I came home from England with a delightful potpourri of germs thanks to our many coughing children. I've been stumbling around this week in a haze of congestion and Nyquil cocktails. In my stupor, this post makes sense but it may just be the nonsensical ramblings of a doped-up woman.
I have a new French teacher. It took me a long time to get over the loss of Madame Kickmyass but I eventually contacted someone she recommended. The new teacher came to my apartment a couple weeks ago and was so sweet, so soft-spoken, so smiley, I was immediately at ease and we began a delightful Frenchie conversation.
At first, she smiled constantly. Then I made a small language error. Her smile disappeared in an instant and she snapped, "NON!" and aggressively wrote my error down on a list of shame. I felt betrayed; we'd been getting along so well.
If my first teacher was "Madame Kickmyass," this one is "Madame Suckerpunch." She's as tough as Madame Kickmyass, but she lures you into a false sense of security before she wallops you. After the initial thrashing I was a little afraid. But then she started smiling and speaking softly again, and I started to feel better. Then, another error. "NON!" Furious writing. SUCKERPUNCH!
Just like my previous teacher, she wanted to delve immediately into complex topics. With Madame KMA, one of our first conversations was about love and marriage and the stock market. With Madame Suckerpunch, our first conversation was about religion. Fantastic.
I told her I'm not a religious person. I thought I said it correctly but then I got the "NON!" again, this time followed by laughter and finger-pointing. What I meant to say -- "I'm not religious" -- left my mouth as, "I'm not a nun." Well that's true, too, so I'm not going to beat myself up over it.
Madame Suckerpunch said I greatly underestimate my French abilities, that I can, in fact, speak pretty well and have a good accent. She thinks my main problem is confidence. I told her I wouldn't have a confidence problem if my French teachers would stop yelling at me at which point she leaned over and smacked me across the face. (Not really, but I wouldn't put it past these French teachers.)
I don't usually write about the disgusting things my kids' bodies do but aw, what the hell, I'm doped up on NyQuil. I went to pick up Lucien from school yesterday and the first thing he said was, "Mommy, there's a problem with my butt." I started asking questions about the butt problem when he started farting. A lot. Loudly. Every time he farted, he looked at me incredulously, arms up in the air and said, "See? I TOLD you!"
Other parents looked at us sideways and tried very hard not to laugh which proves my theory that farting is funny to French people, too. I pulled Lucien's coat on in a hurry as he continued to fart and yell things like, "It just won't STOP!"
In perhaps related news, the teacher pulled me aside and asked me for a meeting Monday morning. I don't want to go. I don't want to go. I don't want to go.
The holiday lights have gone up in our neighborhood. In my last post, I said that when we leave Paris, it will be the people we miss most of all, but I lied. It's actually going to be the lights.
We also put our pathetic little Charlie Brown Christmas tree up this week, the one we dragged home from BHV in our wheeled shopping bag last year. Here's a picture of it, using my iPhone and my new obsession thanks to New York Mom, the Hipstamatic iPhone app. It makes all your iPhone pictures look super old. I'm not sure why this is desirable, but it is.
I just realized this picture makes it look like we killed a small white dog and stuffed it into the bottom of our Christmas tree. I assure you this is not the case. The white thing is a feather boa. Any self-respecting Frenchie Christmas tree needs a feather boa.
"Oh no, where's Fluffy?" asks the neighbor.
Heh heh, NyQuil's yummy,