For my friends who don't want to hear a French swear word* 60 times, I'll post a video for you tomorrow**.
For friends who do:
The one where she steps in dog crap is the one I'm most familiar with.
*not really a swear word the way Americans define swear word
**or right now!
May 31, 2011
May 25, 2011
Peaches and Ketchup
Are you still using petfinder.com to look for unfortunate dogs? Because I am.
(Goodness I just typed "I ham" instead of "I am." You can take the girl out of France but you can't take ze crazy French pronunciation of words that start with vowels of ze Hamerican girl!)
Back to dogs that will make you cry:
This is Peaches. She's looking for a place to spend her senior year. I would be all about her spending it with me, but I have a feeling that year has more nasal bleeding than all the other years combined.
The combination of French accents and dogs reminds me of the day I taught my kids the word "dog" last year. Among the delicious American cuisine that has been brought to France is the hot dog, which the French didn't feel deserved a French translation, and kept its original name, 'ot dog." A lot of food words in France have American names: chicken, fillet-o-fish, cheeseburger, brownies etc. This made my kids learn food and animals easily. Except for dog. They were all confused by dog.
The day I taught it, one kid raised his hand:
"Wait... if 'dog' means dog, what does 'hot dog' mean?"
Well, it actually means a hot dog.
We all joke when we're little that hot dogs are made of dogs, or maybe vice versa, but it's never a huge problem. We learn both words at about the same time, a time when we're still learning about cars and gravity and how our hands move, so it doesn't seem like the craziest thing.
Imagine just getting slammed with this information at age ten.
OH MY GOSH ARE THEY MADE OF DOGS?!?
AH I'M GOING TO VOMIT!
THIS IS WHY I'M A VEGETARIAN! THIS IS WHY!
THERE ARE DOGS IN MY STOMACH!
I miss those guys.
(Goodness I just typed "I ham" instead of "I am." You can take the girl out of France but you can't take ze crazy French pronunciation of words that start with vowels of ze Hamerican girl!)
Back to dogs that will make you cry:
This is Peaches. She's looking for a place to spend her senior year. I would be all about her spending it with me, but I have a feeling that year has more nasal bleeding than all the other years combined.
The combination of French accents and dogs reminds me of the day I taught my kids the word "dog" last year. Among the delicious American cuisine that has been brought to France is the hot dog, which the French didn't feel deserved a French translation, and kept its original name, 'ot dog." A lot of food words in France have American names: chicken, fillet-o-fish, cheeseburger, brownies etc. This made my kids learn food and animals easily. Except for dog. They were all confused by dog.
The day I taught it, one kid raised his hand:
"Wait... if 'dog' means dog, what does 'hot dog' mean?"
Well, it actually means a hot dog.
We all joke when we're little that hot dogs are made of dogs, or maybe vice versa, but it's never a huge problem. We learn both words at about the same time, a time when we're still learning about cars and gravity and how our hands move, so it doesn't seem like the craziest thing.
Imagine just getting slammed with this information at age ten.
OH MY GOSH ARE THEY MADE OF DOGS?!?
AH I'M GOING TO VOMIT!
THIS IS WHY I'M A VEGETARIAN! THIS IS WHY!
THERE ARE DOGS IN MY STOMACH!
I miss those guys.
May 24, 2011
a sponge with no pants
I'm a dangerous weapon in the kitchen. No I don't know how to make pie or whatever people do in kitchens besides assemble sandwiches and heat up little smokies. I'm dangerous because last summer when we were trying to figure out a way to clean the stove, I recommended a random combination of products that my 16-year-old cousin said "would definitely kill us all." Come to think of it, I really should ask him what those were.
My sister Paige makes pies and when she does laundry she knows whether things go in hot, cold, or flavored water (or however laundry goes), and when she came to visit last month she was constantly amazing me.
"That's incredible! how did you get that clean - it was stained!" I would ask.
"It was some soy sauce on a plate, I wiped if off with a sponge."
