Butt Cream and Caca Booda

Alex left me.

Just kidding.  Abandonment jokes are funny.

No, but really, he left me.  For awhile, anyway, for a training seminar for work.  It's a big chunk of time for me to be flying solo, especially with the Loosh still on vacation from school.  To add insult to injury, the training is happening at home.  Seattle, baby, beautiful Seattle.

Alex gets to go home and be surrounded by our old friends and hold the new babies and be taken out to dinner and walk around our house and roll around in the grass in our yard and breathe the fresh(er) air of a smaller city.  My heart aches.  Even with all the good Parisian times, I miss those people and that city and that house and that YARD.

I should've gone.  But for a dozen reasons, it wasn't a good idea.  The biggest reason why it wasn't a good idea was one we didn't even see coming -- this past weekend I was struck down by a heartless bastard flu.  As much as I wish I was in Seattle right now, it's definitely a good thing I wasn't on a plane for ten hours yesterday.

Alex went down to the pharmacy to renew his allergy pills before heading back to the land of grass and greenness.  He took the Loosh  in order to spend every single second possible with him before he left.

Lucien was being himself -- jumping around and being louder than everyone else by a lot -- while waiting for the pills.  Alex, attempting to be funny, grinned at the pharmacist and said, "You can slip him something if you want..."  The pharmacist didn't get the "medicate my child, PLEASE" joke and frowned at Alex.  Then she said slowly, "Wellll, I may be able to find something" and started rummaging around in the cupboards in the back.  She returned and, with a satisfied smile, handed Lucien a small sample tube of butt cream. 

So if you come over to our place and see Lucien carrying around a small tube and guarding it with his life because, "She gaves it to ME!" you'll understand why.  He sets it on the table next to his bed, along with the rest of his collection of beloved objects, when he goes to bed at night.

Alex needs to stop trying to be funny.  His brand of humor just doesn't translate around here and leads to small children with unnatural attachments to butt cream. 

The Loosh, well over a year ago, started saying something strange.  To me, it sounded like "caca booda."  I didn't think much of it, assuming it was some kind of nonsensical thing he'd made up.   He said it all the time, with great joy and enthusiasm and twinkling of eyes.

It became something I said too.  Whenever I wanted to crack Lucien up I'd jump out at him and yell, "CACA BOODA!" and he'd laugh and laugh.  Sometimes we'd be walking down the street and would have "caca booda" fights.  He'd yell, "caca booda!"  Then I'd yell, "caca booda!" Then he'd yell, "caca booda!" and so on and so forth until he was laughing so hard he'd fall down.

Not too long ago, I heard one of the other kids at school say, "caca booda" to Lucien and run off laughing.  I grinned and came home to tell Alex that Lucien was spreading his nonsensical language all around school.  There was a pause, and Alex said, "Euhh....honey?  He's not saying "caca booda."  He's saying, "caca boudin."

I let that sink in for a minute.  All this time, he (and I) had been saying POOP SAUSAGE.

"For real, Al?  FOR REAL?  Is that, like, a real thing they say?"  I asked.  Alex said yup, it's the coolest thing imaginable you can say if you're a preschooler.  It's as vulgar as it gets for the four-year-old set.  The kids say it all the time but if a teacher or parent hears them, they get reprimanded.  It's not "bien élevé" to say such things.

But there I was -- the mom yelling "poop sausage!" in the streets.  God, I hope nobody heard me.  Americans get enough grief for being uncouth.  I did NOT help our case, fellow Americans in Paris, and for that I am sorry.  But on the positive side, Lucien thinks I am the coolest mom ever.  All the other moms purse their lips at the poop sausage, but not this mama.  I embrace poop sausage and holler my love for it all over Saint Germain.

Ugh.  I'm so sick.  Being this sick reminds me of a story I never told on the blog about our first days in France.  Maybe I'll tell it now ahh, screw it I don't have the energy.

We miss Al.  Right before he left, he and Lucien were doing some father-son drawing.  Lucien asked Alex to draw a monkey.  Alex agreed, and, tongue sticking out in concentration, drew..... something.  Lucien brought the drawing over to show me.  I doubled over with laughter.  I couldn't breathe.  Every time I caught a glimpse, I would lose it all over again.  "What the hell is that, AL?"  I managed to squeak.  Alex looked sheepish and said, "Umm.. it's a monkey?"

What kind of freaky Elephant Man monkey is that?

We miss you, Daddy Al.  Kiss Seattle for us.
CACA BOUDIN!
MJ

Planes and parakeets

The planes are flying!  The planes are flying!  After many days of plane-less skies, we've now got planes flying all over the dang place.  They're low and, to my untrained eye, dangerously close to one another but I hope they're helping all the miserable stranded peeps get on their way.

