AliThinks

Another Long Weekend

Another weekend at A and A's house in the Deux-Sèvres. On the way there we took a back road instead of the four-lane we usually go on. We passed several fields of purplish-white poppies. These aren't the red poppies that you can find on the roadside. These are poppies cultivated for the pharmaceutical industry. The fields aren't as large as the corn, wheat, sunflower or rapeseed fields that make up the rural landscape around here. But the poppies are numerous enough that you can smell their potent perfume as you whiz by at 100 kmh. It makes you think about opium dens and Anaïs Nin and other such decadance.

Speaking of decadence, here's a photo that pretty much sums up the weekend:

I took it yesterday at about 6:30 pm. I love Sundays in France. Especially when I don't have an 8:00 class the next day. Nothing like a long lunch with good friends (there were four couples and six children), good food (grilled monkfish and chicken, grilled herbed potatoes, tossed salad, red or rosé wine, strawberry tart, coffee), good conversation, and you get the picture.

We came back this morning and had lunch with J's dad. Then J's business partner picked him up and they headed off to catch a train then a plane to Manchester. Not that my husband is a big world traveller. They just happen to have business in Liverpool.

The children are in bed, and it's time for some ME time.

Random Acts Of Blogness

Last evening I got home after my husband, so I parked my car behind his. When that happens, he'll usually move my car in the morning and take his to work. This morning he just up and took my car (which is no big deal, a car is a car is a car), so I had the use of his vee-hickle.

Thing is, I have a CD player and he doesn't. When I drive his car, I have to settle for the radio (or a tape, which I never think of looking for before getting in the car). Suffice it to say, with my CDs in the car, I NEVER EVER listen to the radio. So this morning, I had to. Well, I didn't HAVE to, but I'm one of those people who can't conceive of driving without tunage. So. The Radio.

I have three set stations in J's car: RTL2, Europe2, and Forum. I punched the buttons until I found a song I liked (and if you laugh at me I'll kill you): "Hey Ya" by Outkast on RTL2.

So I was shakin' it like a Polaroid pic-chah on the way to drop off the kids at school. They were shakin' it in the back seat, as well.

Then, before I went to pick them up this afternoon, I went to the local dump/recycling center to drop off the cut grass, and "Hey Ya" was playing on Forum. I moved to turn up the volume, but must have hit the seek button (it's not my car; I'm not used to all the buttons, she said). The stations kept changing. Ack. I turned off the radio. Since I was at the dump, I stopped the motor and did my thing there. Started up the car again, and pushed the ON button for the tunes. After the seek session, the "dial" had landed on Europe2, and "Hey Ya" was playing there, too. I just laughed and turned it up, paying attention to which button I pushed this time.

***

For me, this entire day was blog fodder. So here are some more anecdotes:

Everyone is pregnant. Like, every French woman has a croissant in the oven. I swear to God.

I went to buy a pair of sandals for work because my Birks are looking a leetle beet shabby. I looked in one Gémo store, found a pair I liked, but they didn't have my size. So I went to the other area location, and they didn't have the sandals I liked. I looked at all the others and tried on many, but was unable to make up my mind: too strappy? too cool for school? too much skin? comfortable enough? In desperation I checked the men's section. And found a perfect pair of Italian leather (as in EVERY last bit is leather, oh yeah, baby) sandals in my size. I'll post a picture of them. I'm SO pumped.

This morning I hung around the house doing not much of anything, and I finally took a shower at about 11:15. I needed to leave for work at about noon. My hair was wet, and on a sunny day I'll leave the house with it wet, a hair clip attached to my shirt so that I can coif myself in the teachers' bathroom. It was overcast and muggy today, and I didn't see my hair getting dry within an appropriate time span. My hair dryer was long-ago requisitioned for flame-fanning duty during cookouts, and even if I could have found it, I didn't feel like smelling like chicken brochettes on the barbie. So I stared at myself in the mirror, dragged a comb across my head, and decided to braid my hair. I liked the result, but I got the following comments: Pippi Longstocking (I'll take that as a compliment; Pippi's cool.), Gretchen (this is some French cultural reference. For me, Gretchen is my sister-in-law. She's cool too, so I don't mind), and my favorite, Beer Wench. I suppose I do look a bit like St. Pauli Girl. Minus the boobs.