"A sponge! Who would have thought!"
My sister might tell you I'm just easily impressed because my cleaning skills range from non-existent to making things dirtier than when I started, but DON'T LISTEN TO HER, she has powers we mortals cannot understand.
Today is a busy day! Time to scrub this pile of dishes with some matches and a can of hairspray
My sister Paige makes pies and when she does laundry she knows whether things go in hot, cold, or flavored water (or however laundry goes), and when she came to visit last month she was constantly amazing me.
My definition of a stain is anything that doesn't come off after I brush it lightly with my hand. (side note: Holi colors do come off car interiors with a light brush of your hand! they're on my all-inclusive list of 4 non-staining products which also includes water, confetti, and live spiders.)
This definition leaves a lot of room for AMAZEMENT when my sister starts cleaning my apartment. She was de-staining things left and right.
"That's incredible! how did you get that clean - it was stained!" I would ask.
"It was some soy sauce on a plate, I wiped if off with a sponge."
"A sponge! Who would have thought!"
My sister might tell you I'm just easily impressed because my cleaning skills range from non-existent to making things dirtier than when I started, but DON'T LISTEN TO HER, she has powers we mortals cannot understand.
Today is a busy day! Time to scrub this pile of dishes with some matches and a can of hairspray
May 22, 2011
can't hurry love
Lately I've been wondering how I could have more nightmares.
Or that's what ended up happening. Originally I just wanted to adopt a dog.
A tiny dog! Who would be excited to see me when I come home (after I find somewhere to go) and I can feed him dog treats and we can watch tv together and go on walks and stay up late talking about what happened on the bachelor.
So Saturday we went to the dog shelter, and I picked a random one that seemed promising. "What about that brown dachshund?" I asked - it was hard to see much in the huge pile of dogs scrambling over each other. The worker at the shelter took him and put us in a special room with him, so we could get a closer look. Huge mistake.
He had a long tail like a rat, and a creepy way of running around in circles through the same puddle of urine over and over again. And the worst of it was, he completely ignored us. Why wasn't he rushing toward me, ready to be loved and taken on walks and fed chicken when no one was watching? Where was my bachelor-watching buddy?
He must have heard my thoughts he stopped his mad pacing and seemed to notice us for the first time. He gazed slowly at me, then at Sean. Then he headed toward Sean at a determined sprint, and blew his nose on his pants, leaving a huge bloodstain. That broke the spell, and it was right back to mad pacing through the puddle of urine. Only now we were screaming and the dog was making a crazy bloody snorting sound.
"I think he liked you" I said as we peeled out of the shelter parking lot.
We actually might not be getting a dog anytime soon.
Or that's what ended up happening. Originally I just wanted to adopt a dog.
A tiny dog! Who would be excited to see me when I come home (after I find somewhere to go) and I can feed him dog treats and we can watch tv together and go on walks and stay up late talking about what happened on the bachelor.
So Saturday we went to the dog shelter, and I picked a random one that seemed promising. "What about that brown dachshund?" I asked - it was hard to see much in the huge pile of dogs scrambling over each other. The worker at the shelter took him and put us in a special room with him, so we could get a closer look. Huge mistake.
He had a long tail like a rat, and a creepy way of running around in circles through the same puddle of urine over and over again. And the worst of it was, he completely ignored us. Why wasn't he rushing toward me, ready to be loved and taken on walks and fed chicken when no one was watching? Where was my bachelor-watching buddy?
He must have heard my thoughts he stopped his mad pacing and seemed to notice us for the first time. He gazed slowly at me, then at Sean. Then he headed toward Sean at a determined sprint, and blew his nose on his pants, leaving a huge bloodstain. That broke the spell, and it was right back to mad pacing through the puddle of urine. Only now we were screaming and the dog was making a crazy bloody snorting sound.
"I think he liked you" I said as we peeled out of the shelter parking lot.
We actually might not be getting a dog anytime soon.