For those stuck at Charles de Gaulle for many days thanks to the uppity Icelandic volcano, April in Paris has not been very enjoyable. 

You know what else isn't enjoyable in April in Paris?  Sick kids.  Lucien is on break from school and we're supposed to be at a playdate at the Lux right now, enjoying the flawless weather and the company of our flawless friends.  But instead I'm sitting here with two biohazard children. On the bright side I have a lot of time to watch all the planes fly overhead and make jet sounds with my mouth. 

It also gives me a chance to write about the preschool Carnavale parade (for which I did not have to wear a costume).  The Carnavale parade happened after Easter which doesn't make any sense. I decided to roll with it and not ask questions because that's how I've survived here thus far.

I realized, while standing outside the classroom fielding several bemused comments about the Loosh, that being the mother of Lucien has made me a minor celebrity at the preschool.  I don't know if it's in a good way or a bad way, but Lucien evidently gets talked about a lot at the homes of his classmates.

"It's probably because we're the only English speakers," I thought to myself as I stood there, realizing  everyone was staring at me the way you'd stare at your favorite zoo animal -- you know, with interest and affection but wanting to keep a safe distance all the same.  "Yeah....it's the American-ness. I'm sure that's it."

Saint Teacher flung open the door and started calling out names.  When she called your child's name, you stepped forward and received a list of the four kids you were responsible for.  She called a few and they got their lists.

When Saint Teacher called, "maman de Lucien," three mamas turned to me, arms stretched out, guiding me to Saint Teacher.  One mama whispered kindly, "that's you" as she gently pushed me towards the door.

"Wow!" I thought.  "These women are very nice!  They're looking out for me!  Well.... either that or they think I'm incredibly stupid!"

I stepped up to Saint Teacher, ready to receive the names of the children I would herd around the neighborhood.  But Saint Teacher didn't hand me a list.  Instead she said, "OK.  You just take Lucien."

What?  Just take Lucien?  JUST LUCIEN?  Did she seriously just say that in front of all these parents?

I laughed, and maybe sputtered a little bit, and told Saint Teacher I really could handle more.  Saint Teacher said, no no no, it was fine; she was worried because I had Coco in the wrap and was more weighed down than the other parents.   Ahhhh.... sure.  It's because of the baby.  We'll go with that.  

I walked into the class and was confronted with a classroom full of parakeets looking at me with little blinky eyes.  They were goddamn parakeets.  I was not prepared for the cuteness.  I cracked up uncontrollably as parents milled around calling their childrens' names because they couldn't tell who was who.

 

found him.  the blue and yellow one.

The parade wound through the streets, making stops at the nearby elementary and high schools so the children could be gawked at by the older kids.  As we stood in the middle of the playground at the elementary school, the students surrounded us and stared.  It felt a bit like a public shaming and I wondered if they were about to start hurling insults or rocks, but they let us leave without incident.

Lucien was intimidated by all the spectators and noise and thus was on his best behavior. He was so tame, in fact, I felt kinda guilty as I marched around with my ONE child.  The mama in front of me was trying to manage four children who liked to take off in different directions at the exact same time.  She was frazzled and frantic as she yelled their names and darted about trying to gather them up again.

I became her assistant.  When a kid took off, I lunged and grabbed a handful of crepe paper feathers.  "Step outta line again, parakeet," I growled.  "I dare ya." 

I'd say the whole thing went pretty well.  And thank God I didn't show up in a costume, especially the sheet over the head.  If I had, they wouldn't be talking about Lucien anymore -- all the scuttlebutt would have been about Lucien's deranged mama.

Ahhhhh.....April in Paris.  The weather is perfection and the cafes are full.  Every other table is speaking English so tourist season must be in full swing again, too.  I like sitting at my cafe table and listening to the tourists.  You can tell immediately from the looks on their faces who's falling in love with Paris and who's annoyed as hell.

On Tuesday, when I left the kids with Patricia to abscond for my precious solo coffee time, I sat next to a family who was not enjoying themselves at all.  Paris couldn't do a darn thing right -- from the smallness of the hotel room to their treatment by waiters to getting a bottle of mineral water whenever they ordered "water."  They were also offended by being asked for money by our local homeless man -- "Why, he's dressed better than I am!"  the father blustered. 

It's true.  Our local homeless man does have surprisingly nice shoes.  

It's lovely to enjoy the beautiful weather again but it's not fun to share the sidewalks with the masses again. There's been a lot of teeth clenching as I try to get my stroller or my grocery cart through the crowd.  I've run over some toes here and there, but since this is Paris, the victim never blinks and I never apologize.