Here's the Italian Leather Sofa, I mean, Shoes:

What color should I paint my toenails? I just took off a fuck-me red that The Famous Ema painted on me. And sheesh, I really need a pedicure.

Thinking: I haven't told you half of the funny stuff I observed today.

Drinking: St. Pauli Girl beer. Just kidding.

Loving: The 3-day weekend.

Wary: of including links. I had so much trouble with all that yesterday and last night that I preferred to refrain. FYI, I would have included links for each of the radio stations I mentioned.

Touched

No Pomp and Circumstance, no fanfare, just a lovely way to honor a friend.

I don't really know Eric, who wrote that journal entry. I do know he must be a pretty good guy who wrote about a pretty good guy who died during a senseless mess.

Here's to Robert, here's to his widow, and here's to Eric, who brought the reality home to me. Thank you.

I Would Laugh If This Weren't So Depressing

Here's an article I read in The Onion last night. 

Just another addition to my jar of reasons why I refuse to be a teacher for the rest of my life.  (Any of yas out there hiring?  I'm smart and catch on real quick). 

Actually, thinking about that Onion article and teaching reminded me of my 12th grade English teacher, Mr. Segedy. The first day of class, he recited The Lord's Prayer in Old English.  I'll never forget that: "Faeder Ure..."

He was a cool teacher. I remember he made really good sound effects.  And when we were studying Shakespeare's Sonnet # 18, he asked the class "What could we say if we were comparing someone to a summer's day?  What could we say about Alison?"

The guy sitting next to me (omigosh I had a huge crush on him) piped up with "She's hot?"

I did get hot that day. Hot and red in the face, but I was secretly delighted. See, I was such a geek in high school, and never got asked out, never got invited to parties (Hey DMU, remember OHAB? LOL), and I may not even have had my driver's license at that point.

But let's not forget what happened to the ugly duckling.

Anyhoo, three out of four of my high school English teachers were excellent.  I hope that during my years of teaching, I affect some of my students in a positive way.

 

And not because I'm hot, either.

                               ****

Here are the links I wanted to add to this entry, but which kept turning my entire text into one big link full of HTML gibberish, so I took them out:

The Lord's Prayer in Old English

Sonnet # 18

I don't know why they're working here but not up there.  I'm not going to try again.  I've already spent way too much time fiddling with the damn things.  It's time for me to get ready for work. 

Cat's In The Cradle

A week after we gave away Java's two kittens, Sumatra gave birth to her first litter. Four kittens: a tiger, just like its mom, a black kitty just like its grandma (Java), and two just like their dad (a big orange tom).

Of course Sumi had her kittens on a pile of clean laundry while we were away last weekend.

Java has been very interested in the little creatures, and I've kind of been afraid she'll hurt them. This morning we caught her taking the kittens out of their box.

I was folding laundry a while ago when C. yelled "Mommy! Two of the kittens are gone!" Uh-oh. The door that leads up to the attic was open (it's a closet-would-be-1/2 bath with a hole in the ceiling. That's the entrance to the attic). Meanwhile, Sumatra came back to the box and didn't seem to even notice that half of her children were missing.

I stuck my head in the closet and listened. And heard mewing. I got Sumatra and shoved her onto a cardboard box near the opening in the ceiling. She heard the mewing, her eyes got all big, and she jumped up into the attic. A minute later she came back with a baby dangling from her jaws. And jumped down. I caught the kitten in my hands and put it back in the box. Sumi followed, and settled in with the three kitties.

I said "No, you have to go get your other baby." And shoved her up there again.

And there she remained. Fifteen minutes. Half an hour.

A few minutes ago I cleared out a bunch of the crap in the closet and put the step ladder in there. Got up on the last available rung, pulled myself to a standing position, and shone a flashlight around the attic. There were the two mama cats, just hanging out. I looked a bit harder and saw a ball of black fur nestled in the insulation (oh yeah, the attic has no floor. It's just beams and insulation. One misstep and you put your leg through the ceiling below).

I can't compete with the attic. It's cat heaven up there. Soft pillows of insulation. Birds that nest in the eaves. Spiders galore. Dim lighting. A cool breeze. No children. No children to poke and prod and stroke and cuddle the kittens.

