AliThinks

Mood Mood Mood

So today was a non-DIY day in this household. It still took us a long time to get out and about. The kids and I managed a quick shopping trip before lunch, then I had my delicious 90-minute nap. J had gone to work for a bit, so the kids were very sweet because they let me sleep. J called from work and said "Let's go somewhere when I get back". The kids and I bandied about a couple of ideas, and T came up with the idea of going to the Museum Of Natural History. By the time J got back it was 5:00, and the Museum was closed. So we all went for a walk at the sports complex near our house. The kids took their scooters, but the walk didn't last long: C's scooter lost a wheel and she banged a big sore scab on her knee. She and I came home and I cleaned up her boo-boo, and we went back to the stade. J and T were about to come home, so T gave C his scooter, and she and I went for a spin. She was feeling a little down, a little unlucky, so I suggested we go out. To town or to the store or something. After we got in the car, I asked if she would like to go to the gift shop at the Aquarium. (Free parking, less traffic, all good.) So we went, and spent a good half hour browsing. Talking about stuff. The place was packed.

C decided she wanted to buy a little glass turtle with part of her allowance and birthday money. Then we looked in another glass case, and I saw the mood rings. And I immediately decided I had to have one. And at 3.80€, how could I not? In fact, we both got one. Mine's an oval shape and hers is a heart. We also picked up a little wooden tooth box for T, who lost his first baby one last night. After we left the Aquarium, C and I compared ring colors, and checked the little guide that came with the rings. It was chilly out, but our ring colors seemed to reflect our moods. Once we got in the car, they changed again. They were never yellow or black, which both mean anxious, nervous, or tired. C's got a bit green, which means unstressed. We compared some more as we picked up a few things at the store. Since we've been back at the house my mood ring hasn't budged one bit. It actually looks kind of cool, even if it looks like it's worth about 50 cents. I'm not going to tell you what color it is. Just know that it's good, very good.

And my daughter and I bonded. That's the best part.

Bizarre Dreams Are Made Of This

Having gone to bed so late and woken up so early, I really needed a nap this afternoon. Which I indulged in, and which was very sweet. Usually I don't write about my dreams, but the one I experienced during my nap was so intense that I just have to write it down.

I was visiting another internet friend; this one lives on the Isle of Man. She lived in a lovely old stone building which was part of a hotel complex, I think, but her part was independent. At the end of a long, narrow living room she had this amazing kitchen with this amazing stove/oven. She was the official baker for the hotel or whatever it was. I arrived at her home but wasn't the only guest. I can't remember who else was there anymore. This part of the dream is blurry, but my kids were there for some reason, as was an older (as in grizzled) man. Jump to the next part of the the dream: we had to go back to France, and there was a "hovercraft" service that went from the island to one of the harbors in Normandy. I use quotes because this was like no hovercraft I've ever been on. In fact, from an engineering standpoint, I'm sure it's impossible.

When we entered the hovercraft, there seemed to be arena seating, and at the bottom was the hub, or life force, or whatever you want to call it, of the craft. People had to choose a seat somewhere and then stay put. I got on the craft, and as it was the first time I'd been on one of its type, a steward explained it to me: I was to just kick back and relax. It would feel like I was in the water, but in fact I was protected by a thick liner, and nothing bad could happen to me. From somewhere my husband showed up, but he was all afraid to travel this way, and there was some commotion while he looked for us (my kids were there again) and got settled in nearby. We had to slip into these sleeping bag-like pods, which were then zipped up around us. Then the machine took off, and it was as if I was the only person on earth. Or in the sea. I'd been told that I'd feel like I was floating in the water, and that's exactly what was happening. I was enveloped. Floating. Being buoyed and carried toward my destination. At one point I became aware of others around me, because we were back in the arena seating configuration, and the hub of the machine was buzzing along on top of the water. With the wind, our little arena was in the air like a montgolfière we were all flying in. Then, more water. This time we had to swim, but were still protected by our little pods, so we could breathe (and how many times have I dreamt that I could breathe underwater, huh?). We had to follow each other through this war monument that had been erected in the Channel. I might have caught a glimpse of a bust of François Mitterand. After all the passengers got through that, we had to make our way to shore, following each other almost blindly. An old man was there at the shore to welcome us. This is where I started waking up. I remember he asked me to greet him with the typical French bises on the cheek. We were on a sandy beach somewhere in Normandy. End of dream.