The parakeet is on Spring Break (!) and the weather is stunning so once I get these kids healthy again, I'm going to spend a lot of time outside.  Probably without my computer.  So I guess what I'm saying is... I think we need to take a break.  No, no, of course I still love you it's just  -- Jesus, stop crying it's embarrassing... look, I'll do what I can, OK?

You were a beautiful parakeet, mon chou,
MJ

Anxious T, Tracksuit Neighbor, Swiss Miss and The Cleaning Ladies

The hills are alive with the sound of Lucien

Life just doesn't stop around here.  The past few days have been full of emotional and bewildering activities.  But I fear if I don't revisit my favorite peeps from Switzerland, they will be lost forever, victims of my craptastic memory. I don't just write this blog to entertain the huddled masses; I write it so when I'm senile at forty, I can be reminded that I once lived in Paris.  And yes, my memory is really that bad. 

Who is this small boy child running through my apartment yelling?  And where the hell is his mother?

Back to our happy place -- the Muchetta Kinderhotel in Wiesen, Switzerland.  We were the only English speakers at the Kinderhotel.  Well, almost the only English speakers.  The owners spoke fairly good English, as did one waiter in the restaurant, Tom. 

Tom walked around looking worried that something bad was going to happen to him any second.  His eyes were wide and constantly scanning; his smile was big and eager but slightly nervous.  If someone talked to him, he'd jump a mile and immediately start talking but his words made no sense because he hadn't had time to think them through.  

We called him "Anxious T" and he's one of our favorite people ever.  He made me want to wrap him in a blanket and rock him gently, singing lullabies and assuring him that everything was going to be.  all.  right.

Every afternoon at 3:00pm, the staff would set out fresh pies, cakes and coffee in the dining room.  We lived all day for 3:00pm.  One afternoon we walked in and the Loosh immediately took off jogging through the dining room with his Italian-speaking friend, Elian.  

Part of the dining room was blocked off as the staff readied it for dinner but Lucien and Elian barged right through the blockade.  Alex went to retrieve them and as he bent down to take Lucien by the hand, Anxious T jumped in front of him with his hands in front of him, saying more loudly than was necessary, "Oh my God, It's not my idea!  It's the management!  It's not me!" He smiled nervously at Alex, pleading with his eyes for Alex to spare him his life.  

Alex backed away slowly so as not to spook Anxious T.   Anxious T went back to setting the tables but continued to glance over his shouler at Alex and smile nervously.  He seemed to be expecting an ambush.  But Alex just wanted to enjoy his coffee and pie. 

OH, Anxious T.  We took a day trip to Davos to see the ski area.  We had dreamy visions of skiing there, as my parents did back in the 70s, but in the end decided I couldn't be away from Coco the entire day because of the whole boob thing.  But we still wanted to take the gondola and eat lunch on top of the mountain.

We went to the bus stop and tried to make sense of the posted bus schedule.  As we stood there scratching our heads, a car came tearing down the road with the windshield completely full of snow.  It stopped across the street from us and Anxious T jumped out, apparently just realizing he had zero visibility. 

We walked over to him as he brushed the snow off his car and asked if he knew what time the bus was coming.  He immediately threw up his hands and yelled, "I would drive you but my car is full!"  Alex and I stared at him, perplexed, then slowly turned our heads in unison towards his completely empty car.  We looked back at Tom and he, again, looked wide-eyed and fearful that we were about to kill him, having just caught him in the ole "my car is full" lie. 

"It's OK... we weren't asking for a ride," began Alex slowly ("especially since you were just driving with a windshield full of snow," he thought to himself.)  "We just want to know if we're reading the bus schedule correctly."  Anxious T looked relieved briefly but then returned to his wide-eyed "are you my friend?" pleading look.


Every guest in the place spoke German.  A few spoke Italian.  Only one other family spoke French and as I mentioned before, zero spoke English.  Given the language barrier between us and pretty much everyone else in the place, gesturing wildly became our only means of communication.

This sign means "baby's got her leg in the air next to the pool."

Our server at meals, I'll call her Swiss Miss, spoke only German.  She was incredibly sweet but I think she cringed every time we walked into the dining room.  We just couldn't communicate and the harder we tried the worse it got.

 

I wanted to try giving Coco a bottle of formula.  If she would take formula, that would free me up for a longer period of time and perhaps allow us to go skiing.  The Kinderhotel, of course, because they're awesome, had cans of formula sitting in the dining room so guests didn't have to bring theirs from home.  

I asked the Swiss Miss for some warm water so I could mix some formula.  She smiled brightly, pointed at the bottle and asked, "For the milk powder?"  in English.  I smiled and said, "Yes, yes, for the milk powder!"  We were so excited we were speaking the same language, there was lots of enthusiastic nodding and face-splitting smiling.  She returned with the bottle full of formula and we grinned and thanked her profusely -- oh, isn't that NICE she mixed the formula for us?  

