deuxbydeux

They're Coming...

2009-07-07T03:34:00.000-07:00

Today the Tour de France once again opens its Montpellier leg beneath our window.
This is just one of the first of a continuous stream of events.

Vacation has arrived. And they are coming.
We are bracing ourselves.
One by one the barriers to peace and tranquility are crumbling.
First the weather becomes unbearably beautiful.
Then the educational system closes the last of the holding pens.
The work force chafes at the bit, and all pretense of productivity melts away.
Soon the final bell will toll, the last gates will fall,
And the flood will be upon us

In the parks, the girls try desperately to get the attention of boys.

The boys of course could care less... at least for the moment.

And the adults stand around in a daze.

No FOX is good FOX

2009-02-11T13:34:00.000-08:00

Speaking of the news... I will, but, while surfing around earlier I suddenly realized one of my favorite things about France.

NO F|O|X NEWS

Isn't that cool? I realize, you only have to change the channel. But just knowing it was there used to annoy me to no end. I mean, it is bad enough reading comments from morons following articles in semi-respected news sources like the New York Times. Now if only some cool hacker dude would figure out a way to erase any mention or iteration of that news channel from the internet...

The news here, if I haven't already scooped you, is we have traversed the Chicken Pox. Not me, them, fortunately, since adults and Chicken Pox are not a pretty mixture. Not that red, itchy bumps are pretty on anyone. But apparently I must have had them at a wee age, and forgot. (Sigh, not hard at this age.)

So for your viewing pleasure, a few photos at the almost fully recovered stage, with faces still looking a little like early-onset puberty. Fortunately we don't have to stock up on acne medicines yet.

caught in the headlights

ah ha ha just joking around

silly faces are so much fun

"Did we make you laugh?''

''This is for you F*O*X News''

(I swear I did not teach them how to moon.)

Until next time...

2009-02-05T14:02:00.000-08:00

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo.

It can't get any worse...we hope.

2009-01-03T09:11:00.000-08:00

J'AI CRAQUÉ

2008-12-17T06:14:00.000-08:00

I'm fatter today than I was yesterday.

For all its problems, Belgium does at least one thing quite well. Chocolate. And thanks or no thanks, depending on your point of view, to our in-house banker with happy clients (no, that isn't a misnomer) we were treated or tempted with a box last evening.

Fortunately not a large box, but substantial in caloric value nevertheless.

Who could resist that packaging. I'm a sucker for packaging. I guess it is my design education haunting me, but beautifully presented chocolate is like beautifully presented food. It can fool you into thinking it tastes better. We swear otherwise, but it can.

People packaging does the same thing. In lots of different ways. We don't swear otherwise, but we often forget.

I learned from my Mother. Never go out of the house in curlers. And I have kept that promise to this day. It was the least I could do... considering.

But fabulous chocolate packaging. That could be looked upon as a low blow. For those of us with inherent weakened conditions in front of dark chocolaty masses, it couldn't be any less than such.

To set it apart from the crowd, this one even added a literary touch...

Je craque
un peu, beaucoup,
á la folie.
Je craque
pour lui, pour elle,
pour toi, pour moi.
Je craque
le matin, le midi,
le soir,
pour
Les
Chocolats

I find that an extremely low blow in a high brow sort of way. But I'm making a note. This lesson could come in handy,

although a little expensive,

calorically speaking.

A Book Plug

2008-12-01T08:07:00.000-08:00

I don't plug books often. But there is a book out by Susan Pinkard, A REVOLUTION IN TASTE, and if you like food, and history, and France, and if you can do without riveting plots filled with sex and violence, then this is probably a good bet for you.

OK, it isn't King or Grisham, but it rings all my bells. Well, most of them anyway.

If that didn't nix it for you, it covers the big change in French cooking starting in the middle of the 17th Century. (The British weren't too keen on the ideas coming out of France then, but how many British classics have you drooled over? The sauce starts here.

Sloppy Keyboard Practices

2008-11-27T02:16:00.000-08:00

I didn't intend for that last post to be just one photo and a couple of lines. Although if I would concede to limiting posts to that format, maybe I would actually post more often.

I meant to show a photo of the "tree" being installed. Woooooo, exciting.

And the other day's photo of the "tree" lit up in its blue glory was not even the photo I meant to include. The following is the one I meant to post.

But I have lazy fingers, among other things, that often plop down onto the keyboard at inopportune moments, thus inadvertently sending posts into the airwaves. (I love that wifi sends written words through the air just like speaking sends words through the air. OK, not the same kind of waves, but you know what I mean.)