Currently Untitled

This morning I spent three hours (THREE HOURS) instant messaging with an amazing woman. Never mind that we've never met. We will someday, because I plan to enjoy her hot tub on my next trip to the States. ;-D

Anyway, we talked about a million things and it was just really cool. Internet is cool. It's provided me with a link to my country (gotta keep that finger on the pulse of America, ya know), lets me keep in touch with friends who live minutes away, has helped me form important relationships. And the technology of it is so cool, too. Oh, the things you can do!

Take blogging. Mike's most recent entry links to two more blogs. So I checked both out, and really enjoyed the little jewels they contained. Then I read Dooce. And I started laughing because she mentions eventually going through horrid phases with her daughter when she becomes a teenager -- and of course she said it in a much funnier way than I did -- because C. and I talked about being teenagers and our mothers and my fear that one day I will have a Daughter From Hell. And now I'm totally hors sujet but it doesn't matter. Because that's the beauty of a blog. I'm ultimately writing for me, even though I know you will be reading this, and I do hope you enjoy it. But if you don't, that's your problem, not mine. My stream-of-conciousness is what it is, take it or leave it.

Getting back to my Daughter: She's pretty curious about what I do on internet, and thinks this blog thing is neat. And I hope she thinks I'm neat, that I'm cool. Because I remember being really embarrassed by my mom. Sometimes. I probably will embarrass my kid at some point. (She'll be 13 and rolling her eyes because her mom blogs and IMs, and OMG, how geeky can you get?) I suppose that is part of the cycle: you love your mom, you hate your mom, then you love her again. And who knows? Maybe the cycle goes around more than once. I wouldn't know.

But I'm not getting maudlin here.

Waking up at 6 am when you didn't mean to is kind of disconcerting. My morning "me time" habits changed today, but that's okay. Change is good, or so says a friend of mine. But it's time to stop blogging and get a shower. And be a cool mom.

Thinking: I really need a more comfortable chair

Hoping: That the sun shines all day. Maybe we'll get to the beach today.

Mayday

This weekend is supposed to be a long one because of May Day, but since it falls on a Saturday most of the French population feels cheated out of a day off of work. I'll admit that I do as well, even though I'm still on Spring Break. The month of May is very cool, because the 1st and the 8th are holidays, and we've got Pentecost in there somewhere, and most employers are willing to faire le pont, or grant a long weekend. But this leap year, we get the shaft for the 1st and the 8th.

May Day 2004 marks the entry of 10 countries into the European Union. Going from 15 to 25 is a pretty big stretch. Poland, Hungary, The Czech Republic, Slovakia, Slovenia, Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Malta and the Greek part of Cyprus will join "Europe," making it the most populous ensemble after China and India.

I haven't really considered the consequences of what's going to happen on Saturday. Maybe I should. But these past 10 days I've been staring into my own belly button and don't know much about what's going on in the world. Time to wake up. Time to go to bed, too. It's late here.

Reprinted Without Permission

Engineering Measurements

1. Ratio of an igloo's circumference to its diameter = Eskimo Pi
2. 2000 pounds of Chinese soup = Won ton
3. 1 millionth of a mouthwash = 1 microscope
4. Time between slipping on a peel and smacking the pavement = 1 bananosecond
5. Weight an evangelist carries with God = 1 billigram
6. Time it takes to sail 220 nautical yards at 1 naut. mile per hour =knot-furlong
7. 364.25 days of drinking low calorie beer because its less filling =1 lite year
8. 16.5 feet in the Twilight Zone = 1 Rod Serling
9. Half of a large intestine = 1 semicolon
10. 1000 aches = 1 kilohurtz
11. Basic unit of laryngitis = 1 hoarsepower
12. Shortest distance between two jokes = a straight line (think about it)
13. 453.6 graham crackers = 1 pound cake
14. 1 million microphones = 1 megaphone
15. 1 million bicycles = 2 megacycles
16. 2000 mockingbirds = two kilomockingbirds (work on it|)
17. 10 cards = 1 decacard
18. 1 kilogram of falling figs = 1 Fig Newton
19. 1000 cubic centimeters of wet socks = 1 literhosen
20. 1 millionth of a fish = 1 microfiche
21. 1 trillion pins = 1 terrapin
22. 10 rations = 1 decoration
23. 100 rations = 1 C-ration
24. 2 monograms = 1 diagram
25. 8 nickels = 2 paradigms

________________________________________________________

Thanks to my friend Allan for this one.