Coco drank it.  Then Coco (and Mama!  Huzzah!) was up all night.  You shoulda heard the farts coming out of that girl.  It didn't seem possible such a tiny girl could make such a ridiculously large sound.  It was obvious something had gone horribly wrong with our formula experiment. 

 

We felt slightly suspicious.  The next night at dinner, Alex brought the baby bottle again and pointed at it, then walked Swiss Miss over to the tables of formula and pointed, asking her which one she had used.  She looked confused and kept shaking her head no.

Alex finally asked, "Was it real milk?  Milk?"  And Swiss Miss looked very happy that she understood a word and said, "Yes, yes, milk!"  Ohhh... I then understood perfectly that we'd fed an entire bottle of pure cow's milk to our six-month old.  Poor, poor little gaseous Camille. 

 

Mystery solved for me.  But Al, however -- my man wasn't done "communicating."  Alex, just to make absolutely sure Swiss Miss knew what "milk" meant, started mooing.  And mooing.  And mooing.  He was really giving it his all, too, leaning back slightly and mooing up to the ceiling like a wolf howling at the moon.  My Al's got gusto.

 

It was quite a performance. Servers stopped moving and cracked up.  Guests stared at Alex, transfixed, with forkfuls of dinner frozen halfway to their mouths.  Anxious Tom laughed so hard he was crying.  (Or maybe he was really crying, given it was Anxious T, I dunno.)  Swiss Miss smiled, happy to be on the same page at last, and gave a few small "moo"s herself.  Alex was finally satisfied and came back to the table to tell me Coco had been given cow's milk.  "No shit, Al.  Seriously." I answered from under my napkin, behind which I'd been hiding for the past five minutes.   

 

Sorry 'bout that, Ms. Cokes

This post is getting long so I'd better wrap it up quickly.  Nutshell = Alex had a nemesis at the Kinderhotel.  And that's great because what's a vacation without a nemesis?  The nemesis, our bright green tracksuit wearing neighbor, didn't know he'd been nemesized.  He didn't know because he never, and I mean NEVER, looked up from his Blackberry. 

The minute tracksuit neighbor walked into the dining room for breakfast, Alex would bristle and start muttering.  The muttering would continue all day.  I would catch words such as "damn tracksuit," questions such as, "What, is he gonna go jog in the goddamn snow?" and comments such as, "Oh, he just thinks he's so important with his Blackberry and his tracksuit." 

I suggested to Al that maybe the guy really WAS important and needed to be in contact a lot but Alex said, no, his model of Blackberry (ancient) and his manner of using the Blackberry (held straight out in front of him as opposed to subtly placed on the lap below the table) suggested this was a man who just wanted to LOOK important.  


I enjoy watching Alex mutter about dumb stuff.  And honestly, tracksuit neighbor didn't once smile, or even look, at anyone else including his family so maybe Al was onto something. 

And finally....I had some nemeses, too, in the form of cleaning ladies.  The cleaning ladies were the most aggressive cleaning ladies I've ever encountered.  They wanted to CLEAN and clean NOW.

The "Do Not Disturb" sign unfortunately did not exist at the Kinderhotel so the cleaning ladies walked in pretty much whenever they wanted to, usually whenever Coco was napping or I was in the shower.  There was no way to lock out the cleaning ladies.  They would walk in every five minutes and stare at you hard until you got the HELL out of their way.  They scared me so I got the hell out of their way, sometimes with a towel wrapped around my head and a sleepy Coco under my arm.


So we're home now and find ourselves in the uncomfortable position of having to feed ourselves again.  For a few days after our return, Alex and I would bump into each other in the kitchen and say in a confused hazy way, "Oh, sorry, honey.  It's just the weirdest thing -- I just can't find the salad bar....." 

And where's my pie and coffee at 3pm?
Switzerland over and out, mes choux,
MJ

Sunshine and rainbows. And unicorns.

The Loosh is refusing to go to sleep tonight.  He's been out here half a dozen times.  Unfortunately, he's also found a red marker.  His most recent visit involved him marching around the kitchen,  pointing at his chest and saying "My nipples are rouge!  My nipples are rouge!"  And by golly, he wasn't lying.

Hang on a second, let me just grab that bottle of wine over there.  Ahhh, there we go....come to mama.

So where was I.  Switzerland.

Wiesen is a tiny, tiny town in the middle of the Alps.  It has approximately twenty buildings and eleven residents, most of them farm animals.  But from that first handshake at the train station with Phillip, cheerful hotel owner, we had found our new happy place.

