AliThinks

Clay Bennett, Bennett Cerf, And The Workings Of My Brain

This is about the farthest cry from a political blog as you can get (although our foul-mouthed VP made it here the other day), but I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy the cartoons of Clay Bennett.  I love the clean lines and muted colors.  As well as the message he gets across. 

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Before writing this entry, I was in the bathroom (YES, it HAPPENS!) and was thinking about "Clay Bennett" and my brain flicked to C Bennett, then Bennett C, then Bennett Cerf.  When I was a kid, I used to pore over this big yellow book we had (ok, so it's blue in the link).  Like, for hours.  I haven't thought about Bennett Cerf in years.  I'd like to get my hands on that book now, 30 years later.  Well, okay, 28 years later.

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Speaking of thought processes, how about this one?

Earlier today, "Mrs. Robinson" was playing on the radio, and while I was singing "koo koo ka joo" and "Jesus loves you" to her, I was thinking "What if there were a Mr. Robinson, you know, like an older man kind of deal?"  Then I remembered Eddie Murphy, and "Mr. Robinson's Neighborhood" on Saturday Night Live.  And then I of course thought of dear old Fred Rogers, may he rest in peace. 

My brain went from Anne Bancroft to Fred Rogers at Mach-2.  We're talking approximately 0.13 seconds, just like a really good Google search. 

Welcome to my mind.  Fasten your seatbelts. 

I Like Guy

Nope, that's not a mistake in this entry's title. (But I do like guys). I like Guy, our next-door neighbor.

His skin is leathery, his hair grey. His teeth -- oh man, they're just NOT esthetic at all. His voice is rusty and smoky. And although he stopped drinking years ago, his beer gut remains. And I'll admit, the first time I laid eyes on him, I was a little scared. The cute rugby player who lived next door moved out and Guy moved in.

He's 50, he's an electrician, and he's always ready to shoot the breeze or lend a hand. He used to be a Legionnaire, and fought in the Congo. He also did some pretty hard living.

So earlier when my husband (caught up in a moment of DIY tension) asked me to go buy him a pack of cigarettes, I gathered up some money and my keys and went out the door. Never mind that I had some things going on myself and didn't want to go out.

I got as far as the car, turned right, and went to see Guy. Because Guy goes to Spain to buy cartons upon cartons of cigarettes and liters of liquor he won't drink, but keeps on hand for his guests.

Guy was happy to see me. We made the transaction, money for smokes, and he offered me a beer.

I gladly accepted the bottle of Kronenbourg he pulled out of the fridge. He poured himself a Buckler, and we stood on either side of the bar that separates his kitchen from the rest.

Our conversation was almost existential. It was really cool.

Easy. Cordial. Mellow.

Neighbors.

A Good Weekend

On Friday evening my husband's godfather and his wife came for dinner.  They are great people, and we enjoy their company a lot.  When it came time to serve the wine, my husband asked me where the goblets were.  I said "These are it."  There were two glasses that mustard had been sold in (but they looked like wine glasses) plus a bubble-glass goblet that I'd bought at Pier 1, the lone survivor of a set of six.  In other words, three of us drank our wine out of "proper" glasses, and one of us had wine in a plain old glass.  We laughed about how much we obviously entertain, because we only had three mismatched wine glasses.  The next morning, as I was washing the breakfast dishes, I managed to break one of the three glasses.  (No, I wasn't drinking wine for breakfast; the glass was still in the rack.  But when you go to a café in the morning, you sometimes see old men sipping glasses of white wine .  Check it out next time you're in France). 

Yesterday my friend Anne and I went shopping at Casa, which is kind of like Pier 1.  (It's the kind of place you could easily drop a couple hundred euros.  But I didn't.)  I picked out a nicely-shaped wine glass, and bought a box of six.  Near the display there were these little packets of "stemware jewelry," little ornaments to distinguish one wine glass from another. I got some because I thought they were cool.  I also bought a new tablecloth and  a couple of lanterns, all of which you can see here: 

(How do you like my Peugeot pepper mill there in the background?)

