! So I'm frumpy in France, too! Well, I turn the hot shot booger snot right back around on her and get the cheapest, most plain Jane looking pair in the frumpy grandma section.

And you know what? I got the exact female equivalent of Thomas's glasses? At least us frumps are paired up...

I still hate France... (in case you wondered if I didn't anymore)

2010-03-06T15:58:00.003+01:00

A happy combination:
-being completely off anxiety medication
-raging pregnancy hormones
-ever increasing grief over my father's sudden and violent death

I FORCED myself last night to go to an event I organized for Couchsurfing. Urgh.
I had so many reasons not to go, most of them relating to pregnancy and grief.
But I went.

All so a bourgeoisie hippy could tell me that American food was disgusting, that I was a wack-o to be trying to have my second baby at home, and many other very critical things including that I should have never let another woman live under our roof (in referring to our nanny) because surely my husband would cheat on me. Five hours I sat across this girl, getting shot down at every syllable that came out of my mouth. I couldn't even change the subject and ask HER anything because she was critical of my questions, too.
Me: "Oh that must have been great living in South Africa working with penguins!!!"
Her: "Penguins are horrible birds. I have scars from them. It was horrible. How could you possibly think that that would be a good experience, you horrible, fat, moronic American???"

Otherwise, I've only told about three people, but I think I'm going to stop telling people that I hope to have a home birth. People, in France anyway, don't respond very well.

OHMYGOD I hate France and smoking

2010-02-25T14:05:00.003+01:00

I haven't written for so long... not because I don't have anything to write about, but because I have too much to write about. France sucks so fucking much that I don't have time to even begin thinking about explaining to you how much and why.

But it is now or Blogger is going to shut my blog off....

I work about 10 feet from the main entrance to an airport. While I work behind a glass window, there is a small opening right at my mouth and nose level that allows in the freezing cold winter air, and also, very unpleasantly, the recycled, smoke-filled air of all the French fuckers that smoke right in front of the door.

First, standing in front of the doors constantly initiates the censor to open the doors, therefore they stay open, therefore basically these people are smoking inside.
Next, it isn't any warmer to smoke rightnext to the door than it is a few feet away; there is no heat in the airport, and the doors are always open because of the smokers so it can't possibly be any warmer there.

It is not just idiot passengers- it is EMPLOYEES.
I get home and smell like an ashtray. I work in a closed office. How is that possible?

God people who smoke smell like ass.

I'm very sorry if you're reading this and you are a French asshole that smokes- but I'm fairly confident that no one reads this so I'm not that worried about offending any friends.

"Gram-pa!"

2010-01-10T20:27:00.002+01:00

Nyko hasn't seen his Grandpa since the beginning of September. Before that, he hadn't seen him in a year and a half, and before that like 9 months. Grandpas died3 months ago and I haven't mentioned him much.

Today I went to put this little hat and Nyko's head, one I had bought that reminded me of my dad, one that matched my dad's, one I hoped I photograph them wearing together one day. Nyko said "no! Chapeau à gram-pa!" I almost had a heart attach! He remembered grandpa and his hat... I cried...

More reasons to have another baby...

2010-01-10T20:17:00.003+01:00

... Nyko won't let me read him Snuggle Wuggle anymore...

...If I ask for a kiss he complains "No!" or "Naaaw!" or just hits me...

...we don't make good bathtime partners anymore since we both barely still fit...

...I can't use "Dr. Sears reccomends it" as an excuse to co-sleep anymore...

...hell, I can barely get away with calling him my baby anymore...

...I can't remember what my maternity clothes look like...

...people I havn't seen in awhile stare me in the stomach and not the eyes, trying to figure out if I'm pregnant or not...

...the grandparents have given up hope...

...everyone else we know with a child Kola's age have or are pregnant with their second...

...I need and excuse to eat as much as I do...

If a man's brain is in his penis...

2010-01-04T20:10:00.002+01:00

... then a woman's is in her uterus...or ovaries...or whatever gland that releases estrogen. Because ohmygod I have to be pregnant NOW.
I could be totally going along, my newly normal not-horny self, minding my own business, when suddenly thoughts of a baby girl spring into my head and BAM! I'm ready to hump.

