Winter Turkey

We`re still in Quebec and I`m still wearing my mother-in-law`s clothing.  She took one look at my wardrobe, knew I was going to freeze to death here, and has since loaded me down with coats and scarves and gloves and hats.  I was woefully unprepared for Quebec winter and wouldn`t have lasted ten minutes in my cute little "winter" jacket and fuzzy gloves.  Now I look like an Eskimo but at least I still have all my appendages.

I am warm

We`ve been spending a lot of time at the family cottage.  Alex and I stayed there a night by ourselves because we needed a break from our children.  (They`re cute but for some reason they seem louder here.)  On our way to the cottage, we got the car stuck in a snowbank.  I haven`t heard that pathetic, whirring, tires-in-snow noise in ages and it took me back to my snowy upbringing in Ohio. Thankfully, how to free a car from a snowbank is info that stays with a person, like how to ride a bike or how to be a ninja, and we were free in under ten minutes.

The cottage is on the Saint Lawrence river.  We went walking along the river at low tide where we jumped around on large pieces of ice left behind by the water.  Alex saw an intimidating ice chunk in the distance, pronounced it his "enemy," and took a few flying leaps at it.

Nearly ten years of marriage and he can still surprise me with his weirdness

We spent another night at the cottage with just the Loosh.  We woke up leisurely, sipping coffee and staring out the window at the beauty and the stillness when -- GAH! -- two men dressed entirely in white, most terrifyingly wearing white ski masks, walked past our front window carrying rifles. They walked to the river and set up hunting shop right there on the ice floes, not thirty feet from the first row of cottages.  I don`t know much about Canadian laws and whatnot, but is it really OK to shoot things with rifles right next to people wearing pajamas in their kitchens?

(Did you notice the question mark magic?  Thanks to a hot tip from loyal reader Duchesse, I now know now to make a question mark on the complicated French Canadian keyboard.  It`s Shift 6.   Thanks, D.)

I asked Alex what the scary psycho killer men were hunting and he couldn`t come up with the word -- best translation I got was "a winter turkey."  What the hell is a winter turkey and what happens to the poor things come summer?  Do they melt?  Whatever they were hunting, I didn`t like men waving guns around and getting all worked up about shooting things mere yards away from me and my Fruit Loops.  They stuck around for a few hours and left empty-handed -- my guess is because they realized there`s no such thing as a winter turkey. 

Lucien loved playing on the ice left behind at low tide.  It was pretty exciting because you never knew when you were going to hit a weak spot and plunge through the ice, hitting the earth a foot or two below with a severely twisted ankle.  The secret is to walk like you`re trying very hard to put each foot through to the center of the earth.  You can`t be dainty about it; you`ve got to stomp the hell out of the place so you can identify weak spots immediately.  You still fall through, but at least it`s on your own terms.

fun in Quebec!

We went to Valcartier yesterday.  Valcartier is a winter resort for sledding.  It looks like a shorter ski resort and slopes are marked the same way -- green circles for "you`re pathetic" slopes, blue squares for "you`re still a wuss but slightly less so" slopes, black diamonds for "getting warmer" slopes, and double black diamonds for "you`re the only one worthy of life, badass!" slopes.  The slopes were steep and slick, the paths were fast, and I was with a group of people who are much, much braver than I am.

I like to be in control of my personal locomotion.  If we`re in a car, I want to drive.  If we`re in a plane, I want to fly (they keep saying no, the jerks).  I wouldn`t go so far as to say I`m a control freak, but I`m definitely a control enthusiast.  But when you put your butt on an inner tube, tie yourselves to your family members and go flying down a steep hill, there is zero control.  It`s hurtling, stomach-dropping, high-speed chaos with snow blowing in your face.

Alex`s family was like, "let`s tie ourselves together in a star shape and put our feet in the center and put our arms up over our heads and tempt the Gods to kill us all" when I was more like, "I would like to go down by myself, please, and drag my feet the whole way."  But man, their way was fun.  Really fun.  Once I accepted I probably wasn`t going to make it and would never see my family again, I was really able to let go and have some fun with it.

The Loosh purchasing a Quebec specialty -- frozen maple syrup (but thicker) on a stick.  Gooey.  Delicious.