Dinner was grilled pork chops with red pepper, zucchini, and onion.  And oh, yum, it was just... yummy!

I'd said we were going to paint shutters, which we didn't do.  Before going shopping, Anne and I did remove the deteriorating border from one of the kitchen walls.  I'm thinking of doing a colored plaster effect on that wall, a similar thing to what I did in the bedroom.  Speaking of which, the boyz got the shelves mostly installed, so later today I'll be able to put the clothes away, which will mean I can clear out the hellhole that is my office. 

At midnight last night we all started chatting and webcamming with our friend Kelly, who's in Australia right now.  But that story will wait for another blog entry. 

Liking:  Mint juleps. 

Adieu

I suppose it's telling that I am giving a blog entry to Ray Charles, and I only gave a sentence or two to Ronald Reagan. 

As my husband said, in his colorful way, "Tu sais, le fait que Reagan soit mort, ça m'en touche une sans faire bouger l'autre.  Mais Ray Charles, ça fait mal." 

Loosely translated, the DH doesn't care as much about the former President as he does the R&B great.

 

 

Damn.  Another one gone. 

Clarification

I just got an e-mail from my friend D., who's a teacher in Pennsylvania. She seemed a bit flabbergasted that teachers only teach 18 hours a week in France. I replied to her mail, but thought I'd address her comment here as well.

Yes. 18 hours a week. This does not include lesson planning and correction. The Education Nationale considers that those bring a teacher's total working time up to the requisite 35 hours.

Now before you flock to France to teach English, here's the flip side: One, you are at the mercy of the French government. As a functionary, you are told where you will work. Two, the pay. And I'm going to talk numbers here. The euro is stronger than the dollar at the moment, but let's imagine a 1:1 ratio, okay? I make 18,000€ a year. Even if I teach for another 35 years (officially I'm supposed to give 42 years of service, Lord deliver me), my pay will never top 30,000€ a year. Unless, of course, I take another exam, the agrégation. If I take and pass it, I'll earn more and my service will be reduced to 15 hours a week.

Again, the flip side: I can't be fired (not necessarily a good thing), I get 4 months off a year, what else? There are lots of advantages.

I could go on about my decision to become a part of the Education Nationale, but I'll leave it at that for the time being. My coffee break is over, and I need to get back to work.

Back later with some thoughts on genetics.

Thinking: I'd better let someone know I've already worked for 9 years in France, so they can lop that off of my 42 years.

Imagining: If I work for another 33 years, I won't retire until I'm 67.

Laughing: Because that'll be the year 2037.

Yesterday's Day

I have absolutely nothing to say.  Except that yesterday was the last day of my teacher training course, and it was probably the most informative of the entire year.  Our professors asked teachers who'd been through the program two or three years ago to come back and tell us about their first experiences as full-fledged teachers with an 18-hour/week workload. 

As I listened, I wondered why these teachers hadn't come to see us at the beginning of the school year.  Their advice was so practical -- no didactic bla-bla -- and THAT'S what I've needed to learn.

But whatever.  In a year or two I'll be asked to go back and recount my experiences.  I hope I can sound as confident as those young teachers (all of them were younger than I am). 

In the meantime, I'm waiting to hear where I'll be teaching next year.  I do hope it's not too far away.  A lot is hanging in the balance. 

I'm no Pauline Kael, but...

...here are some stream-of-conciousness impressions of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I've read all five books, loved them, and was looking forward to the film. C. had been watching the trailers on the official website for a couple of months, so that added to the anticipation.

The first thing I noticed was the color. The filter that director Alfonso Cuaron used lends a different feel to the light. It's colder, starker, darker. Each tome in the Harry Potter series is darker than the previous one, so it's a natural progression. Just as Amélie was red and green, this Harry Potter film is grey and dark white.

As it's been a while since I have read the book, all I can say is that the film seems to remain true. I did notice a lack of explanation for the names on the Marauder's Map: Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. This is developed in the novel but is left out of the film. I suppose those who haven't read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban won't miss much, but I thought it was a shame to leave that part out.

