AliThinks

God Bless Allen Wrench

You came into my life
In a time of strife

Because of the lure
Of Swedish furniture

Oh the joy you bring
When you do your thing

Your octagonal head
Puts together my bed

(With apologies to any real poets out there). 

The End of September

For those of you (cough *Mike*, cough *Denise*) who didn't run my last post through a translator, here is what you would have gotten, courtesy of Altavista's Babelfish:

And look at me. J'en made way! Why do I write in French? Sometimes I think in French. The title m'est come like that, then I continue in this beautiful language which j'aimerais so much to control. Yesterday while returning of the Small rock, j'ai seen tons of gulls. They flew above the fields between the main road and the coast. I thought that the "moiss'-bat'" had to leave seeds by ground, and that the gulls found their happiness there. A sentence returns to me. When j'observais the birds, I knew that j'en would speak here. And I wanted to remember me this sentence, which it, is in English: to "Their bellies and wings flashed silver in the evening sunlight." J'adore the gilded light d'automne. If you me requests if I prefer l'or or l'argent, I will say without hesitating, "L'argent." I carry only loops d'oreilles or silver rings. But j'adore this gold, this sun which gives a heat to the objects, even most cold. Funny C'est that the wings of the gulls appeared silver plated in this light of the evening. I am exhausted, and that n'a nothing to see with l'effort provided to type these some lines. It will not be the last time that I m'exprime in French here, but for aujourd'hui, that is enough.

OK, now that you are finished peeing your pants, here is an approximate translation of what came out of my brain this morning:

The End of September.

And look at me.

I've come quite a ways.

Why am I writing in French? Sometimes I think in French. The title came to me, so I'll continue in this beautiful language that I would like so much to master.

Yesterday, on the way home from La Rochelle, I saw a ton of seagulls. They were flying in circles above the fields in between the road and the coastline. I thought to myself that the harvesting machines must have left seeds on the ground, and that the gulls were finding happiness there.

A sentence is coming back to me. As I observed the birds, I knew I'd write about it here. And I wanted to remember this sentence, which is in English: "Their bellies and wings flashed silver in the evening sunlight."

I love the golden light of fall. If you ask me which I prefer, gold or silver, I will immediately answer "Silver." I only wear silver earrings or rings. But I love this gold, this sun which gives warmth to even the coldest things.

Funny how the seagulls' wings looked silver in the evening light.

I'm exhausted, and it has nothing to do with the effort of typing these lines. This won't be the last time I write in French here, but it's enough for today.

Fin Septembre

Et regardez-moi.

J'en ai fait du chemin !

Pourquoi écris-je en français? Parfois je pense en français. Le titre m'est venue comme ça, alors je continue dans cette belle langue que j'aimerais tant maîtriser.

Hier en rentrant de La Rochelle, j'ai vu des tonnes de mouettes. Ils volaient au-dessus des champs entre la nationale et la côte. Je me disais que les "moiss'-bat'" ont dû laisser des graines par terre, et que les mouettes y trouvaient leur bonheur.

Une phrase me revient. Quand j'observais les oiseaux, je savais que j'en parlerais ici. Et je voulais me souvenir de cette phrase, qui elle, est en anglais: "Their bellies and wings flashed silver in the evening sunlight."

J'adore la lumière dorée d'automne. Si tu me demandes si je préfère l'or ou l'argent, je dirai sans hésiter, "L'argent." Je ne porte que des boucles d'oreilles ou des bagues en argent. Mais j'adore cet or, ce soleil qui donne une chaleur aux objets, même les plus froids.

C'est drôle que les ailes des mouettes paraissaient argentées dans cette lumière du soir.

Je suis épuisée, et cela n'a rien à voir avec l'effort fourni pour taper ces quelques lignes. Ce ne sera pas la dernière fois que je m'exprime en français ici, mais pour aujourd'hui, ça suffit.

Everybody's Doing It

I saw this really long meme over at Daisy's blog. Then I saw that satr had posted it too.

200 Questions

The things that are bold are things I have done in my life. In brackets are personal comments.