And then I was going to wax poetically about Montpellier's lefty politics and the city's seasonal decorations which leave my inner child puzzled about how Santa Claus is going to find his way here.

Some might say that Montpellier carries the strong French Republic's separation of state and religion too seriously. But I applaud it. I can find enough X-mas references to keep my inner child from curling up in a ball and whimpering. And to tell the truth, the most sincere thoughts I ever had about the baby Jesus, was wondering if he had any influence on Santa's decision making process.

Our own wee crew here still sorta believes in Santa Claus or rather Pere Noël. The two concepts are pretty similar, although in France they are begrudgingly falling in line with reindeer and sleighs as a mode of transportation. I think he used to travel by donkey around here, but you gotta admit, in today's world with the population as it is, a flying sleigh is just more efficient. Although, drinking and reindeer flying does worry me a little with respect to the tradition of leaving a glass of wine instead of a glass of milk. That's a lot of glasses of wine. But hey, a marketing opportunity is a marketing opportunity, and hopefully he has a high tolerance for alcohol.

We still have a little breathing time before the full holiday craze sets in and all thoughts focus on what Pere Noël is likely to bring. For the moment the guy is still concentrated on checking out the younger chicks in the neighborhood.

Either that or he is all caught up in his job as super hero. As a super hero, he tries to keep a low public profile and avoids publicity, but here I caught him relaxing in a free moment.

That reminds me. New super-hero atomizing blast weapon needs to go onto the list for the hefty reindeer guy.

The Lights Are On

2008-11-25T09:18:00.000-08:00

Well, the holidays have arrived in Montpellier. In a very politically correct way. Appropriate. (I think Montpellier is the Berkeley of France.)

As evidence, the lights of the holiday season as seen from our window. He hey... pretty good seats, huh.

An Enological Disappointment

2008-11-19T11:28:00.000-08:00

Tonight's wine was a disappointment. That is a sad statement for any food and wine lover, particularly in France.

We were so excited. We had been looking for odds and ends to finish the two year old armoire project in the office. After making sure nothing of use was left under the beds, we began scrounging around in our cave (actually a cubby-hole in the wall off the main circular stairway of the building) , and we, or rather he (cubby-hole cave = 1 person at a time), stumbled upon a couple of old bottles of Pic Saint-Loup hiding under a pile of junk. They weren't even stained by the occasional dripping from the plumbing waste pipes that run through the space.

- Ben, viens, vite, vite, il y a une bouteille au-dessous ce merde! Il y en a deux! Apportes-moi une torche!

- What! What's wrong? A what?

- Une torche! Une lampe de poche! - pause - A flashlight! You idiot!

Ok, he didn't say the idiot part. But when you are not completely fluent in a language you always feel like some sort of demeaning qualifier is lurking underneath the conversation.

- Whaaa? Did you cut off your foot?

That was not a ridiculous question. This guy is not very handy, or mechanical, or adept at anything outside of the financial world.

- No, no, j'ai trouvé deux vielles bouteilles du vin.

And so he had. Two bottles of 1999 Pic Staint-Loup had slipped underneath a bunch of trash during the move and had lain there quietly, valiantly enduring the indignity of dust, dirt, pigeon feathers and worse.

What luck! Here in the middle of the start of maybe one of the possibly biggest economic crises of maybe, possibly, who knows, thousands of years, a couple of good bottles of wine which we, in our sincere respect and humble acknowledgment of the precarious future that we face would never have had the nerve to go out and buy... these bottles just fall in our lap.

Granted. Chateau Pétrus they never were or could be. But as a rule we don't pop open 10 year old bottles, even from modest houses. On a daily basis, we are thrilled to find a $5 bottle of simple table wine that doesn't burn as it goes down. The part of my family that hails from the region should be thrilled to know that we drink gallons of a simple, but charming little Beaujolais, not even a Beaujolais Village, that we horde by the truck load when we can find it, because it has a decent balance and a handful of bright and generous fruit and will last a good two days in the bottle. Not that an open bottle has ever really lasted two days in this place.

So this was going to be a fête. This might even merit springing for some decent cheese. And so I did.

But alas, the bottle did not hold up to our expectations. The color was excellent, body for days, it swirled in the glass like a first class winner. Ooops, the nose was a little off, not way off like something "corked", but a little dirty and nothing to make you anticipate the deep rich fruit that we remembered when it was younger. Sure nuf, most of it was gone, and nothing very elegant left in its place. It was ok. It was drinkable. But the magic was gone.

I'm guessing, no sex tonight.

Encore Belle

2008-11-14T01:27:00.000-08:00

Just a couple of items before I'm put back into my cage.