Sumatra hanging out in the insulation. Her body is hiding her kitten.

That black splotch is the kitty.

So I completely understand the migration. Java was trying to protect the babies (or maybe she thinks Sumatra is incapable of caring for them). The thing is, I don't really want to have the cats raise the kittens in the attic. (I can see it: a month from now, four cute little pairs of eyes peeping out from the hole in the closet ceiling).

I'm about to put on some grubby clothes, climb up into the attic, say a little prayer

(ohpleaseGoddon'tletmelosemybalanceandfallthroughmyofficeceiling),

and walk on my knees out on a narrow beam to get a FUCKING 4-DAY OLD KITTEN.

Update: That fucking baby kitty is safe and sound. But I am a little stressed out after the attic adventure.

Thinking: since I'm still in grubby clothes, I'll go whack some weeds (and pretend they're kittens).

I Have Nothing To Say

But I felt like blogging.

Today was a good day. I got a lot done, I got to be by myself from 9:00 to 4:30, I cranked up the tunes.

Here I sit with a smile on my face, and I can't credit it to any one event of the day.

Part of it is the weather.

Part of it is the Me Day I got to have.

Mostly I'm just glad. Glad-to-be-alive kind of glad.

It's a good thing.

Laughing: at Java's Pavlovian reflex to the opening of a can. Sorry, babe, it's pineapple.

Reading: Cold Ridge by Carla Neggers. The type of book I used to read in an evening, before I had internet.

Wishing: I could have a week to myself here. Or elsewhere.

Things And Stuff

So I mowed the lawn a few minutes ago.  No major accomplishment, because our yard is tiny by American standards.  The thing is, the mower is electric.  As in, requires a cord. 

The first time I saw a French person plug in a lawnmower my eyes probably popped out of my head.  I immediately imagined a catastrophe, because hell, YOU MIGHT MOW OVER THE DAMN CORD! 

Now that we are homeowners we have a mower, too.  And it's electric, and we have a very long cord for it. 

You get used to doing the Lawnmower Cord Waltz.  Sometimes in the beginning you find yourself doing strange pirouettes while you push, and you hope the neighbors didn't notice you.  Then you remember you're in France, and your garden is walled and hedged so that no one, NO ONE can look into your private sanctuary.  So you relax and do another pirouette.  Then you smile because you realize you can mow topless if you want. 

                                          ****

Late yesterday afternoon we all went to Treasure Beach.  The tide was way out, and as we walked down the cobblestone sea wall ramp, we saw "Ma chérie, je t'aime" etched on the sand below.  It made me smile.

As you descend the ramp, to your right is the sharply sloped sea wall.  No railing.  I keep to the left because I don't feel like ending up on the beach before it's time.  There's another sheer wall on the left, this time going up, which provides a barrier for the bike/walking path above. 

After C. and I read the love message in the sand, we kept walking down the ramp.  T. stayed behind with J., who was helping him decipher the letters in the message.  When T. was done, and saw us three-quarters of the way down the ramp, he started running.  I couldn't help it -- I had visions of him ending up like George Bush.  But T. ran up the wall on the left, arced over and down onto the ramp, then down the sea wall to the beach.  All in less than 10 seconds, and without a scrape, scratch, or bruise. 

Remember being fearless when you were a kid?

I found a piece of pale purple glass.  When I showed it to C., she blurted out "Oh, man!" just like Swiper on Dora the Explorer.  Boy, was she jealous.  Two seconds later, she shouted in triumph and picked up a prettier piece of glass in the same shade of purple.  If she hadn't been standing in front of me, I would have found it. 

I was happy that C. claimed it.  I had no reason to complain, anyway.  I'd already collected a large handful of lovely pieces. 

As we walked back to the car, our calf muscles were burning.  I think we must have walked at least 2 kilometers.  It's hard to estimate.  We were on the beach for about an hour, though, and we walked quite slowly.

The tide had come in enough to erase "Ma chérie, je t'aime."  Gone from sight, but (I hope) not from the memory of the lover for whom it was destined.

I know I'll remember that sweet missive every time I go to Treasure Beach.

This One Made Me Spray Fizzy Water On My Screen

Three handsome male dogs are walking down the street when they see a beautiful, enticing, female Poodle. The three male dogs fall all over themselves in an effort to be the one to reach her first, but end up arriving in front of her at the same time. The males are speechless before her beauty, slobbering on themselves and hoping for just a glance from her in return.