01. Bought everyone in the pub a drink
02. Swam with wild dolphins
03. Climbed a mountain [what about big big hills?]
04. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
05. Been inside the Great Pyramid
06. Held a tarantula
07. Taken a candlelit bath with someone
08. Said 'I love you' and meant it
09. Hugged a tree
10. Done a striptease

I Haven't Laughed This Hard In Ages

Maybe I'm just loopy, but this is hilarious.

Thanks, Donna!

Coffee, Anyone?

Late this morning I went to Intermarché to get a few groceries. I've already written about shopping there. Really, it has everything you need, and yet there is nothing. I wanted to buy celery for a recipe I wanted to try, but there was none. I needed coffee filters. And coffee.

There were no filters in the coffee and tea aisle.

What? I tried to remember where the filters were sold in my old supermarket. They were next to the coffee, but could also be found in the plastic wrap aisle.

No coffee filters in the plastic wrap aisle (well, okay, no plastic wrap aisle, either).

I continued shopping, then realized I'd better ask before I forgot the filters altogether. My memory is a bit dodgy right now, you know. I went up to a cashier and greeted her, then asked where I might find the coffee filters.

"In the aisle where the coffeemakers are sold."

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

To use a French expression, I "can conceive" that coffee filters would be displayed next to the coffeemakers. I mean, if you buy a coffeemaker, you're gonna need some filters, right?

But aren't you going to buy coffee, and coffee filters, just a LITTLE MORE OFTEN than you buy a coffeemaker?

So wouldn't it be, you know, LOGICAL to sell those two items together?

I found the filters, took the most ecologically sound ones because that's the way I am, and made my way back to the cash register. It was the same cashier, because you know, there were only two lanes open anyway.

She asked me if I'd found what I needed. I said "Yes, but I thought they'd be with the coffee."

She replied "Well, they used to be. But now they're over there in the other aisle."

OK, whatever. I just gave a Gallic shrug and thanked the Lord for making me remember the filters in the first place. Coffee run through paper towels isn't very tasty.

Now I Know Why I Never Take My Kids Out To Dinner

Earlier this evening, at a local brasserie, Le Français, the following exchange occured: 

My daughter (imitating an episode of SpongeBob Square Pants):  "We're in a five-star restaurant." 

Me, scornfully, and oblivious to the cultural reference: "We are NOT in a five-star restaurant."

My daughter, in a you-better-believe-it voice: "That's right, because I farted." 

Monday, Monday

Here I sit in my new chair. I really ought to get back in bed. I mean, here I am on sick leave. Why am I out of bed?

I'm just here to tell you a little more about my weekend. You already know that my friend Anne came here and drove me to my Favorite Place To Spend Money Other Than Target Which They Don't Have In France.

I mentioned hungry children in the back seat of the car. Well, we plied them with candy bars and then parked them at IKEA's Ciné Junior while we shopped. Once they got over their disappointment at not being able to go play in the plastic balls, they sat there and watched Canal Jimmy for an hour. (And what is up with the play area at IKEA only being open to 4, 5, and 6 year olds? Huh? Only one of our offspring was eligible to expend his energy there, and that wasn't fair to the older two, who are 8 and 9, and who really wanted to jump around in those plastic balls).

By the time we got done, they were pretty damn hungry. Anne and I held a Mom Conference (a Momference?) and decided the easiest thing would be to swing through the McDonald's Drive-Thru ("McDrive" over here). But first we stopped at Auchan, where I ran in and got some adult things to eat. The plan was to feed the kids in the car, then have them watch a DVD while Anne and I prepared and ate our dinner. Now I'm laughing.

One of the adult things I got to eat, besides the St. Félicien cheese, was some wine.

I like to pretend I know a lot about wine, but really all I know is the characteristics of a few cépages. It's pretty much hit or miss with me, and a lot of times I miss.

Not on Saturday. I chose a Lyngrove Collection wine, their Pinotage 2002. (I'm too lazy to search for a review of it. The 2001 will suffice. But the price is not the same. I paid less than 5€ for the bottle).