Here it is -- the promised land for tired parents.  The Kinderhotel Muchetta in Wiesen, Switzerland.  It's a hotel where you get to vacation with your kids because you love them but you don't really have to take care of them.  Brilliant.

I want to go to there

The Kinderhotel is family mecca.  Rooms stocked with cribs, baby monitors, baby bathtubs, and cute little pint-sized bathrobes.  Kids laughing and running together through the dining room like a pack of foreign-language speaking wild animals.  Parents sitting in the library reading books for the first time in years.  Parents having no idea where their kids are and liking it that way. 

Immediately after check-in, Alex headed to the "Wellness Area" where he saw a naked lady in the sauna.  (No hangups about nudity in Switzerland, either.  Good to know for my future public nudity needs.)  After that, Alex spent a lot of time in the sauna.

Me:   Gosh, I can't find Coco's sock.
Al:     I'll go look in the sauna.

Me:   Where the heck did I put my lens cap?
Al:    You may have left it in the sauna.  I'll go check because I have an earnest desire to help you.

Me:   Hey  Al, let's go for a hike in the beautiful mountains.
Al:    Hey, MJ, let's go sit in front of the sauna and look for boobies.

Don't worry, ladies -- mama got her share of eye candy, too.  Mainly German speaking men in Speedos playing with their kids in the heated wading pool.  Meh -- you take what you can get.

The childcare program was too good to be true except it was TRUE.  They kept the Loosh busy for up to twelve hours a day.  (Is worshiping a hotel a religion?  I'm gonna make it one.  Kinderhotelology.  There will be lots of drinking of Kool-Aid but not in the bad way.)

They would accompany the children at lunch and dinner so you could eat alone with your spouse and have something called "an intelligent conversation" without being interrupted by a four-year-old with a whoopee cushion. (I admit, I bought it for him.  In my defense, whoopee cushions are highly amusing.)  They took the kids sledding on snowy days and visiting local farms on sunny ones. They had a playroom with ball pits and a playground with a huge slide that threw kids off violently at the bottom.

The Loosh fell off the slide onto his head once but it didn't faze him for long.  He also hurt his back doing I-dunno-what and had a door slammed on his foot.  He came back bleeding twice.  He's never been so happy.

He would drag himself back into our room in the evening and pass out exhausted in his bed as Alex and I danced around crowing, "We GOT him!  We finally GOT him!" 

Coco, when we decided to ditch her for a bit, too, went into the babycare room.  They did different activities there, lest you're concerned Coco got strapped into a sled or pushed down a violent slide.  I think they just dangled things in front of her face and carried her around a lot.

She also learned how to be an effective executive:

Buzz off, woman.  I'm learning over here

The vast majority of my time was spent on our deck, on this chair right here, looking at this --

AND THIS OOPS CAPS LOCK sorry I'm not really yelling

(The vast majority of Alex's time was spent in the sauna but that's neither here nor there)

The downside to the deck chairs was their plastic composition.  When you coupled that with the dry mountain air, the static shocks we gave each other were unreal.  A few of them darn near blasted Lucien across the deck.  Alex would say to me, "Come sit with me.  Let us speak of love."  He'd reach out for me lovingly but I'd yell, "Discharge your static!  Discharge your static!" and bat at his hands with my book.  Then Alex would sigh and feel alone.  Stupid staticky chair killing our love. 

I grew up in Ohio but in a mountain-obsessed skifreak family. Because of all the happy memories of our ski vacations over the years (such as the time we nearly burnt down our rental condo in Vail -- our family friend had to throw a flaming fireplace log off the balcony into the snow) I'm a mountain person.

Mountains are one of the things I miss most about living in Seattle.  I mean, sure, some of the "mountains" around Seattle are actually "volcanos" that are going to erupt one day and kill us all but gosh, they're pretty. 

So I sat and stared at the Alps and grinned.  I stared and stared.  I don't think I even blinked and I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open.  I probably looked like a real idiot.  I stared at those mountains for so many hours, I'm sure I could draw their peaks from memory.

not bad.....not bad...

That's all I got this time around, folks. I hope I feel like writing about Switzerland next time, too, because we encountered some characters worthy of remembrance. My personal favorites are "anxious T" and "neon green tracksuit wearing neighbor with a Blackberry addiction." 

And hey!  Good news.  I don't have to wear a costume for the parade at Lucien's school.  Alex clarified with Saint Teacher.  She said some parents have gotten festive in the past but there's no requirement to do so.  Therefore I say NO to being festive.  My only goal is to return with as many kids as I'm responsible for.  The patterned sheet with no eyeholes would just get in the way and probably cause me to wander into traffic.  