May 21, 2011
it's shocking
Saying this blog is going to get less exciting now that I'm not living in Europe is like when I won the award for "Most Likely to Have a Mohawk" a year after I grew out my mohawk. I tried to pick an example you could all relate to.
You're welcome.
Things will liven up once I get used to things here, and stop telling people that they miss me, speaking French to strangers, and yelling "I can't believe this cheese costs eight freaking euros" at the grocery store to anyone who cares to listen.
In the meantime: you all miss me.
You're welcome.
Things will liven up once I get used to things here, and stop telling people that they miss me, speaking French to strangers, and yelling "I can't believe this cheese costs eight freaking euros" at the grocery store to anyone who cares to listen.
In the meantime: you all miss me.
May 18, 2011
from rags to whiners
Two observations after my first week (almost) back in the US:
One: Cancer awareness ads everywhere. Everyone needs to get themselves checked. Observation.
Two: I've overheard/participated in four conversations where people bragged about how poor they were as children. Why is this logical or interesting to brag about? It never happened once in France - in fact, twice French people told me they came from upper-class families.
So here's some news for you, fellow Americans: that's rough that you were poor as a child. I, on the other hand, was fabulously wealthy. Your family ate stew every night and considered chicken McNuggets at McDonalds a special-occasion treat? You poor things. I ate nuggets every single day. SOLID GOLD nuggets. And when they broke all my teeth, my wealthy parents had my personal dentist put new teeth in. SOLID GOLD teeth. And then I had my dentist change the television channel for me and make me a sandwich, because pushing the buttons on the remote makes my fingers sore, and the sandwich was made of SOLID GOLD. And my favorite show was Sesame Street.
The US is pretty fun. I miss France sometimes, but I haven't been gone long enough to miss it a lot.
One: Cancer awareness ads everywhere. Everyone needs to get themselves checked. Observation.
Two: I've overheard/participated in four conversations where people bragged about how poor they were as children. Why is this logical or interesting to brag about? It never happened once in France - in fact, twice French people told me they came from upper-class families.
So here's some news for you, fellow Americans: that's rough that you were poor as a child. I, on the other hand, was fabulously wealthy. Your family ate stew every night and considered chicken McNuggets at McDonalds a special-occasion treat? You poor things. I ate nuggets every single day. SOLID GOLD nuggets. And when they broke all my teeth, my wealthy parents had my personal dentist put new teeth in. SOLID GOLD teeth. And then I had my dentist change the television channel for me and make me a sandwich, because pushing the buttons on the remote makes my fingers sore, and the sandwich was made of SOLID GOLD. And my favorite show was Sesame Street.
The US is pretty fun. I miss France sometimes, but I haven't been gone long enough to miss it a lot.
May 11, 2011
grounded
I love clothes.
If my family were nudists I would have been an outrageous teenager - I would have always been sneaking out and buying cardigans and purple jeans and my parents would find a stash of striped t-shirts in my closet and tell me that they weren't mad, just disappointed but I wouldn't be allowed to drive the car for a month and do nudists have closets?
In real life I was a pretty boring teenager.
If you are reading this on Thursday then I am on a plane over the ocean and I'm either witnessing some crazy travel-related shenanigans or I'm sleeping. Come back next week to find out which! And cross your fingers that there are movies this time.
If my family were nudists I would have been an outrageous teenager - I would have always been sneaking out and buying cardigans and purple jeans and my parents would find a stash of striped t-shirts in my closet and tell me that they weren't mad, just disappointed but I wouldn't be allowed to drive the car for a month and do nudists have closets?
In real life I was a pretty boring teenager.
If you are reading this on Thursday then I am on a plane over the ocean and I'm either witnessing some crazy travel-related shenanigans or I'm sleeping. Come back next week to find out which! And cross your fingers that there are movies this time.
May 10, 2011
Welcome to meet you
Today I intentionally planned the worst day possible: I decided to change my address AND close my bank account, hoping it would turn into eight heinous hours of missing documents, complicated forms, rude customer service and long lines, and by the end of the day I would be screaming "Good riddance, France!" and I wouldn't be sad at all when I leave on Thursday.