Loving: This creamy yogurt I'm eating

Hating: The change in weather

Everything Is Relative

Proxy Shmoxy!

This old Toshiba laptop doesn't want to connect to internet. And that's a PITA, because there are two of us in this house who like to do things on internet. Back around the first of the year I got a wi-fi card for this lumbering machine, set it all up, and ended up having to install a proxy. There were always little bugs, and sometimes I'd have to quit IE and reopen the home page I'd set up. The other night I turned off the laptop, maybe a little hastily, and since then the proxy hasn't worked. For something like this blog entry, it's no big deal. I'll just save it on a disk and transfer it later. But if I want to actually play on internet right now, I'm SOL.

So do I try an uninstall/reinstall? Do I fork over the 150€ I don't have for a router? (The answer to that one is a loud NO). What if I can't get the proxy to work again? Then what?

And the answer to all this is: it's no big deal. "Il faut relativiser" say the French. Everything is relative. It's not that bad; in any case, someone somewhere surely has it worse than you do.

I went to the local HQ of a teachers' union this afternoon in order to get advice on my strategy for next year's job placement. Because yes, I'll be placed in a school somewhere (ok, a relatively local one) by the Education Nationale, not based on where I live, but on how many FUCKING POINTS I have (why am I thinking of one of those cheesy arcade games where you have to operate a mini-crane in order to try and win a piece-of-shit stuffed animal? The EducNat is the crane operator and I'm the soft toy that's going to end up with a three-pronged hook around its head.

Because we're in the land of Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité, the civil service must be as egalitarian as possible. Hence this point system that is the bane of my current existence. I've lived in this town for just about 10 years. But it's located in a nice little microclimate on the west coast of France. And it's a pretty cool place to be. And lots of people want to live here. Lots of civil servants (read: teachers) who in their years of service have earned lots of points. More points than I have. (This system is far too complicated for me to go into here. Just like almost everything in France). So these baby boomer teachers from Paris decide they want to live in La Rochelle, and with their numerous points (because they're older, have been working longer, have perhaps worked in a hot spot) get placed in schools in my town, and people like me get deported.

I have to get it into my head that I will have a significant commute next year. But I don't have to like it. I do need to relativise, though. I live in a nice community. I live in a getting-to-be nice house. I have a great family. I have a job that pays relatively well.

But I still can't help feeling a bit bitter at the lack of choice. And that's a subject for another entry.

Randomness

I'm hungry. Need more protein and fewer carbs. Must do Phase 1 of South Beach again. Not far from my house there's an industrial park, and there's a coffee company there. I can smell the lovely odor of roasting beans this morning. My butt hurts from sitting on this hard wooden stool for too long.

Time to get this house ready for summer. As in Spring Cleaning. And I'm out of Windex!

Mood Index: Good and High (no, I'm not high, my mood is).

Loving: Being on vacation

Thinking: Vacation should last all year.

Remembering: To buy that Lotto ticket.

Hot Tip of the Day: To rid your home of pests (children, husbands, etc.), use white vinegar to wash your windows. Results guaranteed! ;-)

I Promised

Ok, so here's a photo of the new bedroom. Half of it, anyway.

I have this neat clothes rack from IKEA, so I took a few pictures of it, too.