Here`s a video I took of all of us on the "rafting" slope.  There`s one area of Valcartier where you can all ride together in a large inflatable boat instead of individual tubes.  This gives the sadistic employees the freedom to shove you down a bigger and scarier hill.  You go very fast, hit many bumps and nearly fly out a dozen times.  Lucien thought it was the best thing ever. 

It`s not a very good video because I quickly forgot about taking a video as I tried to keep myself in the boat.  I have priorities, people.



I`m on my way to Colorado soon.  My parents were originally supposed to come to Quebec for the holidays but my Dad, my active, fit-as-a-fiddle Dad, is having horrible issues with his back so they had to cancel their trip.  This trip to Colorado was a last minute thing we tacked on before we left Paris because I was so disappointed about not seeing my folks. 

Coco will be staying here in Quebec, which is sad, but given all the exhausting activity of late and the time change she`s finally adjusted to, we feel it`s necessary so we can make the most of our paltry handful of days with my family.  Lucien`s coming, though, and will waste no time jumping enthusiastically on my injured Dad, thus injuring him further.

Woo hoo 2011!  Happy New Year, posse!
MJ

A brand new world

This is me and Coco with the bust of Louis XIV in downtown Quebec City.  It`s funny cuz he`s French.

I`ve been coming to Quebec City to visit Alex`s family for almost twelve years.  Here`s a taste of the wonderful awkwardness that used to pervade our previous visits: 

Canadian Frenchies talk.  Someone tells a funny story.  Everybody laughs really hard.  Alex, or another relative who speaks English, then turns to me to relay the story in English.  Everyone else sits quietly, twiddling thumbs or staring at the ceiling, and waits politely for the punchline so they can resume their conversation.  The translation, of course, is never as funny as the original and sometimes doesn`t even make sense.  But I still must laugh by myself, as hard as I can, to let them know I`m very cool and totally one of them.

It sucked.  It made for long visits.  My head always hurt and sometimes I would crawl into corners in the hopes everyone would forget I was there.  But now, it`s a whole new world -- there are no more awkward solo English translation performances happening in Quebec and God as my witness, I`ll never need a translator again. 

Everyone got together at the family cottage on Christmas Day and I laughed when other people laughed.  I asked and answered questions.  We built a large bonfire outside and while huddled around it, some of Al`s cousins spoke to me for the first time ever.  They`ve never known what to say to me before but now they`re like, whoa, cool, you totally get me.  I certainly don`t understand everything and I can`t express myself completely, but a goal has been reached -- after nearly ten years of marriage, I finally, really met Al`s family.

(and good news -- I like them very, very much. That would suck if I`d finally learned the language and discovered I was in a family with a bunch of jerks.)

Bonfire at the family cottage on Christmas Day.  Here`s a tip from some Quebecois -- if you want to stand outside in Quebec for more than five seconds, don`t stand directly on the ground.  Stand on crates.  Your feet will be less frozen, and when you fall off (as one cousin did in spectacular fashion) you will entertain those around you in a very appreciated way.

I`ve never been happier we moved to Paris; it`s changed our family life for the profoundly better.  That being said, we also now realize Paris has affected our ability to interact as human beings.  We went for a walk along the river yesterday and the people we passed kept smiling really big smiles at me.  It was jarring and took me awhile to start smiling back.  I told myself they were just being friendly but couldn`t help feeling self-conscious, so I asked Al if I had something stuck on my face.  Al said no but completely understood why I`d asked; at first he`d thought the people passing by were laughing at his new haircut. 

I guess we`ve changed.  I`m grateful we haven`t encountered any long lines here.  I don`t think the Quebecois would appreciate us trampling the lot of them as we holler back and forth about beating the French wedge before it beats us and elbowing old ladies in the face.  Paris, my God, what have you done to usÉ (the French keyboard and I have yet to resolve our differences which is a real shame because that just ruined a poignant moment, I think.)

Al and I took Lucien sledding.  Alex gave Lucien a shove down a small hill straight towards a light post.  Right before the shove, we had given Lucien a very large stick to hold because we are not the best parents in the world.  Luckily, the Loosh swerved at the last second and injury was averted. 