But somehow, it only took a half hour? I still can't believe it.
And twenty minutes of that half hour was spent chatting with the woman who worked at the post office - who showed me a collectible stamp set with her eight favorite places in France, and told me about all the places I hadn't been to. After I bought them she followed me over to the table where I was sticking them on postcards, and helped me decide who should get each one. Then she said "You know, I thought of a couple more things I want to tell you about Alsace," and after that she started explaining how the French postal system works (everything goes in a box, then they send it to people), and showing off English phrases she knew (including the title of this post), and she told me that everyone in Marseille was going to miss me and that she loved Americans and that I was so great.
The people in line behind me had the kind of day I was expecting to have.
Then at the bank I handed in my forms and the man at the counter said "impeccable." and wished me a safe trip back to the US. That was it - nothing missing, no extra things to make copies of. No stories about Alsace or the postal system either, but I had met my daily quota so that's fine. I think I've finally mastered French paperwork, after eight months here. Just in time to leave. I've also started crying in a bank while my account was being closed. Check that off the bucket list. I don't know what's wrong with me.
And the best part of the day - the woman at the post office asked where I was from and when I said the US she replied "Oh, but I thought your post cards were written in English, where did you learn to write in English so well?"
Come to the US with me, Post Office Woman, and I will show you my eight favorite places in America. They are all ice cream shops and animal shelters. I'm not sure if there's a collectible stamp set available.
But somehow, it only took a half hour? I still can't believe it.
And twenty minutes of that half hour was spent chatting with the woman who worked at the post office - who showed me a collectible stamp set with her eight favorite places in France, and told me about all the places I hadn't been to. After I bought them she followed me over to the table where I was sticking them on postcards, and helped me decide who should get each one. Then she said "You know, I thought of a couple more things I want to tell you about Alsace," and after that she started explaining how the French postal system works (everything goes in a box, then they send it to people), and showing off English phrases she knew (including the title of this post), and she told me that everyone in Marseille was going to miss me and that she loved Americans and that I was so great.
The people in line behind me had the kind of day I was expecting to have.
Then at the bank I handed in my forms and the man at the counter said "impeccable." and wished me a safe trip back to the US. That was it - nothing missing, no extra things to make copies of. No stories about Alsace or the postal system either, but I had met my daily quota so that's fine. I think I've finally mastered French paperwork, after eight months here. Just in time to leave. I've also started crying in a bank while my account was being closed. Check that off the bucket list. I don't know what's wrong with me.
And the best part of the day - the woman at the post office asked where I was from and when I said the US she replied "Oh, but I thought your post cards were written in English, where did you learn to write in English so well?"
Come to the US with me, Post Office Woman, and I will show you my eight favorite places in America. They are all ice cream shops and animal shelters. I'm not sure if there's a collectible stamp set available.
May 5, 2011
looking for a low-budget time machine
My trip home is at least three times more exciting than yours, and I don't even know if there's an in-flight movie yet.
I got an email last month about some awesome new changes to my itinerary. What was previously a boring old Marseille-Paris-Atlanta-home flight has become a fascinating trip all over Europe that treated the laws of time as loose guidelines: several trips from Marseille to Paris in a row, an overnight stay in Germany, and no transatlantic flight. I called the airline and they gladly remedied the situation. Here is the solution they came up with:
A flight from Marseille to Paris, followed by three different flights from Paris to Atlanta, all at the exact same time, and then from Atlanta to home.
I am tough to please. I called the airline again, and the customer service agent looked up my schedule. "Ah, yes, this is what we call a 'residue.'" she explained. "Please be aware that you will need to catch all three flights to Atlanta at once, or your final flight will be cancelled and you will not get your luggage."