There are a few new characters in the book, and they're played to perfection in the film. Emma Thompson does a great job as Sybil Trelawney, a professor so spaced out you wonder if she's been smoking the tea leaves she purports to read. David Thewlis's understated Professor Lupin makes you want to sit down and oh, I don't know, tell him all your secrets or something.

Daniel Radcliffe is growing up nicely, and I really dig his windblown hair in this installment of the Harry Potter series. Cohorts Rupert Grint and Emma Watson are also maturing, and it's cool to see how they are changing as well. Hell, all of the young actors have hit puberty. I enjoyed seeing their "progress".

We can't forget Gary Oldman, either. I wanted to see more of him as Sirius Black, and that's alls I'm sayin'.

The special effects are of course cool, and the Dementors remind me of the Death Mist in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Buckbeak, the hippogriff, is an endearing creature, and you wish he were real so that you could climb on his back and fly, too.

Oh, and I LOVED the clock.

I'd read that the film lasted two hours and twenty minutes, but I guess that includes the ending credits. In any case, there's never a boring moment. Maybe I'm saying that because I am a fan of the first two. But Cuaron's Prisoner of Azkaban is a worthy follow-up to Chris Columbus's work, in my extremely humble and uninformed opinion.

My only regret is that I saw it dubbed in French. But that gripe will keep, and ripen as blog fodder.

Le Vide-Grenier

vider: v. to empty.

grenier: n.m. attic.

Earlier I was in a pretty bad mood, and I'm not used to that, so it put me in an even worse mood. So I went to the vide-grenier (aka a community garage sale) over at the sports complex with the kids. The sun was blazing and I figured a high dose of vitamin D might get me out of my funk.

As the kids and I were walking past all the stands, sort of looking at stuff but not really, we ran into some acquaintances who were selling a few things. T. and their son A. were in the same preschool class two years running, but they live in a different area of our suburb, so now their son is in a different school. He and T. were pretty shy with each other at first. It was funny to watch them.

We exchanged a few pleasantries, and then the kids and I moseyed along to the stand where they'd seen jewelry and semi-precious stones earlier. After C. purchased a pair of earrings and some stones with her pocket money (T. had bought some tech Legos on an earlier trip), we headed back toward where our friends' stand was.

This time T. and A. (I crack myself up) started playing like they used to when they were in the same class. I chatted some more with A.'s parents, and ended up spending 10€ on two suitcases: an old hard-shell one that'll be perfect for storing clothes under the bed, and what the hell, for a trip to the States. The other is an old laptop case from when laptops were humongous, and which I can use as a briefcase. I'd planned to buy a new case for the new school year anyway. My messenger bag is 3 years old, stained, and permeated with bad memories of strife and struggle.

Well, maybe I'm exaggerating. It just doesn't look that sharp, that's all.

As a bonus, because they were packing up in a half-hour, A's parents gave me five tall glasses. I'm sure if I'd stuck around for a few more minutes, I'd have ended up with their raclette machine too. As itwas, C. was patiently sitting on the big suitcase, waiting for her mom to quit confabulating. She said "Mom, I'm getting a headache." and I felt the hot sun crisping my shoulders, so I said goodbye, let's get together, see you around.

And I took my loot, gathered up T. from a crowd of boys playing with a water-propelled car, and we came home.

I'm not sure which lifted my spirits, getting out of the house or getting a great bargain. Probably both.

Laughing: because C. just told me "Mom, you know what my English teacher calls a faucet? A tap." in a "What an idiot!" tone of voice.

More blurbs

Too bad for Smarty Jones.

                               ***

Adieu, Ronald Reagan.  My maternal grandfather kept a signed picture of Reagan on his fridge.  It used to drive my mom crazy.  Of course, it was better than the Playboy centerfold he once tacked above the doorway to my grandmother's laundry room. 

                        ***

It's Mother's Day in France.  T. made me a bead necklace at school; the beads are clay, and he made them himself and strung them on a leather strap.  Here's the poem that was printed on the wrapping paper:

Ce qui ne peut s'user

Tout peut s'user

Mais moi je connais quelque chose

Qui ne peut jamais s'user

C'est la joue de maman

Qui reçoit des baisers de son enfant

A sweet poem about how all things wear out, but the author of the poem knows of something that never wears out: a mother's cheek, one that receives kisses from a child. 