Even though we're fighting, and have so much shit going on. Oh and besides the fact that we might not even have a girl, in which case I'm a whole lot less interested. Even though between the two of us, we really cannot even handle the one we've got. Even though I'm 25 pounds heavier than I was when I got pregnant last time, and even though if I waited a measly three months I could take up to a three year maternity leave. Even still..... I'd love to feel the tightening in my belly, fluttering in my pelvis, the satisfying feeling of eating without regret, intimacy between Toto and I knowing that we've created life, loads and loads of condomless sex knowing that we can't get pregnant since we already are (well, that is not entirely true, but that is a whole different blog) the excitement of knowing that there is something BIG to look forward to, the possibility and chance to give birth at home!

I hope that I can find the strength, motivation, and courage to lose some weight here before March...

This pretty much sums up Christmas...

2010-01-04T20:09:00.002+01:00

New online American food store!!!

2009-12-03T09:35:00.001+01:00

Are you struggling to satisfy your cravings because you are:
- Embarrassed to ask your family and friends for one more favor?
- Fed up with products that melted or broke during the transatlantic trip?
- Worn out from having to rush around Paris, search for parking spaces and drive in traffic?
- Frustrated from having to wait until your next trip or someone’s visit?
- Tired of bringing back heavy suitcases from your trip to the US?

Then, My American Market has been designed for you: it is a hassle-free online store for your American food and beverage staples.

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Find and order your favorite products in just a few clicks.

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Your shipment will be securely packaged and sent via La Poste Colissimo.
In France, it will be delivered to your door within 2 business days.

Secure
My American Market uses a 128bit SSL encrypted checkout system.
You can choose to process your payment online, on the phone or by check.

Community-oriented
Get connected with Europe's American community and friends.

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The American way, period!

It is time you do something about your cravings!
Visit the online "épicerie américaine" today: www.MyAmericanMarket.com
and enter coupon code “BLOG21” to get a 10% discount on your order (shipping costs not included).

I love my husband...

2009-11-14T14:16:00.003+01:00

So I had to go get Nyko a winter jacket... I don't know why but I don't really like getting clothes for Nyko. I'm never sure of the size, it costs a fortune and then outgrows it, or I find better later and can't return it because France sucks.
So I found a decent coat with a hood, the only one that was remotely acceptable looks-wise (aka not bright orange or made from cellophane) and that was fairly decent priced at 40€ plus 50% off. At the cash register I verify to make sure it is thick enough to be a winter coat, and the salesperson starts in on a whole pitch about a 50€ coat, not on sale. Frankly, this is more than I would spend on a nice coat for myself, and a coat for myself would last years, whereas Nyko's coat will last one season if I'm lucky. Besides, my number two will be a girl so this coat will have be no more use to me after April.
I sighed, confused, trying to decide if it was child abuse not to have a water resistant outside, a double inside lining, and a matching hat while another women began speaking with the cashier.
"Yeah it is so hard making decisions for clothes for our kids..." I was thinking 'oh my god! A French woman who understands me!' until she went on to say "...cause I mean we want them to look nice! My five year old wants to wear Spiderman!!! I tell him no, he's way too old for cutesy stuff like that!" The smile faded from my face faster than a Frenchman can light a cigarette.
In my desperation for an answer, I called Toto. "...but the cheaper coat is cloth, so it'll get wet.." I heard myself say. My dear husband replied "don't worry. We can put a trash bag on over it."
I confidently made my way to the register with my purchase. "The cheapest coat please!"