After we stopped our bloodcurdling screaming, Alex shrugged at the few onlookers and said, `We live in Paris.`  He assumed that was explanation enough for why we thought it was OK to stick our son on a sled with a large stick and shove him into a lightpost.  The people nodded, so I guess it truly was an adequate amount of information.  

Anyway,  all in all things are going well in Quebec.  We are very tired from lots and lots of activity but we`re happy to be here.  Now here are some pictures.  I know you don`t log onto this thing to read about Quebec, but Quebec City is beautiful and old (founded in 1608, yo) in its own right and you should really give her a chance.

 Quebec City

Al taking a picture for some Parisian (really) tourists in front of the fresco celebrating the glorious history of Quebec City

This is me and my boyfriend, Samuel de Champlain.  I love him for his wavy brown hair and how he makes me laugh

Love ya, Paris, but we haven`t missed your high maintenance self for one second,
MJ

Quebec: An epic tale of survival. Part One.

She ain`t in Paris anymore, folks

Hello there, holiday revelers. 

We are in Quebec, or as I like to refer to it, Ant-frickin-arctica.  Our travels were ultimately successful, but painful while in process.  For awhile we were convinced we would never get to Quebec thanks to the snow dumped all over Europe. We were therefore ecstatic when the snow stopped and they began boarding our flight a mere hour later than planned.  It was too good to be true! (Fact) 

Coco was snug in her seat and Lucien was playing calmly with his toys when the Captain came on the intercom and told us we were going to be able to taxi and takeoff no problem -- but not for another three hours.  Oh, the groans from the people!  A beautiful groan symphony!  Before passenger anger turned into passenger riot, they quickly handed out headphones, put on a movie, and tried to distract us with shiny objects.

Al and I had to bust open our bags of tricks for the youngsters before we`d even taken off.  I can`t explain how grave a situation this is to those who don`t have little kids.  Just trust me, it`s a desperate moment when you realize you`ve burned through your portable DVD player battery life and the plane wheels haven`t yet left the ground. 

(By the way, this post is full of strange little punctuation marks because I`m working with a French keyboard and we don`t understand each other.  For example, if I want to type a question mark, I keep getting this -- É.  How the hell do I get a question mark on this thingÉ)

She only did this for half an hour out of the ten hours total spent on the plane.  Not cool, Cokes.

When we landed four hours later than scheduled, the plane erupted into loud applause and cheers.  We were late but we were some of the lucky few who had escaped Europe.  Everyone started to gather up their things with big smiles when the Captain came on the intercom again and told us customs wasn`t going to let us off the plane.  Another large jet had arrived just ahead of us and the customs agents were overwhelmed.

The Quebec airport is not used to having more than five people running around in it at any given time.  They are also not accustomed to receiving planes larger than a breadbox.  When two jumbo jets landed within minutes of each other, their heads exploded.  I guess we snuck up on èm with that seven-hour flight time. 

After finally being let off the plane, we stood around in a holding room for another forty-five minutes.  We were let into the customs area in small groups so as not to spook the agents.  The airport staff was too busy running around waving their arms and proclaiming the sky fallen to get our stroller from the hold so we dragged Coco around still strapped into her car seat.  We got lots of strange stares as we bent over like Quasimodo, dragging the tiny girl to and fro with a loud plastic scraping sound.  We`re going to need back surgery when we get back to our darn socialist healthcare system that pays for things. 

By the time we got through customs, got our bags, and fell wearily into the arms of Mamou and Papou, it was five hours later than planned, way past midnight Paris time, and we no longer gave a shit about Christmas.  But we`re here!

and we`ve put the small person to work

In our first handful of days back on ``the other continent,`` we have made a couple observations about North America.  First, there is a lot of water in the toilets.  A lot.  Why is there so much water in thereÉ DAMMIT, that`s supposed to be a question mark, you French keyboard.  Lucien noticed the water thing right away.  He went into the bathroom and yelled, ``Wow!  Would you look at all the water in there!``  Then we heard a loud splash followed by some crying.  He had tripped as he rushed to inspect the toilet and landed in the toilet with both arms, water up to his elbows.