C. made me a bracelet of tiny beads.  She used my favorite colors, green and orange.  It's lovely and delicate. 

                              ***

Two more weeks of teaching.  They're going to be the hardest two weeks, too, because the weather is gorgeous and young minds are wandering to thoughts of the opposite sex and the beach.   I can't blame the kids, frankly. I'd rather be hanging out on the beach sipping drinks with a member of the opposite sex, too.

                              ***

I'm listening to this song by The Call -- "I Still Believe" -- and it reminds me of the movie "The Lost Boys" and hubba hubba Jason Patric, huh?

 

                      ***

One of my neighbors, I don't know which because we all hide behind walls in this country, just fired up the lawnmower.  There's an anti-noise law in France which states that you're not allowed to mow your lawn on Sundays.  Because, you know, Sunday is a day of peace and quiet and NO ONE WANTS TO LISTEN TO YOUR DAMN MOWER WHILE THEY WRITE IN THEIR WEBLOG! 

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It's grillin' weather, and I've got some lamb chops and red peppers in my fridge.  That and some new potatoes ought to make for lovely Sunday lunch.

                            ***

My kids just asked when we're going to the States.  :::sigh:::

I don't have an answer for them, unfortunately. 

Riding the Dryers

I'm not the only American in this quiet suburb. I don't mean my kids, either. There's an American family living here as well. Mark is a Baptist pastor, and his wife Denise is a stay-at-home mother of three. They moved to France about the same time I did, but with the intention of ministering. Mark and Denise spent three years learning French in Bordeaux, then they moved here, where he took on a congregation. Oh, and just for context, Mark is 38.

Their oldest child is a year younger than C. and sometimes I run into Mark at school. The other day I saw him for the first time since their month-long trip to the States in April. The first thing he told me was how much he ate during their trip. We discussed excess and all-you-can-eat steakhouses, and then Mark mentioned going back to his hometown.

"It's not exactly Thrillsville," he said.

I asked where he'd grown up. "Oh, in Iowa." was the answer.

Mark went on to tell me that there was nothing to do there (is there ever anything to do when you're growing up?), so they used to ride the dryers.

I must have looked confused, so he continued, "You know, they used to have these big 35-pound dryers, and we used to get in 'em and turn 'em on. When we'd had enough, we'd pound on the door to be let out. We used to time ourselves, you know, "Hey dude! A minute and 35 seconds! You are such a stud!"

I burst out laughing. I looked at Mark, and we said simultaneously, "Better than drugs."

He went on. "I used to steal quarters from my mom and dad in order to go ride the dryers." I asked for clarification: laundromat dryers?

"Yes," Mark confirmed. "The scary thing is, kids there are still doing that today!"

I asked if he'd initiated his son into the rite. He laughed and said "No, because I suffer from dryer brain damage."

That got me thinking: which is worse? Dain bramage from drugs, or from riding the dryers?

In any case, it's a cool story. I wish we'd thought of doing that when I was in high school.

Dribs, Drabs, And Blurbs

I'm not much into horses or racing, but I sure hope Smarty Jones wins the Belmont Stakes today. It's cool that he's from Pennsylvania, too.

After lunch I'm taking C. and a friend or two to see the new Harry Potter film. I'll let you know if it's good. Fortunately the weather is gorgeous, so maybe the crowds will go to the beach rather than the theater. I find it interesting that the movie was released here two days before it was released in the States. But Wednesday is Movie Coming Out day in France, so there you go.

Tomorrow at the sports complex there's a huge vide-grenier. That means that there will be tons of people trying to park. Just let them try to park in our private alley. Heh. Once there was a big soccer match here, and we were out, and when we got back home a big Mercedes was parked in our space. So I parked behind it and blocked it in. Later a woman came walking down the alley (I had gone with the car again by that time) and J said "Is that your car? You're parked on my property." She indignantly said "Well, I left my cell phone number on the windshield!" As if J was to blame for something. Sheesh. Damn people. I won't go into the "big luxury car/rudeness" link here. Suffice it to say, an unscientific survey seems to prove that folks who drive German cars or SUVs (or German SUVs) think that they can park anywhere they please or do anything they want while behind the wheel.