Done Done Double Done

Remember that scene in Poltergeist where little Carol Anne reemerges from the netherworld? And she's all covered in this gelatinous gook? That's all I could think of as I was spreading this cire colorante all over my bedroom walls. As it comes in contact with body heat it gets more and more liquid, so every once in a while I'd have to stick it in the fridge and do something else. By some serendipitous grace both the plaster and coloring lasted until the very last centimeter of wall. I ran out of both just as I was finishing up each stage of the redecoration. Even the sponge I was using got smaller and and smaller as the work went on. I cut it really close with the coloring stuff, though. I had to retrieve the other two containers of it from the garbage. And was sticking the raggedy bit of sponge in them, trying to get every last bit of that stuff. If it had been edible, I'd have been licking the pot and applying it to the walls that way. The area behind the door is a bit lighter than the rest of the walls due to my eking and squeaking out the last bit of cire. (Who cares? It's behind the door)!

Someone stole my new paintbrush, so I didn't do the second coat on the radiator pipes, but I did clean up my mess and move the furniture back into the room. Washed and hung the curtains. Stood back and admired my work.

Earlier today I'd planned on going out for a walk, but it's just not going to happen. Will take and post photos of the room later.

The Evening Of The Day

Although I promised pictures of my completed chef d'oeuvre, here's one that I took this evening. Enjoy.

Feeling: that good physical fatigue

Thinking: I should probably go to bed early, but knowing I won't

Who In The World Is Ferba Dunn?

Not only do I have a friend Anne, I have a cousin Anne. Both women were born in 1972, so I'm older than they are. (That's getting to be less and less of a tongue-sticking-out fact). My cousin has been a source of glee for me since we were toddlers. When I was about 9 or 10 (and if I'm remembering the origins correctly), she came up with the name Ferba Dunn during a game we were playing. It cracked me up then. It still cracks me up. We started calling each other Ferba. And still do.

Earlier tonight Ferba showed up on AIM, which is about the equivalent of spotting a kangaroo hopping down Main Street, USA. I pounced on her with a big WOOOO-HOOOOO! We chatted for a bit, then I remembered I had a webcam. She doesn't, but that's okay. She even downloaded Yahoo Messenger just to see my cam. I turned it on, and then we turned on our microphones and voice chatted. It's been a long time since I've laughed so hard. I mean, I was doing goofy stuff like flaring my nostrils at her (webcam close-up, you gotta see it to believe it). And making faces at her. And doing a Fargo accent.

Last summer, before my sojourn in the States, Ferbs and I planned a road trip to Chicago. It was my idea, but she was into it. She drove from Philly to my dad's house, and the next morning the four of us (us two plus my kids) headed west toward One of My Favorite Cities. We stayed with her parents, who were still living there at the time (now they're in NYC; I smell another road trip, if ever I get back "home").

It's late and it's been a long day for me, and I'm losing my train of thought. Either that or having a blonde moment. (Speaking of blonde, does anyone know how to cook "blonde" lentils? Mine turned into total mush tonight. Guess they cook up quickly). The point is that I wanted to tell Ferba Dunn how cool she is, how much she makes me laugh, and how much I love her.

Reading: A book in which the author used "phased" and "fazed" and meant the same thing both times (I was mentally preparing an incendiary blog entry about the use of phased for fazed when I came across the correct usage a chapter or so later). Oh, it's Almost French by Sarah Turnbull. An appropriate follow-up to the Bill Bryson book. And one I could have written.

Hearing Right Now: "Town Called Malice" by The Jam. No, wait. It's "Baba O'Riley" now. Both are good.

Finished: Smearing the bedroom walls with that crépi stuff. :-)

I'm Unable To Come Up With A Good Title For This One

This morning I took my car to the Peugeot shop.  My muffler was shot, and I went to have it replaced.  My 306 is getting up there in years, so I'm no stranger to Peugeot Rapide.  There's this one mechanic who kind of gets my blood pumping with his lanky build, ponytail over shaved hair, and one nicely crooked front tooth.  I walked into the place, and this odor of sweat and man hit me full on.  There was My Mechanic, in his blue jumpsuit, sleeves rolled up above his elbows, zipper undone enough so that I could see he wasn't wearing a t-shirt underneath.  He wasn't alone, so it may not have been his armpits diffusing that sweet smell.  Whatever!  Why am I even telling you this?  (Concentrate, Alison, concentrate). 