Aware of her charms and her obvious effect on the three suitors, she decides to be kind and tells them "The first one who can use the words "liver" and "cheese" together in an imaginative, intelligent sentence can go out with me."

The sturdy, muscular black Lab speaks up quickly and says, "I love liver and cheese."

"Oh, how childish," said the Poodle. "That shows no imagination or intelligence whatsoever." She turned to the tall, shiny Golden Retriever and said "How well can you do?

"Um. I HATE liver and cheese," blurts the Golden Retriever.

"My, my," said the Poodle. "I guess it's hopeless. That's just as dumb as the Lab's sentence."

She then turns to the last of the three dogs and says, "How about you, little guy?"

The last of the three, tiny in stature but big in fame and finesse, is a Chihuahua. He gives her a smile, a sly wink, turns to the Retriever and the Lab and says in a Spanish accent......

"Liver alone. Cheese mine."

________________________________________________________________________________________

I'm not going to nitpick about how it should be a Mexican accent. Thanks to nook for posting it on RP. Don't know where he gets 'em, but he has posted a lot of funnies in that forum.

They Sparkle And Shine

This morning I gave my 9th graders a test.   In correcting them later on, I found a few gems, and I wanted to share them.

In response to questions like "What have you been doing all day?" and "What have you done to prepare for this test?" and "Why is John so ill?" :

- For this test, I have done learn my English's book. 

- I have been doing in the park with my friends.

- John has been illing because he has been eating a bad horse.

Exercise using if and would to talk about hypothetical situations: 

- If I went to a desert island, I would take my girlfriends.

- If I went to a desert island, I would take a bottle of water.

- If I went to a desert island, I would buy a new house. 

(at least they got the grammar right on those ones).

And talking about what people wish: 

- I wish went in the cold country.  (Response to "It's so hot!"

- Does you wish to could to eat an French hot dog.  (Ditto to "Oh, no!  We're out of mustard!")

I really really hope it's them and not me.  As in, I really hope it's not my fault. 

I don't think so.  My friend Laetitia teaches as well, and one of her students wrote on a test that the Australians celebrate Christmas in the summertime because Christmas there falls on July 26th. 

The End Of An Era

Sort of. In college or shortly thereafter, I got myself a set of cup measures. They were all different colors. The handle on the yellow one-cup measure was the first to go, and little by little they all got broken. Except the tiny white one-eighth cup measure, which I kept in my coffee can and used as a scoop.

I upgraded to a set of Rubbermaid cup measures a few years ago.

After my walk this morning, I made more coffee. The scoop fell apart in my hand. Goodbye handle. There was enough of an edge left that I could grab the scoop, but I ended up with coffee grounds all over my fingertips.

Sigh. I feel a little sad. I don't know where I'm going to find a better, more -- dare I say it -- loyal coffee scoop.

Update: In June a dear friend of mine sent me TWO coffee scoops. Two EKCO 1/8th cup measures. Made of metal. I love my friend.

And Now For Something Completely Different

We're going away again this weekend (we took off last weekend as well, to see Anne and Arnaud). This time we're going to spend time with our friends Laetitia and Fred. His dad has a house in a little village in the Deux-Sévres. (That's the next département over. We've got about an hour's drive). Another couple we've never met will be there. Should be interesting. I plan on taking our palets equipment. Palets is like bocce, but with little discs tossed onto a lead plaque. I'll be taking my camera as well. I'll let you know all about it on Monday.

This morning C. had school, but T. got to stay home because his teacher was absent. No sub for Saturday morning classes; at his age (kindergarten) it's not mandatory, anyway. C. has to go to school on Saturday mornings (but she gets every Wednesday off, as well as every third or fourth Saturday). Anyway, I wanted to take a walk, so T. and I went to the stade "across" the street. He took his bike, so I thought it would enable me to listen to my mp3 player and get some good laps in. Not. T. kept telling me things, and then wanted me to help him get his bike over a hedge (don't ask). After a while, he said he'd hide his bike and walk with me. I suggested we take the bike home and come back, which we did.