Thinking: I really would much rather take a nap than go to the movies.

Loving: my toe rings.

Hating: my dry skin.

Rasafrackin' AOHell!

So I wrote most of a blog entry, and in the excitement of answering mail in AOL 9.0 (which I've just installed), I clicked on the X for my blog page. Which means I lost every word I'd written.

I'm sorry, but I just don't have the energy to rewrite it all. You'll just have to wait to read about Boris the Spider.

Think I'll be writing elsewhere, then copying and pasting from now on

I Must Be Doing Something Right

When I served T. a helping of leafy green vegetables at dinner tonight, he started singing "Choppin' Broccoli...choppin' broccoli..."

A Few More Thoughts On Children And Parenting

Today I spent THE ENTIRE DAY WITH MY KIDS.  They don't have school on Wednesdays.  Although the third Harry Potter movie came out today, we didn't go see it; I wasn't up to braving the crowds.  I'll take C. this weekend, and maybe T., but I'm not sure.  He's only 6.  Well, 6 1/2. 

We spent the day at home, and I must admit I had my own agenda.  I hadn't planned any activities other than what I myself wanted to get done, so my children were left to their own devices.  As in, they had to find stuff to do.  C. wanted me to make a treasure hunt, but I didn't even do that.  I did teach them about More Cowbell, because they're American too, by gum, and what the heck, the video lasts five minutes so by the time they tired of watching it we'd killed a good 20 minutes.

It started at lunch:  C. didn't want to finish her sandwich.  I told her she'd better not tell me she was hungry before four o'clock.  At 2 o'clock she started, but only because she knew it would piss me off. 

A few minutes later the neighbor, Sarah, came over to see the kittens.  Sarah's almost 15.  The kids went back to her house with her, and they stayed there for a good hour and a half, so that was cool.  I got to go for a walk by myself while they were gone.  Did six to eight laps around the track (I don't know many I did. I lost count between laps three and four.  I must have a problem getting from three to four because in college I could never remember whether I'd drunk three or four beers.  That didn't stop me from filling my cup at the keg, of course.  Now that I'm almost threety-four, I don't sweat that kind of stuff anymore.  Six to eight laps?  Let's just call it 3K) and so that was -- I think -- the high point of my day. 

Getting back to the kids.  I collected them from across the street, and sat down at the computer to check a few things, and they were ALL OVER ME.  Like I couldn't have two uninterrupted minutes.  After a bit, they got involved in something, and I finished some chores, and it got to be bath time, and I asked them to clean up their mess.  And I had to repeat my request three or four times. 

This is the weak spot.  Yesterday I may have been extolling our parenting skills, but we do have messy tendencies and have been largely unsuccessful in teaching our children NOT to be like us.  The whole "MOM IS NOT A MAID" thing hasn't sunk in either.  So C. started acting like the teenager that oh-God-I-hope-she-won't-become, making lots of noise, both verbally and physically.  By that I mean she slammed a few things around while cleaning up her books and pencils and paper.  I refrained from smacking her little bum. 

While the kids were in the tub I reflected on my attitude: low tolerance.  Low tolerance.  I love my children so very much, I'm so proud of them, and I'm mostly SO lucky to have them. But I am starting to have very little patience with the little nagging kid things.  Mommy, can you get my clothes?  Mom, come here.  Mom, T. hit me!  Not to mention the physical: the grabbing, the hanging on, the tugging, the love pats on the head, the in-my-face kid breath.  (I'll never tire of the back scratching, though). 

So am I a bad mother for wanting to be Alison first and Mom second?  Should I feel guilty for putting myself first?  (Because, to be honest, I don't feel that guilty about it). 

Questions which have no real answers.  I just need to go with the flow, with my flow.  What I really think is that if I don't think about Number One first, I won't be able to cope with all the rest. 