I got so caught up in looking for links to add that I forgot what I was trying to say.

Oh yeah, so if you can get your hands on a bottle of this wine, do so. Try it. It was really delicious. Really. As in Yum, I'll Be Stopping at Auchan For A Case Of 6 Next Time I Go To IKEA.

Boosting The Morale Of This Gator

Yesterday my friend Anne called me up, invited herself down here, and said "We'll go to IKEA." 

I love Anne. 

We headed down to Bordeaux quite late in the afternoon.  It was after five.  But IKEA doesn't close until 8 p.m. so we had enough time.  It's only 95 kilometers away.

Except that the Pont d'Aquitaine, THE bridge you have to go over to get to IKEA, was closed.  Let me make a comparison to a city I know:  It's like the Fort Pitt Bridge in Pittsburgh being closed (which of course, it recently was).  Be sure to click on those links just there.  There are some great photos.   

Yikes.  Three hungry kids in the back seat didn't help.  We had to drive toward Spain (tapas, anyone?), then circle back around the other side of Bordeaux.  We got to IKEA about 45 minutes after we'd planned to, and had just about an hour to shop. 

If you have been reading my blog for a while, you know how much I love IKEA.  I was thinking about this today, trying to think of a reason why I love IKEA.  I mean, it's just a store.   I came up with one reason:

Cool stuff at affordable prices. 

See, you can't get nice things for cheap in France.  You just can't.  If you're a student, chances are you have a fold-out couch like this or this, and isn't that just the ugliest shite you've ever seen?  If you're not a student, you're most likely not earning much money anyway, because we all know that it's impossible to make money in "Capitalism Is Evil" France.  But I digress.  Point is, you're probably not going to be able to afford this, this, or this. 

So you salivate over all things IKEA, especially since there isn't one right near where you live.  (And no, I didn't choose this town just because it's closer to IKEA.  It's just a cute little town with a medieval prison in it). 

Anyway, I had enough time to buy a few necessities.  My bum is now parked in this chair.   I got one of these, so that my living room wouldn't be so dark.   I also got a few other sundry items.   I need more to make this place my home, and not all of it will come from IKEA. 

Going there yesterday was exactly what I needed, though.   

Thanks, Anne. 

Help Me Out With A Title, Here

Last night I was checking my blog stats, to see how many hits I'd gotten after having the polenta recipe posted over at Mellow-Drama. 

Lots. 

Cool! 

Then I checked a feature that I hadn't noticed before:  Visit Length. 

Oh my God.  As if I weren't depressed enough.  The majority of people who come to my blog stay less than 5 seconds. 

At the bottom of that stat page, there is a blurb on how to read the information given.  I quote (emphasis mine):

Based on this information you can see how much 'pull' and 'interest' your website is generating for your visitors. If you have a low 'Visit Length' you may want to think up more ways to encourage your visitors to stay around for longer. Offer them something more.

What more can I offer?  Photos of the Jello wrestling match between Mike and me? 

At first I got pretty bummed out about those stats.  Then I thought, "Fuck 'em."  (In a perfect example of typlexia, I first typed "Fuck 'me."   At least I can get a kick out of silly stuff like that).

So anyway, I was thinking, Screw 'em, because this is my blog, and essentially it is an exercise in narcissistic self-gratification.  Wait.  "Self-gratification" doesn't sound too good.  Well, actually it does.  Oh, wait.  I'm not going there with you. 

I mean that I am mostly writing for myself and that this format is much more motivating than those cloth-bound journals I used to keep.  I do have a few Constant Readers, and I am thankful for every single one of you. 

So I suppose that I should just take an ostrich's view of the numbers.  I'm at well over 5000 hits on Typepad (that includes my own).  And I'm at 4500+ on another stat service I started using (a few days after joining Typepad), which blocks my visits.   The visit length doesn't matter in the end.  I do have some regulars, and I hope my writing is interesting enough to keep you coming back.   No politics, I promise!   

I'm just happy that since I started blogging at AOL in April (4680 hits over there!), my pages have been viewed almost 10,000 times.  That is pretty cool. 