The second thing we`ve noticed is the ridiculous coffee sizes.  Alex and I went shopping at a local mall and took a break for a coffee.  My coffee arrived in what appeared to be a small bucket with ten feet of whipped cream on top and chocolate sprinkles.  I did not want these things.  We complained bitterly about our coffees; the quality was lacking and they were cold by the time we got halfway through them.  Nobody needs a coffee that size in one sitting.  And with that statement, my status as a woman without a country is official.
 
Have a great Christmas, or whatever else you celebrate or don`t celebrate at this time of year.  I guess, whatever you`re doing, just have a good time. 

Huzzah, the plane didn`t have propellers!
Europe escape 2010,
MJ

Happy Holidays -- now with fewer swear words!

I am refraining from knocking skulls at the preschool at this time but reserve my right to do so in the future.  The teacher has agreed to meet with us regularly to update us on Lucien's behavior in the classroom, and to discuss the various soul-crushing punishments they would like to inflict upon him.  She also suggested we meet with the lunchroom personnel, who were the masterminds behind the infamous "lunchroom switcheroo debacle of 2010" decision.

(The lunch ladies did it?  Who gives lunch ladies that kind of power?  If this power is left unchecked, lunch ladies could take over the world!  They'll force-feed us tater tots and orange drink --  not even orange JUICE, people, we're talkin' orange DRINK.*)

*this applies to the U.S. only.  In France, they would force-feed much better things, which probably wouldn't be so bad.

His teacher is honestly a kind lady who seems to care a great deal about the Loosh.  That being said, we really don't think things will change much for Lucien at school, even with all these meetings and increased communication, because quite frankly we're in a different country and they have different values and different methods and are f*cking cavemen.  I kid, I kid!  No, not really.  They're soul crushers.

In related news, Lucien's soul is not crushed.  He was sad about the lunch thing for about 24 hours.  He's now sitting with a group of boys at lunch, a.k.a. "my new friends" and seems quite happy about the whole thing.  I'm glad he's so buoyant.  I hope he continues to be so, because having these new friends will probably lead to more roughhousing and jumping out of his seat and pretty soon Lucien will be eating lunch all by himself on the roof of the school. 

We went to the school today for the Christmas show, which was the kids singing carols (adorable) followed by breakfast in the classroom. As the kids filed in to sing their songs, Lucien was the only one hopping in like a kangaroo.  He made an effort to calm himself down but you could tell he had to really think hard about it.  He soon started jumping again, and waved at us so enthusiastically, he nearly knocked himself and several others over.  Alex sighed and said, "Aww... Loosh.  It's just so hard for him" and then we smiled at him with great love.

Lucien's on the left, in the bright green shirt, because he doesn't stand out enough already:

Ms. Cokes and a smoldering French Canadian

The teacher bemoaned to Alex the day before that she had no coffee maker for the breakfast.  Alex offered to bring our Senseo machine from home and she was grateful.  She was even more grateful when Alex, in his loud French Canadian way, stepped up to man the machine and hand-deliver coffees to every parent who wanted one.  Teacher thanked him time and again.  We hope this will work to our advantage in the future.  Next time she's thinking about hanging Lucien on a nail by the waistband of his underpants with a dunce cap on his head, we hope she remembers that we brought the coffee. 

Observe.  A quiet group of kids reading a book together on the left.  My son yelling and wrestling a large stuffed animal ("a monster") to the ground (but with an accomplice!) on the right.  See the issue?

I took the kids to see Santa at Printemps, a swanky department store currently covered in flashy pink and purple snowflakes.  Visiting a department store Santa is a different experience here. The Santas are less jolly, more suspicious of all the shoppers.  It doesn't seem a very popular thing to do, visiting Santa, because even in the middle of a department store crawling with people right before Christmas, there wasn't a line.  We just kind of wandered over and started talking to him. 

Lucien came prepared.  As you can see in the picture below, he brought a Brio brochure which he unfolded on Santa's lap to show him what he wanted, which was every single item.  Frenchie Santa raised his eyebrows and said, "Baaah, you're asking for too much!"  Lucien cheerfully said, "Nope" and kept pointing. Man, is he ever going to be disappointed in Frenchie Santa Claus this year.