France might be on vacation, but I'm not

2009-08-05T19:44:00.002+02:00

Here I will start keeping a list of things I don't know how to say in French- feel free to help me out:
1. backwash
2. to pick a wedgie

Baby Blues

2009-07-20T10:31:00.002+02:00

I want to have another baby. I think. At least I do every other 5 minutes.
My dear, close, best, fellow expat and friend has decided, after over a year of me and probably everyone else pushing her, that she might just in fact consider that little 3rd. All this, after swearing up and down that 'it's NOT gonna happen', only to find herself at a wedding with like 10 pregnant ladies, and she poof! changed her mind!
I can relate though- I got to hold my doula client's newborn quite a bit these past few weeks, and I can tell you that holding a sleeping newborn in your arms can make your uterus ache like no other.
And it is wedding season and there ARE lots of pregnant ladies and it DOES make you wish you were pregnant again (although why, I don't know, since I don't recall fondly having to wear a dress and heals in the dead heat of summer and stand around chit chatting about nothing while not being able to consume alcohol or anything good to eat.)
For me actually, it was a barbeque. About 10 babies under the age of 1, at least two pregnant ladies, and a great girl that lives super close by that I'm always meaning to get together with more often who has a 3 year old that adores Nyko, that told me she is planning to start the machine back up in September. "Oooooohhh! We should get pregnant together!" As if it is like going to get a pedicure, or something. "That way we can take our maternity leaves together and do crafts!!!" I admit, I'd love a craft partner. "And then we'll both have girls, and my son can marry your Savhannah, and your Nyko can marry my daughter!" She doesn't realize that our boys are probably more interested in each other than they ever will be in girls...
But it was super tempting. And I already weigh as much as I did when I was six months pregnant so..... WAIT A MINUTE...
Ok, so that's it. I'm fed up. I'm going to get my ass in gear and start moving my fat a bit everyday, and then when I get back from my USA vaycay, I'm going to see a nutritionist.
THAT should be an interesting blog post.
me: "I'd like to get down to 68 kilos."
Dr. "Uuummm... but for your height a more healthy weight would be like 58 kilos."
me: "yes but I like to eat and I'm lazy and it'll never happen so 68 is good.
Dr: "riiight well, hehe, this here isn't American, fatso, I just don't think I'll be able to treat you if you don't agree to purging."

Regrets

2009-07-17T16:43:00.004+02:00

I rarely have regrets. That is because I'm an instinctive person that trust my instincts, and believes that everything works out for the best. I do have one regret today, though, deep, deep inside... that I missed the Bruce Springsteen concert in Carhaix last night at the Vieilles Charrues Music Festival.
Toto and I debated a long time about if we would go or not-on the one hand we'd already been to see Bruce in Paris last winter, and had gotten tickets again for a show last summer, that I had accidentally forgotten about and booked a trip to Dublin the same weekend, and could barely sell the tickets after. On the other hand, Bruce and the band have been touring so much- fuck, aren't they tired? They aren't going to be touring forever, right? Oh and, the chance to see Bruce at an outdoor venue where I can DANCE... hell yes.
But despite this desire, the fact remained that this was not a concert but a music festival, and certain things about me and music festivals just don't mix.
For example- irritable bowel syndrome and long lines for filthy porta-potties.
-bring 5,000 pounds overweight with a sweating problem and the event taking place in July
-having a toddler and the fact that the concert is a 8 hour drive from our home.
Couldn't decide, but finally I thought, what the heck, we'll figure out the rest, and I went to buy the tickets.... but my payment didn't go through... and I took it as a sign...
and I didn't go to the concert. And they played my fucking favorites.
And I can't ever go back in time and get that concert back, with Bruce and the boys playing 'Going Down'... etc... oh what it would be like to dance around outside in the grass with other fans to 'American Land'... I'm sick to my stomach.

Weight (in kilos) throughout the ages...

2009-07-17T16:37:00.003+02:00

Before moving to France in 2006, while working at 7-11 and consuming, on average, 2.5 donuts a day: 80
After giving up my car three months before moving to France and using only my bike: 75
After three months living in France: 70
After first trimester of pregnancy: 68
After second trimester of pregnancy: 75
At 9 months pregnant: 80
After the birth: ? don't remember
8 months after the birth: 70
9 months after birth and after 1 month on USA: 74
Today, 1 year and 9 months after the birth: 75.4
Ack!
So basically, this ain't baby weight anymore- this is just... weight.
And what will I do in a month when I go back to the USA and implant myself with a fork in front of the dessert bar at Country Buffet?