Stay tuned, please.  I'm still trying to get my groove back. 

My Version of Polenta

Since I rarely cook with a recipe (and when I do, it ends up in disaster ), I've only submitted one to The Carnival of the Recipes.

Here is what I made for dinner. I never measure anything, so use your own judgment.

Prepare polenta according to package directions. Before I put it into an oiled pan to set, I added a 5 oz. can of corn -- the French have not invented frozen corn yet, so I have to make do with [shudder] canned -- and a bit of gruyère that I cut into chunks.

In a skillet, sauté together an onion, a clove of garlic, and some ground cumin and chili powder. Add a few chopped tomatoes, and then add a small can of kidney beans. Sauté together for a bit, add some water, cover and let simmer for a while.

Just before you're ready to eat, slice the set polenta and fry it up so that it gets a little crispy on the outside. Serve on a plate and top with the tomato and kidney bean mixture.

Oh yeah, add salt and pepper to taste.

I know that polenta is Italian, and I made a Mexican-inspired topping. But it was mighty tasty, I must say. Here are some photos of the leftovers:

and

This week the Carnival of the Recipes is being hosted by Jennifer at Mellow-Drama.

Show Business Is A Hideous Bitch Goddess

So proclaimed the back of the acrylic knit sweater that the boy in line ahead of me at the grocery store was wearing.

Phew!  That was an awkward sentence.  Let me start over.

This afternoon, while in line at the local Intermarché, I noticed the sweater that a boy in front of me was wearing.  It was made of cheap black acrylic.  On the back was the saying I chose for the title of my post, and on the front was an image of Bart Simpson. 

Never mind the fact that the kid should have been in school.  I can only assume he was home sick, because he had a runny nose and was with his mother and his baby sister.  He grabbed a copy of the French equivalent of TV Guide to add to the cart. 

I stood there and thought about cheap acrylic.  And French small-town grocery stores.  And if Bart Simpson would really say something like "hideous bitch goddess."

Intermarché closes between 12:30 and 15:00 every day except Saturday.  I got there at about 15:30 -- enough time to shop before picking the kids up from school.  Yeah.  There are ten lanes at my Intermarché, and when I was done filling my cart, I got in the queue at one of the 2 (two!) lanes open. 

One aging lady a couple of carts ahead of me had had a problem with her Mir dishwashing liquid.  It was all over the goddamn place.  A store employee came and cleaned it up. 

There were still only two lanes open, and at least five people waiting in each lane.  The Mir cleaner-upper said "I'm going to wash my hands.  I'll be right back."  When she returned, she mercifully opened another lane.  I stayed where I was, because by that time The Cheap Acrylic Family was unloading their groceries onto the belt, and they only had a few items. 

I listened to the boy, who must have been at least 10 or 11, tell his mother what was on the week's TV schedule.  "Ze Sheening," he said.  "Ce n'est pas bon pour moi."   His mother shook her head.  He added "Why?  Is it about someone who walks around with a chainsaw?"  And then extrapolated about movies with chainsaw-wielding characters. 

I just smiled.  And thought about how I mentioned Jack Torrance in a recent entry here.  And wanted to say "Kid, watch out, Ze Sheening is about a guy who moves to Colorado and goes nuts that winter because someone eats his lima beans, and isn't show business just a hideous bitch goddess?"   

Instead I just quietly paid for my groceries and got back home just in time to pick up the kids. 

Blogorrhea

Here I am again. Another entry exits my brain.

Because my hormones are all over the map today. Because I need to rant. Because I lose my train of thought quicker than a toad will pee in the palm of your...

...hand me the soap!

I have a thing like this in my shower. I never used it where I used to live, because the floor of the tub was sloped in such a way that to stand on the mat was a dangerous undertaking. Here I have a nice non-skid shower stall. It feels really good to stand on this mat. It helps relieve tension brought on by...

...children.

Just before I moved out, my future ex had the gall to say "Will you try to keep your new place clean?" I just looked at him. My jaw probably swung on its hinge. I think I might have responded with one of those exaggerated "Yeeeeeeeeesssssssss!" comments.