MM did not take care of my car; another equally sexy young man did, and while I was waiting, I looked at the limited selection of reading material available to me:  Peugeot Magazine.  The French equivalent to TV Guide, dated November 2003.  A word game magazine.  I picked this one up, and flipped through its pages.  Scattered here and there were little articles:  10 Potato Recipes.  Which is better: raw or cooked vegetables?  I kept flipping and ended up at the end.  On the back cover was an ad for a dating service. 

 

Usually I just bypass that type of ad, seeing as how I'm not in the singles game and all, but since I hadn't had the perspicacity to bring a book, I checked it out.  There was a color photo of a lovely young couple looking happy on a beach somewhere.  The text of the ad was blandly nice, full of hope and feel-good commentary.  Then I got to the name of the dating service. 

 

The French are pretty weird.  Some of them really get up in arms about the use of English words in everyday language.  When I got here in the early 90s, the Minister of Culture, Jacques Toubon, put into place a law that would forbid English words wherever there was a French equivalent.  Marketing was supposed to become mercatique.  Walkman became baladeur.  Jacques Toubon was mocked as Jack Allgood.  But then there are these aberrations, these English words totally twisted and rent of their original grammatical structure.  For example, where you might go running or jogging, the French are going to faire un footing.  You go to the salon to get a new do, and after the coiffeur cuts your hair, he or she does un brushing.  You just have to stop cringing and get used to it. 

 

OK, so there I was in the waiting area of Peugeot reading this ad, and I noticed the name of the dating service:  CUM.  I kid you not.  (Excuse me while I vomit).  "CUM has brought together numerous couples during its 17 years in business.  But no one will ever know how many because all exchanges via our service are private."

 

Hellloooo?  CUM?  WTF?  The photo in the ad conveys love and happiness, and the name of the service reeks of porn.  I can't help wondering what the French Minister of Companies Requesting The Use Of Cheesy Foreign Words As Names was thinking when he approved this one. 

 

The worst thing is that the folks using this dating service are most likely blissfully oblivious to cum's connotations.  And that's what's got me laughing my ass off.  As well as cringing. 

Jeudi?

Last night this really nice guy Mike linked my blog to his. (There's a link to his over there on the left, where it says "Autres Blogs"). So maybe a few other folks will be stopping by here to see what this silly lady has to say. Which this morning isn't much. Thanks again, Mike. :-)

Enjoying: Being the only one awake.

Feeling: Ready and raring to go. Sort of.

Thinking: I don't even know what day it is.

Laughing: Because when they're not sure, French people ask "We are what day?"

Girly Tuesday

Hearing: Shivaree -- I Oughtta Give You A Shot In The Head For Making Me Live In This Dump

Looks as if Anne, Ema and I will be doing girly things on Tuesday. :-D

LOL. Here I was about to write about how much DIY stuff I got done today, when Anne called and suggested that the three of us get together next week. All day I was wearing this blue jumpsuit (coupla grease stains on my face and hands and I could have been your mechanic), getting my hands dirty, chipping what little nails I have. And Anne calls up and starts talking about the three of us having lunch together next Tuesday, which of course means lunch AND shopping. In places like Sephora. http://www.sephora.com/

I love the contrast. Alison "bricoleuse" and Alison "girly wannabe".

Earlier as I was applying roughcast to my bedroom walls -- that's what that crépi stuff is called, according to Bablyon (http://www.babylon.com/) -- I was really into it, you know, feeling like Michelangelo or something, and thinking "I love doing this!"

And now I've totally lost my train of thought.

How like me.

Wishing: I could stay awake 24/7

Loving: My webcam

Hating: Nothing right now

Annal Of A Bacchanal, Or My Weekend In The French Countryside

So we'd gone to visit A and A for the weekend, and were to eat dinner with Ema (only one m) and our friend Christophe.  Anne and I ran different errands during the afternoon, and got back from our last one at about 7 o'clock.  We walked into the kitchen and there sat Ema, looking absolutely fabulous, and drinking a beer with our husbands.  Two more beers were pulled out of the fridge, and Anne and I settled around the table.  Ema had come to tell us that she couldn't stay for dinner, but she didn't leave until after 10 o'clock. 