Daddy's in the sauna again, mes choux,
MJ

A Tale of Retail

I'm gonna get back to Switzerland in a minute.  But first, I want to tell you a spooky story.  I wish we had a campfire because this one will chill you to the bone. 

Once upon a time, I decided to buy a few area rugs for our living room.  (SPOOKY area rugs)  It was an attempt to ease the blows of Lucien's feet upon our old creaky wooden floors, perhaps giving the nice neighbor downstairs an opportunity to sleep for the first time since we moved in.

I ordered three area rugs online from a well-known French retailer. I chose the "pick up at store" option since we live just across the Seine from the store.  Al went to the store.  (The SPOOKY store)

Half an hour later, I received a call from crabby Al.  He muttered he'd been cut in front of in line several times but that wasn't the main reason for the call -- the real problem was that one of our rugs was AWOL. The worker man couldn't find it no matter how hard he didn't really try. 

"Eh, no biggie, two will do," I said.  "Just make sure we don't get charged for the third."  Alex made sure.  He asked several times.  And when he was convinced that no, we would not be charged for the missing rug, he dragged the other two home.

One glance at our credit card statement a couple weeks later told the tale.  We were charged for all three.  We did not feel surprised.

It was going to be a time-consuming fight to call customer service and demand a refund so we decided we'd deal with it "later" and went to Switzerland.

The day we returned we were perusing our accumulated mail and saw an envelope from the popular French retailer in mention.  "Heh heh," said Alex. "I bet it's a refund check!  I bet they feel badly about not being able to find our third rug! This may actually be good customer service!"

False.  The letter stated we needed to come get the goddamn rug they'd been holding for us for a long, long time.  They were giving us a deadline of eight days from the sending of the letter to come get the rug.  If we didn't come get it by then, the rug was going back out onto the sales floor and -- SPOOKY grand finale here -- they were going to KEEP OUR MONEY.  For "damages incurred."

They couldn't find the rug they were supposed to be holding for us but were going to keep our money anyway and then sell the rug to someone else when they found it.

The date on the letter told us it had been sent seven days ago.  "GO, GO, GO,"  I yelled at Alex as he pulled on his coat and ran, clock ticking and time running out.  So much for a restful re-entry after vacation.

While at the store, Al asked the worker man what kind of "damages" they could prove if we didn't pick up the rug and they sold it to someone else.  The worker man waved his arms around and said vague things that meant nothing.  Al came home with the third rug.

BOOGA BOOGA!

The End
MJ

EBTLOD

Well hello there.

Vacation is over and we are experiencing deep, turbulent emotional pain.  If you have young kids, perk your little ears up because I have important information regarding your next vacation.  If you don't have young kids, run fast and run far in the exact opposite direction of where I'm talking about.  This place will make you want to cut your ears off, stab yourself in the eye and stumble around begging for quick death. 

There is one painful part of vacationing in the middle of the Swiss Alps;  there's just no darn good way to get there.  Our trip involved two small children, four trains and eight hours of travel.  I didn't mention that part to many people before we left because I didn't want to be met with a hailstorm of  "You're BATSHIT CRAZY" just as we were working up our nerve to do it.  

The first two train trips went without a hitch.  They were, to our great surprise, kind of enjoyable.  We could get up and run around when Lucien got too stir crazy.  Alex and I could order beers in the bar car when Lucien climbed on our backs, hooting and scratching his armpits like a monkey.  We could "unintentionally" lock Lucien in the bathroom half a dozen train cars away and run back to our seats without anyone knowing.... ahem... of course what I meant to say was we could sit quietly with Lucien and look out the windows at the beautiful scenery. 

We were feeling fine as we left the mainstream railways to get on our third train, a small, delightfully bright red Swiss regional train. There was no one else in the train car so we were able to spread out and make noise.  The mountain scenery was gorgeous and we felt happy and at peace.

But then...her.  Evil Buzzkill Ticket Lady Of Doom.  After I handed her our tickets with a friendly smile, she barked at me, "These are second class tickets.  You're sitting in first class.  You have to move." 

Not good.  Coco had just fallen asleep and Lucien was sitting quietly looking out the window.  We had two suitcases and three bags tucked away in the luggage racks.  We did not want to upset our careful peaceful balance, not to mention drag all our crap a few cars down.

Alex tried the "we're dumb" track.  "Sorry, we didn't realize we were sitting in first class.  We don't understand German."

She answered him by loudly rapping on the wall in front of him, where a prominent sign declared the car "1 Klasse."  "It's the same word in English,"  said Evil Buzzkill Ticket Lady Of Doom (EBTLOD).