A list of sports equipment I have that I never use

2009-07-17T16:31:00.002+02:00

Elliptical Trainer
Stair Stepper
Jump Rope
Roller Blades
Bicycle
Stretch Bands for muscle training
Tennis equipment (rackets, balls, etc.)
Badminton Equipment (rackets, birdies, net)
Swimming equipment (goggles, fins, etc.)
Yoga Mats
Yoga Ball
Exercise DVD's

2009-07-16T22:20:00.002+02:00

If you're reading this PLEASE post a comment

Anything about France sucking will do.

Just checking...

2009-07-16T22:19:00.003+02:00

If a French co-worker tells me that the only reason sleeze-joe cab-driver is flirting with me is because I'm a foreigner, and that that is sexy, but if I wasn't he wouldn't be, that is an insult, right?

French Perfume

2009-07-15T22:27:00.002+02:00

I've never heard of a no-perfume policy at a French office- certainly not in mine.
Mostly I can stand perfume, but there are some here, more so than in the US, that one wiff gives me a perma-headache and furthermore makes me want to gag.

One colleague wears one such perfume. And she has this refill bottle that she can just take to the perfumerie to get refilled whenever she runs out, after putting on way too much of it for a certain period of time.

Have any of you out there actually ever smelled Channel n° 5? -gag-barf-snurgle-ark-

Furthermore, I can no longer find a French perfume that I like and can afford. Can't wait to go home and pick up some old Wal-Mart faves like Calgon body mist...

PS- doesn't $19 seem like kind of a lot to pay for a 2-hour Portland walking tour?

Best to have babies at...20?!?!?!

2009-07-12T14:53:00.002+02:00

Oh man oh man am I sick and tired and fed up with hearing and reading news stories that 'the younger you are the better it is' to have babies...
I don't buy this shit for SOOO many reasons.
1. it isn't societally acceptable to have a baby at 20. I know, because I had one at 23.
2. isn't it mentally healthier to wait until you've found a great mate with which to make this super healthy, breast-cancer fighting baby?
3. if number 2 holds true, wouldn't it be more mentally stable to wait until one is a tad bit older than 20 to give up hope of finding Mr. Right and doing single mother in-vitro???

Like single women in their thirties don't have enough to worry about without the media breathing down their necks- they've got the rest of society already doing the same...

Obama and Sarko: the perfect couple

2009-07-12T13:13:00.002+02:00

FYI

2009-07-12T13:09:00.000+02:00

It isn't EuroDisney anymore.
It is Disneyland Paris.

How to get fast service at a restaurant in France...

2009-07-12T13:07:00.002+02:00

...bring a toddler with you, preferably one that does not yet know the differences between inside and outside voices.

The ever-expanding list of differences between France and the US starts today...

2009-07-11T16:28:00.000+02:00

soup spoon sizes (bigger)

restauraunt portion sizes (smaller)

clothing sizes (smaller- ex. a tag reads- "US size L, French size XL")

telephone booths (don't take coins, only phone cards)

road sizes (narrower)

in France, they eat dessert with a spoon, even cake or pie.

in France they eat their salade at the end of the meal

(Seriously) how to tell the difference between Asians

2009-07-03T18:46:00.003+02:00

I work at an airport where I have to keep stats on passenger questions, including nationality.
Sometimes it is rude to ask, and also can seem like you're hitting on the person.
Many times you can assume, but I hate to assume all East Asians are Chinese... it really makes an ass out of u and me.

Please help me. I did find this. I don't know if it helps.

Driving in France

2009-06-25T17:56:00.003+02:00

Due to the French people's blatant disregard for pedestrians (my opinion), in France there is no right turn on red. (fact)
There is, however, a law that gives the right of way to people coming from the right, which basically means that even if you are driving on the main road, you have to watch out for anyone coming from the right, because they don't even blink, they just go. You don't have a yield sign, or a stop sign, or any indication except faded paint, not in front of you of course, but on the side street, often hidden. It is fun.

Eat this shit France

2009-06-17T16:03:00.005+02:00

Les motos...