I'd heard quite a bit about this woman, and was immediately attracted to her: she manages to radiate beauty and audacity and a certain je m'en foutisme, and is funny as hell.  Oh, and she does belch out loud. 

 

Late the next morning, due to some small town Sturm und Drang, Ema stopped by.  I'll spare you the nasty details.  It was decided that we women would go out for a drink that evening, to a pub owned by an English couple.  Then Ema got down to business and did our makeup.  I was all into the idea of being girly.  When it was my turn, she asked me to take off my glasses, rubbed her thumb over my cheekbone, and hunkered down to look into my eyes.  That's when I felt the worst pain I'd experienced since I got my tattoo. 

 

If you know me, you know I'm pretty low maintenance.  A swipe of lip balm, a flick of mascara and I'm out the door.  So I'd never even imagined that Ema might decide to fucking PLUCK my eyebrows.  How -- why? -- –do women do this?  And why had I never done it?  It did make my eyes stand out more from behind my sexy teacher's glasses.  I felt as if I'd been initiated into a club, and started talking about how I could get my brows waxed when I got my legs waxed, and blee blee blah blah.  (Honest.  I really said "Blee blee" and "blah blah."  And I looked pretty damn hot when Ema got done with me).  There might just be something to being high-maintenance.  See below.

 

I volunteered to drive to the pub, which was about 10 miles away via a curvy, bumpy, narrow road.  The three of us settled in at a table, and soon one of the owners came to say hello.  The pub has been open a year, and Anne and I asked Dave where he and his wife Helen were from.  When he replied Sheffield, we both yelped with laughter; we both have a Sheffield connection.  I said, "I used to live in Crookes." and he said "Oh yeah, ever been to the Grindstone?" 

 

OMG, the Grindstone?    How many pints of lager did I drink in that place? 

 

He called Helen over and we talked about spots we knew in Sheffield.  Helen is my age; Dave is 47, and they moved over here about 18 months ago and opened this pub.  I sat there and admired them for their lifestyle choice.  It takes a lot to give up your job  -- your life -- and move to another country.  But they looked so very happy. 

 

I may have drunk many pints of lager in the Grindstone, but since I was driving I only had two beers at the pub.  When we got back to Anne's place, I sucked down a few glasses of rosé (the olives we were eating were too salty, yeah, that's it).  We ate dinner after midnight and went to bed at two.  Anne and her kids came back here with us, so we extended the weekend another day. 

 

Bacchanalia, maybe not.  A fun weekend, yes.  In spite of having my eyebrows torn out. 

 

Feeling:  Motivated to work on my bedroom.

 

Feeling Guilty:  Because I've been working on this blog entry for over an hour instead of helping my kids do a puzzle. 

The Morning Of The Day

Hearing: the stuff on my mp3 player because Grumpy Butt doesn't want me to put on any music.

So I'm a little frustrated because I'm just sitting here not moving. As in, not getting started on the day and the task at hand: crépi. Or plaster. Or whatever the hell it's called in English. Funny how there are words I know in French but not in my own language. Mostly it's DIY terminology, like crépi, chevilles Molly, um, what else? I can't think of anything right now.

The bedroom is coated in dust because J moved the telephone wire; he had to buzz through the drywall (hey, I know that word!) and conveniently forgot to cover the bed. At least our clothes were out of there. We slept on the futon down here. Some of us seem to have slept well -- despite not wanting to hear music -- some of us did not because of Evil Blanket Stealing Husbands. (Note to self: shake out duvet and bring it downstairs for tonight.)

Thinking: it's gonna be a long one

Thanking: the heavens that the sun is shining.

Deciding: Arial is now the official font of this Gator's blog. (Edit: This was written at my AOL blog. Here at TypePad I'm using Trebuchet).

Interesting Conclusions

As some of you know, a couple of weeks ago I had to turn in a paper as part of my Education degree. It counts for a third. So it's a pretty big thing. My oral is May 4th, and only then will I know if I'll get my degree or not. (The other two-thirds are in the bag, however).