I was able to get about 3 quick laps in while T. played on a hill. When we go with his sister, they find stuff to do while I'm getting my exercise. But T. seemed a bit lost all by himself, so I cut short my walk, and took out one of the player's earbuds so that I could listen to T. and my music. We were heading home when he asked if he could have a piggyback ride. I crouched down and felt his compact body settle on my back. As I stood up, I sensed him pulling on one of the earbud wires. I asked him to wait, and found the longer wire for him. He put the earbud to his ear, and I wore the other one. I walked toward the house, my son on my back, and we shared "Golden Brown".

It was a sweet moment that I'll cherish for a long time.

Thoughts For The End Of The Week

I swear it's a concidence.  Air emanates from my speakers every time I decide to write a blog entry.  This time it's ephemeral -- I'm listening to the radio.  So now Seal is on.  I just thought it was pretty weird; this is the third or so time that I've been listening to Air while blogging. 

Speaking of coincidences, in this morning's mail I received two small packages of CDs.  I'd been expecting the one -- a friend had copied a couple of David Sedaris CDs for me.  The other package was a total surprise: it was a compilation from the very friend who introduced me to Sedaris's work.  Three years ago for my birthday he sent me a copy of  Me Talk Pretty One Day.  That was a surprise gift too.  I have cool friends, don't I? 

This afternoon I had a parent-teacher meeting at the parent's request.  I was a bit nervous because I'd heard that this particular father was very strict, and I thought he was going to get all on my case for not being a strict enough teacher. Au contraire, he was a lovely, cordial man who just wanted to let me know that he agreed with the type of punishment I'd given, and that the message had been received loud and clear.  Another nice surprise.

On the way home from work I started listening to David Sedaris "Live at Carnegie Hall" and almost had an accident because I was laughing so hard.  Well, not really, but I decided I'd better be careful.  I decided to go directly to school to get the kids instead of going home first, so I got there with a half an hour to spare.  I parked the car and continued listening to Sedaris.  Passersby must have thought I was nuts.  I laughed so hard I cried.  It was great. 

The French have started teaching English in the elementary schools, and this year the program was extended into the 3rd grade.  C. gets to go listen to a French woman teaching English.  It bores her to tears.  She came home once and told me that the teacher said "toh-MAH-toe".  I explained that that was okay.  Then I saw her notebook.  The teacher had given a handout with pictures of different foods, with their names in English.  So far so good, la trace écrite est primordiale.  Except the teacher took the P from raspberry and added it to grape, so the kids are learning rasberry and grappe. AND she used the French word for pineapple:  ananas.   

The French wonder why they're so bad at foreign languages.  There are lots of reasons, but starting 8-year olds off learning errors won't help matters. 

Last night I awoke to the deep rumbling of thunder.  I lay there and listened, wondering where the lightning was striking, and if it was striking the ocean waters.  There is a passage in Life of Pi that describes lightning at sea.  I hoped my kids wouldn't be scared and want to come into bed with me.  Selfish thought, but it was hot enough with two bodies in the bed.  This morning C. told me she had heard the thunder and was a bit scared because it was "louder than the cinema."  T slept through it all. 

As I lay there listening, I ran through a list of things I wanted to blog about, and of course I can't remember a single item now.  I'll have to keep a stack of Post-Its on my nightstand or something for that kind of late-night rumination. 

Thinking:  It's Miller Time.  I mean Pelforth time.

Gas

It's pretty interesting for me to see all these Amurricans lamenting gas prices.

Hell-O! Welcome to the rest of the world. Or at least Europe. Typically, here in France we pay the same for a liter as you in the U.S. pay for a gallon. (I refuse to contribute to the dumbing down of America by converting liters into gallons. You're all smart enough to do it yourselves).

Last time I filled the tank I paid about 1.15€ a liter. (I will give you the latest euro/dollar conversion: that's about $1.38). Prices are going up here, too. Six months ago I was paying 99 euro cents a liter. So we're still paying more than those of you across the pond.

You'd think that the high gas prices here would encourage folks to use public transportation or their bikes or something, but no. The French love their cars about as much as Americans do, and there are more and more SUVs on the road.

That's all I have to say about that. For now.

The weather has been hot and summery (I really felt like writing hot and buttery) for three days now. It's so good, but it is REALLY hot. But apparently the nasty weather is coming back this weekend.