2009-06-02T09:14:00.002+02:00

I can't remember if there are a lot of motorcycles in Colorado or not, but anyhow there are A LOT in France... and when one passes you, if you try to keep to the right, he'll thank you by sticking his leg out...
When I get the leg it makes me feel so good...

A French coast pizzeria called...

2009-06-01T09:02:00.002+02:00

Octo-Pussy.

Sometims I love my job...

2009-06-01T08:34:00.003+02:00

Even though I got like 4 hours of intermittent sleep, and my tummy still aches, and I gained all the weight I lost last week by eating chocolate cake all night, and even though my colleague is wearing the headache perfume, I love my job today. Why? you may ask. And even if you don't, I will tell you- because the Milan flight, always containing sexy Italians, today contained a whole sports team of men in sweatsuits and thin nylon t-shirts that showed off their nipples. Yu-mmy.

Author Unknown, but I love it

2009-05-29T12:59:00.002+02:00

General Overview
France is a medium-sized foreign country situated on the continent of Europe, and is for all intensive purposes fucking useless. It is an important member of the world community, although not nearly as important as it thinks. It is bounded by Germany, Spain, Switzerland and some smaller nations of no particular consequence or shopping opportunities. France is a very old country with many treasures such as the Louvre and EuroDisney. Among its contributions to Western civilization are champagne, Camembert cheese, the guillotine, and body odor. Although France likes to think of itself as a modern nation, air conditioning is little used and it is next to impossible to get decent Mexican food. One continuing exasperation for American visitors is that the people willfully persist in speaking French, although many will speak English if shouted at repeatedly.
The People
France has a population of 54 million people, most of whom drink and smoke a great deal, drive like lunatics, are dangerously oversexed and have no concept of standing patiently in a line. The French people are generally gloomy, temperamental, proud, arrogant, aloof and undisciplined; those are their good points. Most French citizens are Roman Catholic, although you'd hardly guess it from their behavior. Many people are Communists and topless sunbathing is common. Men sometimes have girls' names like Marie and they kiss each other when they hand out medals. American travelers are advised to travel in groups and to wear baseball caps and colorful pants for easier mutual recognition. All French women have little tits, and don't shave their armpits.
Safety
In general, France is a safe destination, although travelers are advised that France is occasionally invaded by Germany. By tradition, the French surrender more or less at once and, apart from a temporary shortage of Scotch whiskey and increased difficulty in getting baseball scores and stock market prices, life for the visitors generally goes on much as before. A tunnel connecting France to Britain beneath the English Channel has been opened in recent years to make it easier for the French government to flee to London.
History
France was discovered by Charlemagne in the Dark Ages. Other important historical figures are Louis XIV, the Huguenots, Joan of Arc, Jacques Cousteau and Charles de Gaulle, who was President for many years and is now an airport. The French armies of the past have had their asses kicked by just about every other country in the world.GovernmentThe French form of government is democratic but noisy. Elections are held more or less continuously and always result in a run-off. For administrative purposes, the country is divided into regions, departments, districts, municipalities, cantons, communes, villages, cafes, booths and floor tiles. Parliament consists of two chambers, the Upper and Lower (although, confusingly, they are both on the ground floor), whose members are either Gaullists or communists, neither of whom can be trusted. Parliament's principal pre occupations are setting off atomic bombs in the South Pacific and acting indignant when anyone complains. According to the most current State Department intelligence, the current President is someone named Jacques. Further information is not available at this time.
Culture
The French pride themselves on their culture, although it is not easy to see why. All of their songs sound the same and they have hardly ever made a movie that you want to watch for anything except the nude scenes. Nothing, of course, is more boring than a French novel (except perhaps an evening with a French family.)CuisineLet's face it, no matter how much garlic you put on it, a snail is just a slug with a shell on its back. Croissants, on the other hand, are excellent although it is impossible for most Americans to pronounce this word. American travelers are therefore advised to stick to cheeseburgers at McDonald's or the restaurants at the leading hotels such as Sheraton or Holiday Inn. Bring your own beer, as the domestic varieties are nothing but a poor excuse for such.
Economy
France has a large and diversified economy, second only to Germany's economy in Europe, which is surprising since people hardly ever work at all. If they are not spending four hours dawdling over lunch, they are on strike and blocking the roads with their trucks and tractors. France's principal exports, in order of importance to the economy, are wine, nuclear weapons, perfume, guided missiles, champagne, high-caliber weaponry, grenade launchers, land mines, tanks, attack aircraft, miscellaneous armaments and cheese.
Conclusion
France enjoys a rich history, a picturesque and varied landscape and a temperate climate. In short, it would be a very nice country if French people didn't inhabit it, and it weren't still radioactive from all the nuclear tests they run. The best thing that can be said for it is that it is not Spain. Remember no one ordered you to go abroad. Personally, we always take our vacation in Miami Beach and you are advised to do the same. Thank you and good luck.