I hated every minute of writing that paper. Every damn minute was painful. But I got it done in time -- the procrastinator's "in time". ;-)

Fast forward to this past week. I'm redoing our bedroom, right, and I've got a lot of work ahead of me. I'm covering the walls with this plaster stuff, then will color the plaster once it's dry. When we bought this place 4 years ago, there was much to be done in the way of home improvement (anything was an improvement. This place was gross), but J ended up doing most of it. I stripped wallpaper and painted things, but that was about the extent of it. But the bedroom is my baby. I decided how I wanted it to look, and I've done everything in there, for the most part. I redid it about two years ago and chose what I thought were peaceful colors (pale green and white, with this effing expensive border that had rose tinges to it). Turns out my husband HATED it. Knowing that made me hate it too, so I did consult him on this new general color scheme (warm, not cool colors). The rest is all me.

This afternoon I painted the radiator pipes and started coloring the plaster. And as I was doing this, I stepped back and really looked at the work I'd done. And felt SO proud of myself.

I'm not proud of my paper. I hate it. But I am proud of this creative thing that I'm doing. It's going to look cool.

So maybe I'm more artistic than I realize, and less intellectual, or pseudo-intellectual. It's something to think about, anyway. I'll keep reflecting on it as I get back to coloring those walls. And when it's all done, I'll post some pix here.

Nine Years Ago Today...

...I became a mother. I'm not going to go into a lot of babble about the joys of being a parent, because it's been written about a million times already.

Being a mother seems to be a natural extension of my personality. But it does not define me. How can I explain this? I have evolved based on the fact that I had two kids. I almost lost myself in the "Mommy" label. But I've been getting myself back. It's high time to reclaim Alison, while remaining "Mom". I think my kids are old enough to start realizing that.

One day they'll know that they are the best thing I have ever created. Masterpieces, really.

_______________________________________________________________

So here we all are, on vacation. Two of us are awake, and the other two, including the birthday girl, are still sawing logs upstairs. Later this morning we're going to take off to visit some friends for the weekend. These are our oldest and best friends, I suppose. We've known them for over 9 years -- our paths are quite similar -- and we always have a great time when we get together. She's American, he's French; their kids are about a year younger than ours, respectively. Our opinions often differ, but we still get along well.

It'll be good to get out of suburbia and into a small town for a couple of days. Plus, Anne has this new English friend, Emma. She's 36, I think, and is apparently quite something. As in, likes to belch out loud. (My kind of woman. I used to do that at keg parties a lot). Carts around her dogs in an old Renault 4L. We'll be meeting her this weekend. Looking forward to it.

STILL LOVING: The sunshine streaming through the back door, even though it makes me realize that I need to get out the Windex.

THINKING: I did a shoddy wax job on my legs the other day. (Thank you, sunshine, for pointing that out as well).

WONDERING: Why the cat just licked my nose. (Hello,tuna breath!)

NOTICING: Her empty bowl.

WISHING: You a great weekend. Be back Monday with a full report on the bacchanalia.

They Just Can't Help It

It must be the hormones. Or maybe the lack of "life experience". A reflection of our times? Possible. It might even be hereditary, but that's probably going a little too far.

I can hear you saying "WTF is she talking about?"

8th graders. That's what I'm talking about. Even my 9th graders are not beyond puerile behavior. But my 8th grade class is the epitome, the apex, the summum of bad behavior. No, they're not even bad. They just talk. All the time. Sometimes I get the impression that they don't even realize I'm there. I'm not that old but it seems that when I was in 8th grade we had a little more respect for teachers. (Say this to a French person and they'll answer, "Oh, but you have to make yourself be respected." As if it doesn't need to go both ways. Can you see me rolling my eyes?

Those of you who've seen me in the flesh know that I don't exactly look like a badass. But do you need to look like one in order to get respect from people, even teenagers? That's not how I was taught.

I'm kind of shaking my head here. I'm not sure what to say next. I am sure that my students will for the most part turn out to be normal human beings, and this is just a phase.

Damn hormones.

LOVING: My new hair.

HATING: My penchant for procrastination.

THINKING: That life is pretty good, in spite of it all.

WISHING: It were 3:30 already.