The thing is, if you have kids, you can't keep your house clean. I mean, sure, you can sweep and mop the floors, clean the toilets, that kind of thing. But you can't escape the mess.

My kids leave a mess in their wake. In the kitchen. Living room. Their room (I can tolerate that to a certain point). My room.

Then they get all mad when I get on their backs about straightening up.

Now when I go to the house I used to live in, it is clean. Uncluttered. Not spotless, but neat...

...I say more?

Orecchiette

This pasta with pancetta and frozen peas makes for a delicious, quick meal. The peas nestle into the hollows of the pasta, the pancetta adds a salty zing, and a whirl of black pepper tops it all off.

Everytime I use orecchiette, though, I think the name should not be "little ears," but rather "little diaphragms."

Of course, I might have a skewed view of the world.

Alison's Zinnia

The title of this post is the title of this book, simply because I was reminded of it while thinking about what I wanted to post. It's a lovely book in which girls named from Alison to Zena give each other flowers. "Alison acquired an amaryllis for Beryl. Beryl bought a begonia for Crystal." And so on.

My soon-to-be friend Donna delivered some dahlias to me this afternoon. She dropped her daughter off here to play with my daughter. My son had a friend come over too.

Donna stayed for an hour. We had coffee and talked. Yeah, I guess it was coffee talk!

It was good, and helped me feel better. After she left and the kids had had a snack, we all walked over to the park. The four kids played and I sat on a stone bench in the sun and worked on my lesson plans.

Lots of people were out: breastfeeding mothers, little old ladies, and groups of teenagers sitting in circles, drinking beer and smoking pot.

I was kind of amazed when I smelled the familiar odor.

But then I just kicked back and enjoyed it. No contact buzz. Just a good feeling of warm sunshine and of relaxing times. (LOL. "Make it Suntory time.")

So I guess there's hope for me yet. I'm not completely lost.

Ali Thinks

Yes, it's true. Sometimes I do use this noggin of mine.

And here's what I'm thinking:

I'm turning into a recluse.

Just outside my front door is a fairly active little town. I wouldn't say it's bustling, but there is movement and action. And I don't participate in it, except when I queue up behind little old ladies in the post office.

Of course, maybe that is why I'm becoming a recluse. Outside there are senior citizens, young teenagers on their mopeds, and not much else. Why bother?

There is a cinema. Have I gone? No.
A market on Wednesday and Saturday mornings. Have I gone? No.
Last weekend there was a huge flea market. I stayed holed up in here.

Part of me is really scared. I like action and movement and people (most of the time). So why am I not out in it?

Part of me thinks this is normal. My separation will be one month old tomorrow, and a month is not long at all.

Right now I feel as if I am being stepped upon by a large boot. It's not that Monty Python farty-sounding boot. It's Paul Bunyan's boot, exerting slow and steady pressure on my mind and body.

It's squeezing the life out of me.

And I don't know how to get it the hell off. Or if I'm supposed to even try.

"It'll get worse before it gets better."

Please let it get better soon.

Bedtime Story

Today was a bad day, at least it was until I came home from work and slept for three hours. I only teach three hours of class on Mondays, and I bagged out on that last hour. I'm taking tomorrow off, too.

At first I was going to blog about this shitty day, then I decided not to. You don't want to hear it, and I don't feel like telling you.

But I felt like blogging, and I thought "Oh, SHIT, I don't have anything good to say." (Yeah yeah, you're thinking I never have anything good to say. Just shut up and read).

I read Dooce's entry for today and as usual, it made me laugh. And I thought I would take inspiration from Dooce today, and tell you a story.

I'm hesitating between some of my family's lore, which involves laughter at my expense, or a story from college, which will have you shaking your head and wondering how I ever managed to graduate. Alive.

Heh. I'll tell you neither. I'll tell you a lima bean story, too.

When I was in college, I lived in what was once my grandparents' house. They lived down the street from campus, and after my grandfather died in 1987, my mother decided to buy the house from her siblings and rent it to students. Of course, I got to live there.