about half of all pregnancies are unplanned...

2009-05-29T12:16:00.004+02:00

So, seeing as the first time Thomas and I consummated our first date we conceived Nyko, I always figured that I was the most fertile human being on the planet. Not to mention that my period has been like clock-work since the day it started when I was 9, literally right after getting home from a doctor's appointment at which I was told my period wouldn't start for at least another 3 years.
But now that I'm actually interested in my own ovulation and hoping to get pregnant sometime between now and the end of my life, I'm shocked to find out that my periods and ovulation are no longer irregular. Here is a sample of my cycle this year:
Feb-March: 30 days between periods, ovulation occurred 12 days before the start of the next period
March-April: 26 days in between periods, ovulation occurred 22 days before the start of next period
April-May: 35 days in between periods, so far no ovulation.
Siiiiigggghhh.
And calculating your period doesn't make it any funner. (ok, MORE FUN- geeeeezzz)

the receipt

2009-05-28T08:42:00.001+02:00

...so I'm flipping through a book I got at the grocery store back home when I was there the last time, May 2008. And out falls the receipt. King Sooper's on Main Street in Windsor, Colorado. "Green, Greener, Greenest" and a jar of Gerber's baby food, blueberries and bananas. $16.67 with tax. Suddenly, a hot flash came on. I started to sweat, my heart started to race. Blood rushed to my face. And my stomach started to ache.
This stupid little flimsy, faded receipt was making me homesick. Not even the book itself, but the receipt.
Suddenly all I wanted to do was jump on a plane and get off at the first American stop and go to the grocery store.

Grocery stores in France are ok... I guess when I first got here I felt like I was in Heaven, they were so different. It was a real discovery adventure. But they're all quite small and nothing like Super Wal Mart.
And well, the worst thing, as I was discussing with Lisa yesterday, is that you have to bag your own groceries.

Which could be fine if you're just buying a book and a jar of baby food, but when you're buying for a family, it's not super easy.
So basically, in France, you've got to bag your own groceries, with your own bags. The unfriendly sales person scans them as fast as she can, while you scramble to get things into your bag, all while trying not to crush the bread and break the eggs. When she's done she turns her whole body towards you and stares at you, leading the whole entire line of customers (which is basically the whole store because usually there is only one or two registers open) to stare at you. So now not only do you have to bag your groceries, you've got to pay as well, cause the credit card machine is on your side. Now everyone is looking at you, you've probably dropped and broken something by now, and you can feel the sweat pouring down your face. It is fun.
And once you've paid, either the sales clerk will sit and wait for you again, as if you're going in slow motion, or she'll ignore you, and start passing the items of the next person in line, who ignores you as well, and shoves you out of the way. I love France.

The only way to run a French marathon is with an accordian...

2009-05-10T14:35:00.004+02:00

... or dressed as a mideval priest. Or wearing a polo shirt. And at 8 pm.

Sun poisoning after 2 hours sun exposure???