I stuck Coco on Santa's lap for the picture.  I worried she was going to be freaked out by him but she was like, "Meh, I care little for this man in fluffy red and white. Now I am going to attack my brother."  She reached out to grab Lucien's nose repeatedly.  Santa tried to distract her but she was a baby sister on a mission.  I could have chosen the picture the photog took of them looking at the camera, but I wanted this one:

I love it

Have a happy holiday season, everybody.  And thank you, thank you for all your supportive comments and emails regarding the school thing.  It appears we are not alone in our struggles regarding discipline and being "different" in the French schools, not by a long shot.  It doesn't make it any easier for any of us, but good to know we're not alone.  Like, not by a loooong shot.

Happy 2011, blog reading choux!  This is totally going to be our year!  Love, love, love,
MJ

This one has a lot of swear words. You know, in the spirit of Christmas. Sorry Mom.

I'm a pissed off mama.  I'd planned to do a lovely post today about all the holiday fun we had over the weekend, and I'm still going to do that, but in light of what I view to be the mistreatment of the Loosh at the hands of the French school system, I will now write this post with a "Get us the f*ck out of here I hate this f*ck'g place mother f*ckers" filter.  Festive! And just in time for Christmas!

We did the stupid Christmas Light Tour over the weekend.  (At the time, we didn't think it was stupid but right now I think everything is stupid so it was STUPID.)

Lucien and I went early to pick up the tickets while Alex waited for the babysitter for Ms. Cokes.  As we entered the shop where you pick up tickets, we walked smack into typical French "organization" -- complete pandemonium, no line, just a big group of people pushing to get to the counter (my Dad refers to it as "the French wedge" and I find that term shockingly accurate).

There were some anglophones darting about, looking panic-stricken and shouting back and forth, "What's the SYSTEM?  I don't understand the SYSTEM."  "Heh, good luck suckers," I thought to myself, "no way in hell you're making the tour if you stand around whining about a system in the middle of a French wedge."  Then I plunged headfirst into the crowd.  I pushed and wedged like a seasoned professional all the way up to the front of the line with my little boy's arms wrapped tightly around my waist.  He knows the drill.  When entering a French wedge, cling to mama and hang on, kind of like a cute little baby koala, but with more fear.   

I received our tickets and complimentary blankets (nice touch -- Christmas Light Tours are chilly) and was directed to the complimentary hot beverage table in the middle of the chaos.  I managed to grab a hot chocolate for the Loosh but then beat a hasty retreat.  Hot drinks and pushing crowds don't go together well as evidenced by the large number of yelling, scalded tour participants.

When it came time to get on the bus, another French wedge formed outside the bus doors.  The anglophones were very cute, all lined up nicely on one side of the bus but we Frenchies (I consider myself one of them now, in matters of line-waiting and enviable style only) just crushed up together on the other side of the door.  The anglophones looked bewildered as we steamrolled them out of the way.  Americans and Canadians flew left and right and yelled, "Aghhh!  SYSTEM!  There's no SYSTEM..."

Of course there's a system, people -- it's called "smashing the hell out of other people."  Alex arrived just in time and congratulated me on my badass procurement of the best seats on top of the bus.  The top of the bus was full of French people.  I'm pretty sure the bottom of the bus was full of crushed, wounded tourists applying cold compresses and band-aids. 

The tour was pretty.  Alex and I loved it.  Lucien, not so much.  I underestimated Lucien's interest in Christmas Lights.  Grossly underestimated, as in he doesn't really have any interest at all.  When you paired that disinterest with having to watch a bunch of  kids eating junk food, playing games and riding rides just outside the bus, he spent most of the tour frantically begging to be let off the bus so he could go have fun.  We said no and pinned him to his seat.  A struggle ensued.

I made a video about The Paris Christmas Light Tour 2010.  It's six minutes of video heaven.  I just received word the video has been blocked in Germany but I don't really understand why.  Sorry, Germans.  Guess the Christmas Lights were too shocking for you. 



Moving on -- I'm about to knock some skulls over at the preschool.  Seriously, if you think I'm impressive in a French wedge, you are going to be blown away when I bust down the front door of a French preschool and squarely land my karate kicks.

Dr. Michel once told me it was my job to defend Lucien in the French school system, that they don't handle "different" very well.  Well, mama's about to put in some overtime.  Lucien has been talking recently about how he was moved to a different lunch time.  I didn't think much of it, OK, they switched his class's lunch time, no biggie.  But then he told me this morning, very quietly, that he didn't like school because he was being punished and had been moved to a different lunch time -- just him, without his classmates, in with the bigger kids, most of whom he doesn't know.  He often sits by himself.  (... and Mama says, "WHAT THE F*CK?")