"Well, actually, we spell it with a 'C'......and no 'e' on the end....so you can see why we would be confused... maybe".....Alex's voice trailed off as he realized EBTLOD was considering punching him in the face.  

Alex then tried the "please pity us" track.  "We're so loaded down with all our bags, and the baby just fell asleep.  And we're not on this train very long so can we just...."  his voice trailed off as he realized EBTLOD was nearing violence again.  This was a cold, hard lady and she liked the rules.  No bendy bendy just because we had a couple of snot-nosed kids. 

"I'll help you move your bags.  That is all I can do."  She grabbed the smallest bag and started walking away.  We quickly shuffled around, gathering our things feeling flustered, and followed her. 

 ...they sure look peaceful from afar...

This train was not a fancy new train.  This was an old fashioned train, the kind where, when you cross between train cars, you're REALLY crossing between train cars.  There's some kind of thin shell around you, but you can see all the creaking nuts and bolts, hear the deafening roar of the moving train, and you must shimmy across to the next car on a moving platform that pivots in the middle when the train turns a corner.


When we finally reached second class two train cars away, EBTLOD threw open the door and I felt a whole new wave of "Oh noooooo." The car was packed full of people.  And once the door was thrown open, the car was packed full of people staring at us. 

"Vacationing is such a pleasure," I thought as I started moving through the car looking for any seat where I could at least plunk the Loosh.  I saw two seats up ahead piled with coats and bags but they had no bodies in them.  I aimed for them, pushing through legs stretched into the aisle and carrying a now very awake and whimpering baby and a clingy, traumatized Lucien whose face was devoid of color thanks to our treacherous train car crossings. 

I stopped at the two seats and saw they contained the bags and coats of two teenagers who were very intently making out across from them.  I leaned over and asked, in French, if the seats were free.  The two teenagers stared at me for a second, then looked at each other and giggled.  I asked again, louder, in French, if the seats were free.  Then in English.

The teenage boy said something back in German, and from the sneer on his face, the few words I know in German and his hard glance at the Loosh, I understood he had just said something along the lines of not wanting to sit next to kids.  I knew he had just made a very, very disparaging remark about my kinder.

Now honestly, people, there are two things I enjoy in this life.  1.)  Hanging out and 2.) Getting along.  If I could just hang out with everybody and sit around laughing and getting along for the rest of my life, that would be great.  I am not a joyfully confrontational person.

But at that moment, I felt an intense desire to confront and confront immediately.  I leaned down until I was about six inches from smug teenager's face, and bellowed in English, "WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?"  

Smug teenager just stared.  Smug teenager's girlfriend turned red and started clearing her things off the seats across from her.  No one else in the train car said a word.  It was a sea of blank stares all around me and I'd never felt so alone, yet so willing to fight, in my life. 

Speaking of feeling alone.... it was about this time I realized my life partner was nowhere to be seen.  It's an uncomfortable feeling when you're fighting a teenager in a sea of Germans without backup.  I glanced away from smug teenager towards the door and saw Alex conversing with EBTLOD in the next car with his wallet out.  Upon seeing his wife about to throw down with a couple teenagers he had wisely decided to double back and pay the insanely high upgrade charge to get us back into first class safely and without international incident. 

I said some bad words in French under my breath and stared at smug teenage boy until he shifted uncomfortably.  Satisfied he had been sufficiently shamed, I dragged poor terrified Lucien back into the next train car.

As we passed EBTLOD on our way back into the haven of first class, she stopped me and said, "He paid for one upgrade, not two."  I stared at her, not understanding the message at all.  Did she really think Alex intended to sit in first class by himself, leaving me to fight it out in second class with two kids?  And seriously, that ridiculous upgrade charge was only for ONE person?  Is 1 KLASSE made out of solid gold and diamonds? I couldn't form words so I just stared at her.

Oh how she hated me.  She then tossed our bag into the first class compartment, told me to "just go" and slammed the door behind me with a very sarcastic, "YOU'RE WELCOME."

Oh my God,  what the hell just happened?

We slumped in our expensive first class seats and talked about our feelings.  A huffy man across the aisle from us got up and sat somewhere else.  We're not sure what our offense was that time but one thing was certain -- "Alex,"  I said wearily.  "So far we don't have any friends in Switzerland."


So let this be your first Swiss vacation lesson -- if you mistakenly sit in first class and get called out for it, keep your butts in those seats and pull out your wallet.  Just do it.  Trust us.  YOU'RE WELCOME. 

We got off that train and onto another one and finally, finally....we were there.  We jumped off the train to find the owner -- the OWNER -- of the hotel waiting for us with a big smile, a warm handshake, and a ride up the mountain to the start of our vacation. 