I'm usually pretty optimistic, but I have low expectations for my ability to fly on three different planes at the same time, and when I explained this to the agent she said she would see what she could do and hung up on me. The next two did the same thing. There could be a problem with their phone connection, or maybe they just love doing everything in threes, or maybe they just love doing everything in threes, or maybe they just love doing everything in threes.
I got an email last month about some awesome new changes to my itinerary. What was previously a boring old Marseille-Paris-Atlanta-home flight has become a fascinating trip all over Europe that treated the laws of time as loose guidelines: several trips from Marseille to Paris in a row, an overnight stay in Germany, and no transatlantic flight. I called the airline and they gladly remedied the situation. Here is the solution they came up with:
A flight from Marseille to Paris, followed by three different flights from Paris to Atlanta, all at the exact same time, and then from Atlanta to home.
I am tough to please. I called the airline again, and the customer service agent looked up my schedule. "Ah, yes, this is what we call a 'residue.'" she explained. "Please be aware that you will need to catch all three flights to Atlanta at once, or your final flight will be cancelled and you will not get your luggage."
I'm usually pretty optimistic, but I have low expectations for my ability to fly on three different planes at the same time, and when I explained this to the agent she said she would see what she could do and hung up on me. The next two did the same thing. There could be a problem with their phone connection, or maybe they just love doing everything in threes, or maybe they just love doing everything in threes, or maybe they just love doing everything in threes.
May 3, 2011
you can taste it
I would describe Marseille cuisine as Kinder and goat cheese, but everyone else in the world would probably say bouillabaisse.
Now thanks to Fancy Fast Food, the traditional meal from the "seaside town of Marseille" (I love it when other people talk about Marseille) just got a thousand miles closer! Baja Fresh closer! The plastic mussels might make it somewhat less authentic, but a drunk homeless man isn't going to come over and shake you while you're eating it so, you're already a long way from authenticity.
Now thanks to Fancy Fast Food, the traditional meal from the "seaside town of Marseille" (I love it when other people talk about Marseille) just got a thousand miles closer! Baja Fresh closer! The plastic mussels might make it somewhat less authentic, but a drunk homeless man isn't going to come over and shake you while you're eating it so, you're already a long way from authenticity.
May 1, 2011
vous me manquez
I brought a camera to school on my last day to take pictures of my kids. If you saw how cute they are, you would cry, and they're probably going to be my desktop background for the next year and half, but since you can't see them, I'll show you some other pictures of my school instead.
That's the view from one of the classrooms. It's hard to tell because it's so gorgeous and sunny and I'm using a cheap camera, but they have a sweet view of the Marseille skyline, the sea, and the cathedral on the hill.
Lilacs in the staff room, next to a Marseille soccer ball (or football if you like that) and a French passive aggressive note about the scrap paper bin. At my other school the teachers are always crossing out misspellings on the signs in the staff room, hopefully I can get a picture of that later.
Hallway. This school if four stories tall. One of my other schools if five, but this one feels like it has more stairs for some reason.
All of my schools say on the outside whether they were a boys or girls school a hundred years ago. It freaked me out when I walked by them in September.
A street near my school. The best street in Marseille in my opinion, and I think that even after I've just walked up it. Which I will never do again. Just kidding, there's a gelato place on that street.
That's the view from one of the classrooms. It's hard to tell because it's so gorgeous and sunny and I'm using a cheap camera, but they have a sweet view of the Marseille skyline, the sea, and the cathedral on the hill.
Lilacs in the staff room, next to a Marseille soccer ball (or football if you like that) and a French passive aggressive note about the scrap paper bin. At my other school the teachers are always crossing out misspellings on the signs in the staff room, hopefully I can get a picture of that later.
Hallway. This school if four stories tall. One of my other schools if five, but this one feels like it has more stairs for some reason.
All of my schools say on the outside whether they were a boys or girls school a hundred years ago. It freaked me out when I walked by them in September.
A street near my school. The best street in Marseille in my opinion, and I think that even after I've just walked up it. Which I will never do again. Just kidding, there's a gelato place on that street.
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