Feeling:  better now that I've written all that down.

WTF?

I've been considering this bit of information I found out the other day: two of my sisters-in-law don't agree with our way of parenting, because we let our kids do whatever they want.

Excuse me, could you repeat that, please?

Let's forget the fact that this was said not to us, but to our other sister-in-law, who has no children yet. I'm used to the whole talking-behind-the-other's back attitude in my French family. That's no big deal anymore.

What I see here is a clash of values. My sisters-in-law let their children do things that I try to prevent my kids from doing. Such as manipulating their parents. Dictating what the family does at what time via naps and tantrums. Deciding what to eat and not to eat. Engaging in anti-social behavior towards other children. I could go on.

We clearly don't agree. Here's what we are criticized for: letting our kids run barefoot. Letting our kids run, period. Letting them go up and down the stairs without help, and this from the earliest possible age. Letting them get dirty. Letting them use power tools and sharp knives (under supervision, of course). Letting them explore this world we live in. Letting them spend time alone in their rooms while we do other things around the house. Telling them we'd like a little peace and quiet.

I'm reminded of that e-mail that circulated, the one that explains that if you were born anywhere from the 1930s to the early 1980s, you are a survivor, because you were probably allowed to do stuff that today is considered horrendous and quite possibly fatal. Like sleep on your tummy, ride your bike without a helmet, or benefit from the Maternal Arm Fling to keep you from flying through the windshield of the car.

I'm not knocking side sleeping, helmets or seatbelts. But I'm tired of all this FEAR that holds us hostage.

I don't let my 9-year old daughter do a lot of the stuff I was allowed to do, and I hate it. For example, she can't just yell "Mom! I'm going to so-and-so's house!" No. It has to be arranged, and I walk or drive her there. I suppose some of it has to do with the fact that I'm the youngest of four and C. is the elder of two. And some of it is the fear that grips parents today. I'm not immune to that fear.

Here is the article that triggered this blog entry, although it's been simmering in my brain for awhile.

My kids aren't perfect, and we aren't perfect parents. That's not what I'm trying to say. I just think it's fucked up to criticize us for trying to raise our children to be well-rounded and healthy, and for giving them a few of the liberties we had as children.

I Want More...

Hearing: Don't Fear The Reaper

Have you ever learned a new word, only to hear it or see it in print everywhere after that? This happens to me quite often with French. And it's pretty cool.

One of the disadvantages to living in a foreign country is the fact that you miss out on TV shows. Now, that's not really a BAD thing, but you end up not having the same cultural references as your peers who were smart enough not to leave the country. If you're lucky, you have a friend whose mom sends her People mag, so you do manage to know who Jennifer Garner is and that she plays Sydney Bristow on Alias. Or that Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (omigod I LOVE that title) helps boorish Amurrican men get in touch with their metrosexual side.

So when a friend used "More Cowbell!" as a tagline on this website I spend too much time on, I had to ask what it was all about. I felt that I should recognize the guy in the matching avatar. He explained that it was Will Ferrell in an SNL skit, and that it was a sort of tribute to Blue Oyster Cult and you probably know exactly what I'm talking about:

So a couple of days later I checked Dooce's blog, as I do, and she'd written "Thinking: This website definitely needs more cowbell." It made me laugh and remember all that French vocabulary I run into all over the place after I've learned it.

Last night I downloaded the clip of the Blue Oyster Cult sketch. Watched it this morning and laughed. Partly because many people on the website-I-spend-too-much-time-on had noticed my friend's avatar and commented on it -- they loved the reference. But mostly because it was funny as hell, and I just loves me some Christopher Walken. "I gotta fevah, and the only prescription is MORE COWBELL."

I'm pretty happy to miss out on all the shite that makes up much of American TV. But I wish I could have more access to those little gems that become part of popular culture. Maybe someday there will be a way to bottle up the gems and drink them down.

In the meantime, I want more cowbell.

Thinking: The weather could be better, but I ain't complainin'.

Loving: Most everything right now.

Hating: Housework, just like Carol Channing. (There's another cultural reference for you children of the 70s).