This alarmed us so Alex asked about it at drop-off and was told that yes, Lucien was moved to a different lunch time to "send him a message" that he needed to stay in his seat and be quiet in the lunchroom. He had been completely removed from his class, singled out, shamed and embarrassed, because he wouldn't stay in his seat at lunchtime -- and without his parents being notified first so we could help explain what was going to happen.

I'll send you a message, Frenchies. It involves KNOCKING some SKULLS.  

Now I don't want to get all soap-boxy on you here, but aw, what the hell we're all here and have nothing better to do.  In my humble American opinion, shaming and embarrassing a child is not effective punishment.  In fact, with someone like Lucien, it's only going to make things worse -- now he's angry and hurt and much more likely to act out because he's feisty like that.  Plus now, thanks to you, Frenchies, he's internalizing every single day that he's the "bad kid."  He knows what you want yet he can't help his energy level, he can't help his extreme extroversion that makes him lose his frickin' mind when he's around his friends.  You're punishing him for being himself, for being the kid he's always been.  It's reactive and antiquated and completely f*cking ineffective.

We know Lucien can be tough -- the energy, the volume, the constant desire to wrestle -- we get it!  It's hard to handle sometimes!  But is the only solution to squash him like a bug, fit him into the mold, browbeat him into submission, embarrass him into silence?  Oh my God, was your answer just "Yes?"  You uncreative bitches! 

The teacher says he's a smart kid, he does his work, he learns with no problem, but he's too disruptive, jumps around a lot, likes to yell, etc. etc.  She mentioned we may want to talk to his doctor about it.  I assured her we had, and that the doctor doesn't have any worries about Lucien, in fact he appreciates his spirited ways and is a big fan.  Instead of being satisfied and moving on to constructive solutions for dealing with his behavior in class, she frowned and said, "Well then you probably didn't explain it correctly." Fantastic.  Very helpful.  KNOCK some SKULLS.

The Loosh is a rowdy kid stuck in a land where children are expected to be seen and not heard.  But I don't want a silent kid. I want a child who's confident in his own skin, who's not afraid to speak up, who believes he's a good person even if he's not perfect.  I want plans that are proactive, not punishments that are reactive. I want constructive ideas to help him manage his energy in a classroom setting, not destructive spirit-sapping techniques from the stone age.  I'm no longer convinced any of that can happen in France, not for us anyway, not with the Loosh being who he is.

Oh and hey, you know what else, France?  I went out with a couple of the ladies Friday night (Virginia Mom and Australia Mom, how I love thee) and we scandalously ordered a bottle of rosé wine in winter. We got a funny look.  Well f*ck you, too, stupid wine man!  We're going to drink rosé in winter!  We're going to let our freak flags fly!  It's who we are and you will not shame us into being any different.  So eff you and eff you and eff you and eff you....

Happy Holidays, everybody! 

You are a very, very good kid, mon chou.  I will fight these Frenchies to the death so you know it.
MJ

 Mr. Sarkozy, I stand outside the  Élysée Palace 

wishing to discuss the matter of my education...

P.S.  We leave for Quebec this weekend and then we're going to Colorado for a little bit and I hope we don't die because that's a lot of planes but IF WE DO, can someone please come over here and kick some ass in my place?  Start with the lunch ladies.  They'll be the ones in the hairnets. Promise me.

Snow and my failure as a customer

If you read any other Paris blogs, or if you watch the news anywhere in the world, you probably already know about the record snowdump in Paris on Wednesday.  I'm fashionably late to the snow-blogging party, but hopefully the goods I've brought will make this old news FRESH again.

So it snowed a lot on Wednesday.  Being Wednesday, I had both kids at home.  Lucien being Lucien, the second he saw the snow he wanted to go outside and create snow mayhem.  Me being me, so did I.  Coco being Coco, she was like, "meh, take it or leave it where are my Cheerios, woman?"