And tomorrow is a holiday: Ascension. Interesting how the very secular Éducation Nationale respects this and every other Christian holiday.

It's been a long day and I think my well of musings has dried up for this evening.

Still reading: Life of Pi.

Loving: Life of Pi.

Recommending: Life of Pi.

One Thing Leads To Another

Not being ready to let go of internet for this evening, I was reading my blog (again) and decided to check out Michael Madison's Pittsblog, where I found an interesting link to David Byrne's tour blog. If you go there, scroll down to the May 14th entry about his stay in Pittsburgh.

It's nicely written and quite descriptive, and makes this suburban grrrl feel good about the place she grew up near. Byrne went to places I've never been, places I just might visit on my next trip home.

Katzen

Mike's been having trouble with his cat, Psycho. (The saga starts with that link, but continue to the main page to see the developments as the days wear on).

A word of advice for you cat owners: once you start giving your pet wet cat food, you're f*cked. They will never, ever touch a morsel of dry food again. Ever.

We're having our own kitty trauma here. On Saturday we gave away Java's two kittens. Look:

It was only after we gave the grey one to its new owner that we found out she'd accidentally killed her other cat (the one she's replacing with our kitten) by giving it paracetamol. It wasn't feeling well, and what's good for the gander must be good for the goose, right? Oops.

Java's stopped meowing for her offspring, but she's trying to recuperate from unsuckled milk and general fatigue. Poor thing.

In about two or three weeks this will start all over again, when Sumatra has her kittens.

And then I swear, I really swear, we're going to the vet. Really. Promise.

Ça Y Est...Summer's Here

Hearing: Talkie-Walkie by Air.

Day Three of beautiful weather. It feels good after the chilly rain we'd been having.

This morning class went well, surprisingly. Besides the help the principal has given me, I think that there was a turning point in my attitude last week. I realized that I didn't care if my students liked me. I'm not there to be liked, I'm there to teach them English. Maybe some of that came through today as well.

I used to want the kids to like me. Don't know why it came to me this late in the game. But the lightbulb went off in my head on Thursday: they're not supposed to like me, and I don't care if they do or not.
I feel kind of liberated.

Now, back to the laundry folding. I'm not liberated from that. ;-)

FYI: The French call a walkie-talkie a talkie-walkie (and they pronounce the L), hence the name of the album I'm currently listening to.

So Bad It's Good

Go read Gentry de Paris's blog entry about Eurovision.

We missed it this year -- went to visit some friends and totally forgot it was on. Of course, if we'd stayed home, we would have missed it as well, seeing as how our TV has no antenna.

La Plage Aux Trésors

The other day we went to this little beach after school.  You can only go at low tide because it's quickly engulfed as the tide rises.  One time a few years ago I almost got caught there with T.  Got the hem of my pants wet getting us back onto the dry part of the sea wall ramp.  Since then I have learned to pay more attention to the tides. 

When the tide is out, "Treasure Beach," as we've dubbed it, is full of, well, treasures.  There are lots of banal shells, lots of plastic bits, but if you look closely you can find amazing things.  About three or four years ago I discovered that Treasure Beach was a trove for sea glass. 

I love sea glass.  Most of what you find around here is beerbottle-green, but I didn't care when I started my collection.  Then I found Treasure Beach, and my collection expanded rapidly.  One day I found a sliver of polished blue glass there, and at that moment decided to become more discerning when choosing glass.  (You see, each time you go to Treasure Beach, you could bring back jars full of sea glass of varying colors and quality). 

No more Kronenbourg green for me.  I wanted blue, white, pale green, yellow.  And it had to be smooth.  No rough edges.  Once I found a tiny piece of red glass.  And I made sure it was glass and not a piece of bike reflector. 

We don't go to that beach very often anymore.  My enthusiasm for collecting sea glass has waned a bit.  But the other day at Treasure Beach my husband placed a piece of blue glass in my hand.  I'd told myself I wouldn't look for any.  That chunk of blue in my hand lit the spark, and my eyes scanned the sand for more jewels. 

I ended up finding about three more blue pieces in different shades, as well as some clear glass.  Here are a couple of photos I took of some of my prettiest pieces, old and new.  They sit in a tiny jar on a shelf in the kitchen.  But they really need to be in a window.  (No sills on our windows, or else they'd be there already). 