The girl has been complaining that the boy has been getting better press, especially since the earlier group photos, concerning which she has put out a formal disclaimer that she was unprepared for the photo shoot. And I have to admit, she is right and deserves a formal apology and correction. Therewith please find below, the photo of simply the most beautiful little girl in the world... not that I'm biased or anything.

Montpellier like everything else seems even more beautiful after the American election. The world simply looks brighter even if nothing has physically changed yet. The ice is still melting, chunks of Africa are still starving, and there are still millions and millions of jerks running around trying to stuff everything and everyone into their warped sense of morality. But the proverbial glass is now half full instead of half empty. And so it is beautiful.

Everything I read indicates that most other Americans living abroad are enjoying the same experience after the Presidential elections as I am. Something like what I imagine it would feel to be suddenly cured of leprosy. Phenomenally liberating. Now, if the dollar...

I am so not a morning person, and neither is George or anyone else around here today.

2008-11-07T01:49:00.001-08:00

George was particularly vocal this morning. He let me know as soon as I walked into the apartment.

"Where were you last night? I am not pleased. Unscheduled absences are not part of the program."

As evidence, he performed his favorite acting out behavior. This entails a high-pitched, unearthly howl accompanied by a particularly manic run from the bedroom, down the hall, through the office and circling into the living room with a flying tackle to the back of the Louis XVI arm chair. Said chair, which is very heavy, crashes backwards, hardwood frame to the hardwood floor and the building shakes, all four 17Th century floors of it.

George has grown into a very large, scary, cat.

He spent the night alone because I stayed overnight at ground zero (the Moms' house) to make an easier time of getting the twins to school after being deserted by the last available Mom. Had we known ahead of time that these things come in pairs, and what that entails, we should have recruited more parents. Four for two is no better odds than two for one, and as long as we are being very 21st century in our model of family, we might as well have made it less demanding.

Mornings are very demanding. In fact, we don't seem to be a morning family. Grumpiness abounds, no one is happy with their outfit for the day, there is never enough time to finish drawing super sonic rocket ships, the crust on the bread is always too dark, the milk is always too hot and god forbid the box of straws is empty. The lid on the Banania is never properly fixed, and fingers cannot resist frenetic spirals in the resulting layer of chocolate powder covering the table surface. No need to go into the hygiene and bodily function issues, but did I mention no one is happy with their outfit for the day? It is worth repeating. Simply picking up your clothes which have been carefully culled, and examined for a maximum of clean square footage, and dressing yourself without histrionic commentary, is a completely alien concept.

"But I have to wear the blouse with flowers." No. Dad is firm. Tears flow. Dad is still firm. Many more tears flow. Dad feels like jerk, but no blouse with flowers. Four year-olds do not always get to make their own wardrobe choices. And tears continue to flow.

The decibel level of this process is not appropriate for mornings. And it is confirmed once again...

I
am not
a morning person.

PS: George would like to publicly extend his most heartfelt wishes for a peaceful transition to his spiritual brother in the land of Franco-American households, Leon, who has been going through that most difficult period of ending this life and preparing for whatever else eventually awaits us all. He would also like to apologize to Leon's human for his his own human who seams to have a mental block about blog mime sorts of things. Those are links if anyone else with a soft spot for cats in failing health would like to send a word of support. Bon Courage Leon.

A New World?

2008-11-06T00:53:00.000-08:00

Wow, post election 2008 really does feel different.

Trying to avoid exaggerating or being overly optimistic, but the potential is just enormous. We will have to wait and see what happens when all the hoopla has calmed down. But for now, I'm just so pleased I didn't throw away that Polo sweat shirt with the little USA flag on it. I can pull it out from the back of the closet and wear it! Now, that, is a real tangible example of change.

Being an American in France really, really, feels different.

We better watch out or they are gonna start callin' us lefties.

Election Day

2008-11-04T13:02:00.000-08:00

Illustration: BugMonster
Note: I suppose I should try say this was taken in front of a fabulous modern painting, but obviously I just blurred the wine bottle out of the background because I was afraid people would think he was drunk. Honest, he's sort of like his father, he just looks drunk early in the morning.

I'm afraid to breathe.

No doubt, I'll be up until 3AM waiting to see what they say about the east coast results, so I've already taken a nap. (Are we feeling old yet?) I was bleary-eyed anyway because the boy spent the night here, and was awake coughing from 4am to 5am. “More cough syrup, Papa.” I'm pretty sure that was what was in the bottle. He didn't turn purple, and the coughing eventually stopped.