Loosh and I bundled up the ambivalent Coco, belted her snugly in her stroller and hit the road (literally) where we slipped and slid and nearly knocked ourselves unconscious when we fell down several times.  It was a total mess out there. It was also the most fun we've had on a Wednesday in a long time.

 meh

The snow was a heavy wet snow so within ten minutes we were soaked.  I wanted to check out the view from the Pont Neuf, though, and Lucien was game so we pushed cheerfully onward.  I love how the Loosh is always up for anything.  He suffers through my most miserable plans -- Bastille Day in a downpour, Pont Neuf in a snowstorm -- without so much as a whimper of complaint, and usually with a big grin.

 It's a beautiful day on the Pont Neuf

We came across a group of friends having a snowball fight.  They were so caught up in their battle, they didn't notice me ten feet away taking pictures.  I badly wanted to join them.  I was caught up in the spirit and threw a snowball at my soaked and shivering son.  I realized too late that didn't look very loving or maternal when a passerby frowned at me. 

When I took this picture, my first thought was, "Oh man, this guy's about to get it from his friend back there!"  My second, nearly simultaneous, thought was, "My God, how does he stand up on those spindly little toothpick legs?"

I thought he was giving me a thumbs up but upon closer inspection, it appears Lucien has busted out the finger gun once again.

Here's another Frenchie customer service story to warm your heart this holiday season.  (These are always crowd pleasers.)  I went to a nearby video game store to browse for Lucien for Christmas. I saw a game I'd seen on Amazon recently for 30 euro but in this store it was marked down to 9.99! 

I didn't really want the game but it was a helluva deal so I bought it along with a few other things.  It's obvious I did not pay attention during checkout, for when I got home and looked at the receipt, I saw I'd been charged 29.99 for the unwanted "bargain" game.

I packed Cokes back into the stroller and went back to the store.  I told the young sales guy there was a problem with the price and he, instead of apologizing, got mad at me.  He told me I'd picked up one with the wrong label on it and didn't I notice all the others were marked 29.99?  I said there were no others.  He said oh, that must have been the last one -- ah ha! apologize now, buddy! -- but he still couldn't forgive me for making his day complicated.  He pulled out the return book and banged it around a little.  He got super mad at me when he accidentally ripped a page in the return book because it was my fault for existing.

I was eventually successful at returning the game so it's all good, just wanted to let everyone know the French blame-the-customer-service is working well -- I feel just horrible about myself. 

SUCKERPUNCH snowball, toothpick legs!
MJ

Black and white with a splash of color

We went to a party over the weekend.  It was a birthday party for one of Alex's co-workers and had a theme, or more of a dress code, really -- "black and white with a splash of color."  Fantastic.  As if my Parisian party-appropriate attire wasn't limited enough already.

We received an email the week before the party that bordered on verbally abusive (I'm not pointing a finger at the Frenchies here; the party was thrown by a Canadian and a Brit).  The email firmly stated there would be no exceptions to the dress code, no excuses for the lameasses who chose to disobey.  We assumed if we wore anything but black and white with a splash of color, we would be flogged and sent naked back into the street.

I resigned myself to wearing a black and white dress that's been in my closet for at least ten years.  Alex assumed he would wear his black dress pants with a white shirt.  We weren't sure what our splashes of color would be but one option was punching each other in the face for festive red nosebleeds.

Alex got dressed five minutes before we were supposed to leave (which drives me absolutely batshit crazy, by the way), which is when he realized he hasn't worn his black pants since he lost twenty pounds.  The only way he could keep the pants on his body was to pull the waistband up almost to his nipples and belt them securely around his ribcage.  

I wasn't thrilled about my dress but at least I didn't look like my grandfather, like Alex did.  Actually, Al looked more like a cross between my grandfather and a clown and a Weeble.  The babysitter showed up as we were rifling through closets and drawers, desperately searching for any other option for Al.  Clothes flew through the air and drawers were emptied onto the ground.  The babysitter stood watching us silently. She balanced Camille on her hip and held tightly to Lucien's hand like she felt sorry for him or something.

Al ended up in black and white jogging pants, a black t-shirt, black-n-white running shoes, a white Members Only-type jacket and a black baseball cap with a bright green lizard on it that said, "Iguana!"  We cheerfully waved goodbye to the babysitter but she didn't reciprocate, just stared at us with concern and for good reason --  she knew we were about to attend a Parisian party with Alex dressed like Weird Al Yankovic circa 1986.