If you ever come to visit, I'll take you to Treasure Beach so that you can start your own sea glass collection. 

Thinking:  I am the World's Biggest Procrastinator.

Also Thinking:  Right now it doesn't matter.

Say-La-Vee

Q: Why do blondes wear big hoop earrings?

 

A: So that they have somewhere to put their legs. 

 

This joke, which I first heard in French a couple of months ago, is NOT the reason that I don't wear my big hoop earrings anymore.  I laughed one of those head-thrown-back laughs when I heard it, so no.  It's not the joke. 

 

It's all the teenaged girls walking around with these big honking hoops, so big that the earrings turn sideways in order to accommodate the shoulder. 

 

OK.  I might be exaggerating.  But not by much. 

 

What a way to introduce my 8th graders!  A couple of them wear those huge hoops: my worst students, and troublemakers, to boot.   Pauline reminds me of a cow with her big, stupid eyes and her stature.  Chloé is more like a ferret, thin-lipped and sneaky.  Marianne sometimes doesn't wear hoops, but she acts and dresses like the man candy that she is at the ripe age of 14. 

 

Never mind what they do; they're part of the class dynamic.  Today I noticed a few things while teaching, and I thought "Blog material," but now that I actually am in front of the computer I can't remember any of it, except the hoop earring part. 

 

Oh yeah.  I remember now.  But this is 9th grade.  This afternoon this kid (also a troublemaker) asked me what "W-E-E-D" meant.  I replied that it meant "bad grass," as the French call weeds.  I said it could also mean "grass" and another troublemaker said "As in gazon?"  Gazon is lawn, but it's also slang for a woman's pubic hair. 

 

It took a lot of willpower not to laugh.  I looked at Alexis as sternly as I could, and said "No."  Then they explained that the Dutch exchange students who'd been there this past week had asked them "You want some weed?"  They looked at each other, ready to laugh.   

 

I just said "Oh, that's nice" and continued my lesson.  I should have said, "I'll be telling the principal."   However, it takes all of my self-control to keep a straight face at times like that.  The authoritative retorts don't come to my head until later.  And it's not as if my telling the principal will change anything.  You can't punish someone on hearsay, and she knows as well as I do that these kids smoke pot. 

 

I do hope that I'll get better at retorting as time goes on, though. 

 

In the meantime, it's going to take a lot of strength to get through these next 5 weeks of class.  It's spring, the kids are rowdy, and they know a whole lot more than I did when I was their age. 

 

I'll try to file away more anecdotes.  I'm sure class time will be rife with potential stories. 

 

Feeling:  Pretty damn good.

 

Loving:  The selection of CDs a friend sent me.

 

Hating:  My seeming inability to control my students and my lack of authority over them.  Must. Get. A better grip on things next year. 

 

How to Annoy Me:  Ask me if I have "some music" to listen to while I'm enjoying the soundtrack to Lost In Translation. 

The Rest Of The Story

So I didn't finish this last night because I absolutely had to go to bed. And for some reason couldn't copy/paste what I'd written in AOL to a Word document. Having already lost some of my writing earlier, I decided to post what I'd written, just as a way to save it.

So here, dear reader(s), is the rest of the story (for what it's worth):

Broken bottle in Aisle 8. As I mentioned, the aisles in Carrefour are pretty wide, so we shoppers should have been able to avoid the vinegar and glass on the floor. But no. The woman whose kid had broken the bottle was parked directly across from the spill, perusing the pickles or something, and not noticing or caring that SOME PEOPLE WANTED TO GET AROUND HER WITHOUT DRIVING THROUGH VINEGAR. (That would be me). A line of shoppers backed up behind me, and still the woman made no effort to move. A store employee happened upon the spill from the other end of the aisle, said "Whoops!" (or maybe something a bit more French, like "Oh, là!") and the lady mumbled something like "Oh yeah, my kid made a mess." And she still didn't notice that people wanted to get through, and stayed parked in her pickle spot.

Behind me people were growing impatient.

I let them swerve around me, and they wheeled through the vinegar and tiptoed around it as best they could. I ended up doing the same.

No big deal, but this event epitomizes the French attitude that I see all too often: I don't care about other people.

You get used to it.

Time to get to work.