My Love Affair With Bill Bryson

Ok, not really. I just wanted to grab your attention. This morning I got an e-mail from my best friend from high school (Hi, D!). She was responding to my blog, and mentioned Bill Bryson's book "I'm a Stranger Here Myself," which she'd read and enjoyed. That got me thinking about an essay I wrote about 4 years ago, so I dug it up and here it is for your reading pleasure. Or not.

Recently some friends came to stay with us. Sophie is French and Christopher is English; they live in England with their 4 year-old twins, Charlotte and Elodie. Chris and I have an affinity based on our common language, so we are always glad to see each other. I don't mean that that is all we have in common, but we feel this sort of mutual relief that we can speak English together.

But there's English and English. A typical conversation between Chris and me goes something like this: "The washing up? Oh, you want to do the dishes!" Or, "Don't you have an ansafone?" "No, I unhooked the answering machine one day and I just never plugged it back in." Chris did the hoovering for me one day (and as I write this Word keeps trying to turn hoovering into hovering. Guess Bill Gates hasn't been to England much).

Avid reader that I am, I was pleased when Chris offered me a book. Just so happens that it was written by an American, Bill Bryson, but lo and behold, it was written for a British audience. Apparently the Brits love Bryson; he even lived 20 years in their country. I like him too -- I've read 3 or 4 of his books and enjoyed all of them. This book was no exception: called Notes from a Big Country, it recounts Bryson's experiences as an expat coming back to live in his native country. I can relate; every time I return to Pennsylvania I am a little more French in my way of seeing things.

The difference between Bill Bryson and me (aside from published books and several million dollars) is that he used to live in a country where the people speak the same language we Americans do. You know, English. I now live in France where people speak, well, French. The point is, it's not as if Bryson had to learn a foreign language when he moved abroad.

But after reading Notes from a Big Country, I began to reflect on the English language. When I was in college I spent 6 months in Sheffield, England, where (to my amusement) I discovered that fanny and spunk were naughty words. Over there, if it's raining, the weather is crap, not crappy. Something I would call cutesy would be twee in England. An English muffin is actually a crumpet. Who knew?

I began to wonder if Notes had been published in the States. And if it had, was it the same book? In its original version, Notes has a chapter called "Dumb and Dumber," about the dumbing down of America. I quote:

Still, there is a kind of emptiness of thought at large these days that is hard to overlook. The phenomenon is now widely known as the Dumbing Down of America.

I first noticed it myself a few months ago when I was watching something called the Weather Channel on TV and the meteorologist said "And in Albany today they had 12 inches of snow," then brightly added, "That's about a foot."

No, actually that is a foot, you poor, sad imbecile.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't for a moment think that Americans are inherently more stupid or brain-dead than anyone else. It's just that they are routinely provided with conditions that spare them the need to think, and so they have got out of the habit.

Reading this chapter made me wonder if all the Briticisms (like have got instead of have gotten) would be modified so that Americans could understand them without too much effort. Be honest, can you understand the following sentences from the end of Bryson's chapter entitled "Junk Food Heaven"?

And then, feeling peckish, I went off to the larder to see if I couldn't find a nice plain piece of Ryvita and maybe a stick of celery.

(Word is having trouble again). I got myself an American version of Notes from a Big Country. It's called I'm a Stranger Here Myself - Notes on Returning to America After 20 Years Away. Not much is changed. Bryson did away with certain explanations that are not necessary for the American reader. He kept his use of have got and come a cropper, an expression that Chris had to explain to me. (It means something like "the worst thing that could happen to you at that particular moment").

But the end of "Junk Food Heaven" reads "And then, feeling hungry, I went off to the pantry to see if I couldn't find a nice plain piece of Swedish crispbread and maybe a stick of celery."

And the "Dumb and Dumber" chapter is nowhere in sight.

AKB, September 2000

THINKING: I need to get out and walk today.

LOVING: The sunshine streaming through the back door.

HATING: The feeling that I've drunk too much coffee already.

PET PEEVE: The trouble I'm having adjusting fonts and sizes in this stupid entry.

DON'T: Even think about telling me that there's a "UK English" option in Word's spellcheck. I know that.