As soon as we entered the party, the British host turned to the Canadian host and complained, "Hey, I wasn't ALLOWED to wear a t-shirt!  He's wearing a t-shirt!  I wanted to wear a t-shirt!"  Immediately, everyone else at the party responded to Al's outfit with big laughs, claps on the back and compliments of  "Hey, good for you, having some fun with it." We played it off like it had been a joke the whole time instead of admitting it had truly been his best option.

 My parents are idiots.  I spend all my free time trying to destroy our Christmas tree.

One thing that's always surprising to me in a group of French people is the massive amount of cheek kissing.  Where I come from, when you enter a party and meet a new person, it's done with a quick handshake or nod of the head.  But Frenchies make their way through a new group of people kissing everybody left and right.  It takes them forever to get across an entire room so sometimes they're a bit rushed.  They just come right up to you, even if you're in the middle of a conversation, and start making out with your cheeks.

And let me tell you, you start cursing your choice of appetizer when you suddenly have to squeak your name out with someone's face inches from yours.  If the French are going to make you get that up close and personal with strangers, they should at least have the decency to avoid making appetizers that involve stinky cheese.  Those things make the entire vicinity of your face smell like a dead rodent.

With the exception of Alex and one British guy who came in wearing a white tracksuit and carrying a six-pack of Guinness, it was a pretty stylish party.  One French guy was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit but brought a pink plastic bag for his "splash of color." Whenever anyone took a picture, he put the bag on over his head.  I liked that Frenchie.  Another French woman wore a billowy white dress with a black belt and bright red heels.  She was stunning and everyone stared at her a lot.  I didn't like her at all but that's just the jealousy talking.

We spent Sunday at Alex's co-worker's house in the suburbs.  Alex went for a bike ride with a group of the guys in the morning and I followed later with another wife to meet them for brunch.  His co-worker lives way the hell out there.  The first cab we jumped into told us to find another cab -- he didn't know where the place was and couldn't be bothered to look for it.  The second cabbie had a more can-do attitude.  She pulled out a GPS unit.  It took us quite awhile and cost us many euro, but we found it. 

Alex greeted me in the street in front of the house.  He was a muddy mess.  "Good news, honey!"  he yelled as he came towards me with a smile.  "I only fell off my bike twice!"  The "bike ride" Alex had been invited on was no leisurely bike ride through the park.  It was a serious mountain biking expedition made treacherous by steep hills and lots of ice.  Alex's second fall was most spectacular, when he'd suddenly hit a big hole filled with water.  Those are some badass Frenchies out in the 'burbs.

We shared a "typical Sunday brunch" with his co-worker's family and were treated to slow-cooked pork cheeks that were so tender you could cut them just by looking at them.  There were fancy mushrooms and dainty salads and stinky cheeses and crunchy baguettes.  Dessert was a huge bowl of fresh fruit and trays of chocolates, followed by teeny tiny espressos.  Of course, we also polished off a couple bottles of champagne and another couple of wine which helped make everyone deliriously happy.  I think everyone in the world knows this but I'll re-state for kicks -- French people really know how to celebrate food. 

The firemen, or pompiers, came around the building recently selling fundraising calendars.  Lucien ran for the door when he heard me talking to somebody and tripped over a bag on the floor, a bag unfortunately filled with dirty diapers on its way to the dumpster. 

Lucien jumped up and told the pompiers he'd just fallen over a bag full of caca.  The pompiers laughed awkwardly.  Then he told them his sister cacas a lot.  He really emphasized that by swinging his arms around and saying no, really, his sister cacas all the damn time.  Then he told them another word for "caca" is "poo poo" but that's English so they probably don't know it.

I stood frozen with my euros extended out towards the pompiers, desperate to receive my calendar so I could close the damn door.  Did I mention how incredibly good looking the French pompiers are?  They're good looking.  Everybody knows it.  And there we were, my son talking about poop and me wearing a Duran Duran t-shirt.  Oh well, at least I didn't look like a grandfather Weeble like Alex did that one time.

Night-night, mes choux,
MJ

Suckerpunch

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,
MJ