2009-05-07T15:27:00.003+02:00

For my birthday I got the best present EVER from my in-laws: sun bathing chairs!
So today, while Nyko ate dirt and dug up my raspberry bushes, I sun bathed. It was only like 18° c out, but since our garden has no vis à vis, I pretty much went as naked as a person like me can get... I litterally had to pur at times the sun felt so amazing. And then, after about two hours on and off (no activity can go un-interupted for two hours with a toddler around) it suddenly didn't feel so amazing. Nausea. Headache. Icky feeling. Please tell me I did not get sun poisoning? Is my body that vitamin D defficient that it goes into shock after a short afternoon outside?
The only other option I can think of is that I did my shopping this week at a discount grocery store, only I didn't realize it was, as the French would say, the HARD discount store, which meant no name brands (well unless you count brands popular in Turkey and Slovania) and really scary cheap meat and veggies. I got a week's of groceries for 44€. That is scary cheap. And we ate lunch today off it. And now I don't feel good. Urgh. So it is maybe a mix of mad-cow horse meat diseased with pig flu and the first sun rays that my skin has experienced since 2006. (PS- spell check not working, sorry!)

Self-loathing

2009-05-06T09:43:00.004+02:00

It's not that I'm not a good mom...although I did somehow manage, last night, to allow Nyko, who had a 39° c fever and an ear infection, who was sleeping between Toto and I, to roll off the bed...
It's not that I'm not a good wife...although I have made Toto feel like scum for not doing the dishes, even though I quite frankly never do the dishes (except of course the day before he decided not to do them...)
And while I may not be a bad mother or wife, I haven't spent more than 1 hour with Nyko or Toto for over a week. Today I won't see either of them at all. And yesterday before going to work I could've cleaned the house and brought Nyko to the doctor but I didn't. I relaxed.
And it's not like I'm a career women, although I do work full time. But in an airport. I can pretend like it is sexy all I want because I work in an Office de Tourisme and because I wear a business suit to work, but the truth is I mostly answer the same 3 questions over and over, that have absolutely nothing to do with tourism, for disgusting, ungrateful passengers, and my two business suits, which I never have cleaned, made from polyester blends, were purchased at Ross on my last trip home to the States.

Really, it is that I'm a bad person. Well, no, not a bad person... I mean I don't have bad morals or anything (don't really have any morals at all, to be honest), so I guess it's that I'm bad at being a person.
It doesn't matter that I spent all day Friday cleaning the house and making it shine and that no one was here all weekend, it is back to being disgusting and messy and that was by Tuesday. I'm always late. I haven't started my New Year's Resolutions yet. In fact, the birthday cake that I made myself Monday, that I've pretty much finished already, actually put me over the line of gaining weight instead of losing it. Hang on a minute actually, I'm going to get myself the last piece..... (I couldn't even make it to my chair, I had to eat it standing up at the fridge...)
I'm never happy... when I wasn't working I was miserable and wanted out of the house- now that I'm working I'm miserable and want to be a stay-at-home mom.
Sigh... I guess no one ever said that life was going to be easy.

Pros and Cons of French bathrooms

2009-04-29T10:56:00.003+02:00

Pros
Sometimes the stalls on public restrooms aren't just flimsy and half open but actually doors and walls which can relieve a bit of stage fright...(but can instigate clostrophobia)

Cons
They usually don't have actual seats; you have to sit on the piss covered rim

No soap

No water/ or no hot water

No paper towels

No toilet paper

smell very bad

disgustingly dirty

water all over the floor

hard to find

usually have to pay for them

Natural sex selection in France...

2009-04-26T17:38:00.004+02:00

Since French women are now so into fad dieting (my colleague claims this new American diet pill is going to revolutionize dieting in France, and the other day on the radio I heard announcers boasting how a recent study found that France was the thinnest country in Europe), they love the 'have a boy diet'/'have a girl diet' for selecting the gender of their babies. (google.fr has 497,000 search results for the phrase 'diet to have a girl')
While it is interesting, who could really follow this thing for two months before conception?? (as if eating during pregnancy isn't restrictive enough in France...)
This website says to have a girl (for which, it claims, this method works 80% of the time) you can't eat any of the following:
cold cuts, popcorn, chocolate, coca cola, candy, mayo, tomato sauce, coffee, tea, pizza, bread, ice cream, chips, cherries, bananas, oranges, cheese, and snails. (among many other things.)
What would I eat???