Now that the ugliness is out of the way, my next post can be about fun and sunshine and rainbows!  And unicorns!

The blog is therapy and its readers are my unwilling and unpaid therapists, mes choux,
MJ

It's never a good thing to volunteer

Magic post!  I scheduled this one to post while we're on vacation.  It's like I'm here but I'm not. 

Hello there, future self!  How are things going six days from now?  Are you still with Alex?  You have TWO kids now?  Seriously?  Goodness, how the time flies chortle chortle.

So I've volunteered to be a parent accompanier for Lucien's class parade to the Lux gardens.  I have no idea why they're having a parade because I am not very involved in the details of Lucien's day-to-day. 

When I received the notice that Saint Teacher needed five parents to help her escort the children through the streets of Paris for a parade, I thought, "YES!  This is something I can DO!"  There's not a lot of effort involved and it will show her I care. 

I told Alex to sign me up on the "kickass involved parent!" sheet in the classroom when he took the Loosh to school the next morning.   He called me after the dropoff and said that yes, he had signed me up and that mine was the only name on the sheet.

Then he dropped the bomb.  "Did you know you have to wear a costume?" asked Al.

"Euhhhhh.....no."  said me. 

I used to love costume shindigs about a decade ago when I had the time and energy to sit around and dream up perfect, clever costumes.  Now?   Now I'm the one who pulls a sheet over my head at the last second and goes as a (usually patterned) ghost.  I can't even cut eye holes in them because, well, they're my sheets.

So at this moment I'm in Switzerland.  And I'm probably wondering what the hell kind of costume I'm going to drum up when I return.  I may also be picturing me (the only parent dumb enough to volunteer for the costume one) and Saint Teacher herding thirty children through the streets.  I may have a flowered sheet thrown over my head. No one will understand why.

I sure hope we're having fun in Switzerland.

This is Back to the Future-ish, mes choux.
MJ

I speak nothing

It's official.  I'm a woman without a language.  My French is OK and getting better.  I expected that.  My English, however, is OK and getting worse.  I didn't see that one coming.

I called our bank at home to ask for a few last documents needed for taxes.  About ten seconds into the conversation, I lost my ability to communicate and started stuttering, searching for words and making the very French sound, "euhhh."  ("euhhhh" is French for "ummm.")

Me:  Euhhhhh..... I need some.... am looking for some.... things..... euhhhhh...... papers?

Investment guy:  *sigh*  Umm, OK. I could probably help you with that if I knew what the hell you were talking about.


Me:  Euhhhhh... We need to do taxes and there's some interest in a.... euhhhh.... account... thingy.

Investment guy:  I'd love to help you, ma'am, but you have to help me help you.

Me:  Euhhhh..... right.  I guess I'm used to searching for words and euhhhh... dammit, I keep making that French sound, don't I?  I'm American and I know English.  I used to speak the English real nice.  Ooh-la-la.

Investment guy:  You are one strange, strange lady.


I was on the phone with the nice young man for way longer than necessary.  There was even some table-hitting on my end as I composed some of the dumbest sentences ever in my native tongue.

I don't get it.  I think I'm so used to thinking hard and struggling for words in my daily life that even when the words should come easily, I overthink it and end up making a big ole mess of 'em anyway.

I also had a lesson with Mme Kickmyass.  We were discussing something ridiculously complicated as usual and I could not for the life of me think of the word "controversy."  In French, at first, but then --

Mme. K:  You're stuck.  Say the word you're thinking of in English and maybe I'll know it.

Me:  I can't.

Mme. K:  You can't think of the word in English?

Me:  No.

Mme. K:  Can you explain the word to me in French?

Me:  Probably not.

Mme K:  Can you explain the word to me in English?

Me:  Definitely not.

Mme. K:  silent as she watches her pupil bang her head slowly, slowly, slowly on the table muttering, "What is it, what is it, what IS IT?????" 

Me:  *light bulb*  WAIT, I CAN explain it in English!  It's the time when the people aren't sure if they like it and don't know? *smile*

Mme. K:  Euhhhh....

I don't think I realize how Frenchified I'm becoming.  At this moment, I feel like I haven't changed much but I betcha when I return home at the end of all this, I'm going to be surprised at how euhhh..... what's the word, what's the word....oh yeah, got it.  I'm going to be surprised at how shiny I've become.

Dammit, that doesn't sound right.

So toodles, posse.  We're leaving on vacation for a week.  Switzerland.  The part that speaks German.  After a week of German, maybe I'll come back with no ability to comprehend or speak any language at all.  Ever again.

I'll post something if I can while I'm away but it may be incomprehensible.

 My mom has serious issues 

Euhhhh... guten morgen.  Danke.  Nicht so gut.   
MJ