It's a big house, built in 1851, and by some miraculous hand-of-God-style intervention, it is still standing. My dad continued to rent it out after I graduated, and after my mother died, until my brother and his wife bought the house three years ago. So we're talking about nearly 15 years of collegiate sports in a Victorian house a block from campus.

That first year, there were seven women living at 635. My mother must have been crazy to rent to seven women. Not only did we all end up getting our periods at the same time, but according to Pennsylvania law, my mom was actually running a brothel. There were four bedrooms upstairs, and two rooms downstairs were turned into bedrooms. I shared a room with K. She was a Deadhead from Tenafly, New Jersey, and we lived next door to each other our freshman year. (I digress. Why did I share a room, when it was kind of like my house? I wasn't assertive enough. I lived my entire freshman year with the Weirdest Girl In The World, and I didn't ask to change roommates because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I still care about people and their feelings, but I have learned to say no. I haven't thought about sharing that room with K. in years).

So getting back to my story: During winter term, two women moved out, because they were seniors and had their comprehensive project to do, and there's no better way to procrastinate than to live with a bunch of other women in a house with cable TV. K. moved into her own room. The long northwestern Pennsylvania winter dragged on.

One day I came home from campus to find A Bad Thing happening in the kitchen. K. and my cousin were fighting. Loudly. Screaming. Red faced, teeth and claws bared.

"Those were MY FUCKING LIMA BEANS, YOU BITCH!"

"No they weren't. They were MINE! I BOUGHT THEM, YOU FUCKING SLUT!"

"I put them RIGHT THERE IN THE FREEZER!"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP! They were MINE!"

Their hands began to slap at each other.

The rest of us stared at the scene from the various doorways into the kitchen.

I don't remember much of the rest. I do know that someone called the police. An officer came and mediated. K. and my cousin calmed down, and then cried some more. I think they made up that evening.

When the officer left, he told us, "You'd be surprised how many calls we get like this in the winter."

Yeah. The never-ending lake-effect snow makes everyone end up like Jack Torrance.

I haven't eaten lima beans since.

Just Another Reason...

...why IKEA is so fükting cool.

Arrrrrrrh, Ye Scalawags!

It's Talk Like A Pirate Day.

I'm a-ready for me grog!

Connections

One thing I planned to do this weekend was explore the blogosphere. Yesterday morning I started out on my plan, and went to visit satr. She's got a big honkin' list of blogs to choose from. Well, I didn't end up clicking on any of those links, because a blog in the Recently Updated Blogs list caught my eye (think I'm going to have to add this feature here). The name made me laugh: La Vache Qui Lit. It's a play on the name of this gross processed cheese (yes, even the French have processed cheese. You can buy this in the States -- look for Laughing Cow cheese in your dairy case).

I thought it would be a French blog, but no, it's written by an American woman. In one of her entries she mentioned needing help printing out something, so I contacted her and offered to do it. We exchanged a few e-mails. Neat. I bet we would have some interesting conversations over a bottle of wine.

In exploring her blog, I found this amazing photo of her daughter. Everything about it is gorgeous: the child, the colors, the graininess. I just wanted to share it with you all.

Discovering Leslie's blog and the contact that ensued made me feel good.

Another thing that made me feel good was the two-hour phone call I made to one of my cyberfriends. It was the first time we'd spoken, and her voice was exactly as I'd imagined it. Putting a voice to a name (and to a face if you're lucky enough to have seen a photo or a person's webcam) helps you establish the reality of a person. Yes, we met online. Yes, at first we just knew each other by a nickname. But a connection happened, and we chose to let down the barriers we had put up to protect ourselves. This has happened with a few people I have met online. They are as real as I am. Our friendships are real.

It might be for this reason that I didn't hesitate to offer my help to Leslie of La Vache Qui Lit. Everyone knows you have to be careful on internet, but I think sometimes you just have to go with your gut instinct. I was glad to help out another ex-pat. I knew she was real as soon as I read her blog.

It's Sunday morning. I have another 5 or 6 hours to myself. It's been a great solo weekend. I can't wait until the next one.