I've just finished the book "How to Choose the Sex of Your Baby" on the Shettles method, which was very interesting (although only about 50% useful and very repetitive- just like baby name books, prob not worth buying). Their main method for sex selection is when intercourse takes place, although they do mention diet a tiny bit. To time intercourse correctly, they say, it is essential to know your cycle to be able to predict ovulation.
The best method, for predicting ovulation, they claim, is not basal body temperature or ovulation tests, but rather the (I can't remember what they call it) 'touch your vaginal juices' method.
I just cannot see French women trying this, which is why I don't mention this when talking about sex selection with French women... "now take the vaginal saliva between your fingers and note, with your other hand, the consistency." Yeah...

The reality of being a mom...

2009-04-26T16:49:00.003+02:00

I got my Get Born magazine in the mail the other day, buried between lots of advertisements, and nearly thrown in the green paper recycling bin...
Thomas, upon seeing me jump up and down with excitement about getting it, said to me:
"Oh, is that the American magazine where women complain about how motherhood sucks?" I stopped jumping, dropped my jaw, and got ready to bitch...then, a split second later I changed my mind. He was right, after all, that is what it is. But, allow me to say it a different way-
"it is the American magazine that talks honestly about motherhood." And you know what? Sometimes it does suck. And many times it needs to be complained about.

The French, who are known to be big time complainers, never seem to complain about parenthood. They never seem to be honest about it, either, or even talk about it. They don't joke about it. This may be why I don't have hardly any French women friends with children... because I can't sit around a circle and drink tea and biscuits and smile and pretend like I'm not worried about my 18-month old humping the table leg.

I also get frustrated at how France isn't adapted for families. Hardly any stores or restaurants have changing tables, let alone public restrooms (super practical if you're potty training or pregnant). And when you get invited over to someone's house for dinner it is rude to say "Uh 7 pm might be just a bit too late to start cause we have to get home to put Pumpkin to bed by 10." And if you do say it they say fine, but then insist you stay and make it impossible for you to leave to the point where you never go out with your babies again, and alienate all of your friends to the point where you don't have any, which is a shame because those friends prob. couldn't understand because they didn't have kids, but now they do, but they now I guess don't mind dragging their kids around until wee hours of the morning so maybe they still wouldn't understand but.... sigh.

I'm sure I've already talked about this in this blog, but it really made an impression on me: I had a friend while I was pregnant who was pregnant, too, and we saw each other at least once a week. Our babies were born at practically the same time, and I couldn't wait to compare notes with her on everything- but what did I think? That after NEVER complaining about being pregnant ("everything's perfect!") she'd complain about birth? (after all she did give birth to her daughter, who was breech, vaginally). But no, according to her it went amazingly, and her baby never cried.
It made me feel awful.
Until I babysat her daughter one afternoon who CRIED the ENTIRE time... that is when I realized that her daughter DID cry, she just reacted to it differently than me... OR... didn't feel she could be open about it to me.

The French are very private people. In high school, when I was an exchange student, I lived in France with 4 different families, and only one family showed me the master bedroom on the house tour. I never saw what lay behind the closed door to the other three families' parent's bedrooms. That seems crazy to me.
They're also so big on gates, fences, shutters, curtains.... one day the gate at my day-care provider's was locked so I lifted my leg and stepped over it, not hard, and she was shocked by this. Even though I needed to get my son...

This is why it is nice to blog- I can release the tension of motherhood, cause holding it all in isn't good for anyone.

French 'Cinema'- watch at your own risk

2009-04-24T12:37:00.001+02:00

Just another of the many complicated problems in a intercultural marriage: what to watch?

I can't stand watching dubbed movies... VO is always best. Additionally, I generally watch TV or movies to relax, so I prefer to watch American shows. It makes me feel good and fuzzy deep inside.

Yet Thomas doesn't like to read, subtitles included.

So, ok, I wouldn't mind watching a French TV show, except they all REALLY suck. REALLY.

So for Valentine's day we wanted to go to the movies, but all the American ones were dubbed in French, so we ended up watching Ricky, a French movie.
Here is the trailer, which speaks for itself (don't need to understand French to see how stupid it is...)