Tuesday is normally just a “remember to pick twins up at kindergarten” day, spend a couple of hours trying to wrangle a few English words out of them, and then bail when one of the mom's get home from work. But last week and this week until Thursday is fall school vacation. Me, just back from the trip to the east coast, the Frenchman on a business week in Marseille, and one mom also out of town. Even with the four of us ... Anyway, remaining mom was at wit's end yesterday morning and suggested that I "come get (my) son." So I picked him up and we spent some guy time together riding bikes and killing bugs.

They are definitely easier to handle by onesies rather than twosies, kids that is, although the word bug correlates in certain behavioral aspects. When in monster bug mode, they seem to feed off of one another, and the green glob of annoying behavior expands exponentially.

In that 4 year old, I don't like you anymore, you big bad meanie sort of way, the boy will sometimes say he wants to switch caretakers. Likewise, you sometimes oblige him - in that 55 year old, I can't deal with you anymore today sort of way. After which you can try and reassure yourself that you are not a bad parent because you are thanking all the available gods that you are not the one and only individual responsible for this particular monster spawned from a weak moment in your normally rational thought patterns.

And hopefully after this fateful election you can one day say to him that the big bad meanie voted for one of the most famous (in a good way) presidents ever.

But for now, you just tell him no, you can't vote for a new parent.

Home again home again Jiggety-Jig...

2008-10-29T08:02:00.000-07:00

I thought that title might be at least a little original for a blog entry. Not according to Google. Silly me, I should remember that there is very little, new and original in the world. Just a lot of re-worked, re-interpreted, re-runs.

Here in Montpellier, home to me, I am re-cuperating from 9 days of the to-and-fro required by a work project in the southeastern heartland of the USA.

I am not exactly sure when the transition from thinking of the USA as home to thinking of France as home occurred. Maybe after the twins were born. But in any case, for the last couple of years, there is no question. I begrudge every minute I must spend there, and bask in the relief of my return.

Of course it doesn't help that the trip did not include seeing old friends or family, but it has become glaringly clear that I now feel more comfortable here than there. Even if you discount any curmudgeon factor resulting from jet lag and airline food.

Every time I fly I tell myself I'm not going to eat the food. Sigh. Next time, for sure, I am not going to eat the food. Next time, I'm going to take a sleeping pill, and if the plane has to make an emergency landing in Iceland, they can just carry me off the plane. (That happened to a friend of mine... really. Confirmed, I don't have any original thoughts.)

So it always takes me a couple of days to pull myself together after one of these trips. And since I can't clear the fog away enough to do something billable, then I should really stop by the blog and give a belated shout out.

( Insert gif image of stick figure jumping up and down, waving arms, with a text blurb "Hey Everybody" )

Note to self: Don't forget to creat the gif.

Note to everyone: DON'T FORGET TO VOTE.

Nothin' Much To Speak Of

2008-10-02T01:11:00.000-07:00

Two weeks and I can't really say what I've been doing. It isn't a secret; I just don't remember. Does that say more about me, or more about my life? I have to really sit down with the calendar and try to retrace the days to figure out what happened. My main excuse is that I have been transfixed by the theatrical display of politics and economics back at the Mother Ship. Even from here in the back row of the balcony it is quite something to watch.

(It is certainly USA-centric in perspective, but being an American living in Europe does feel a bit like sitting in the back row of the balcony while all the real stuff happens on stage. You can see and hear the plot unfold, smell the perfume of the lady next to you, and feel the chewing gum under your seat, but the action seems way far off. At least until you look at your bank account.)

These are supposedly the leaders of the free world. Sigh. I think my sister said it was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. I know that is a rather over-used metaphor, but it is an apt way to describe vacillating between boredom and horror.

So we need a diversion... The only photos I took during the last couple of weeks was the weekend of Journées du Patrimoine (sort of Architectural Heritage Days). And when the kids got pony rides.

That is, or rather was, one of the entrances to the Palais du Rois d'Aragon around the corner from us. I know, not very intersting unless you are a 14th century history freak. It wasn't even one of the buildings that you get to explore once a year during the Heritage Days. And actually the red doors themselves are probably not much more than a 100 years old. But the stone archway is the real deal. I promise.

At least I'm making an effort.

I would have used a photo of the girl since she is the one crazy about horses, and usually more photogenic, but she was pouting because her pony wasn't the biggest

DOSH?

2008-09-19T04:29:00.000-07:00

I'm still banging my head about Damien Hirst making obscene millions at the Sotheby sale of his latest art pieces.

A piece by Richard Woods at the site TimesOnLine (UK) provided a quote by one of Hirst's early professors.

Richard Wentworth, the sculptor who taught Hirst in the early 1990s at Goldsmith’s College, south London, said: “The art world’s a marketplace, the world is a dosh pit and we’re all in it. We’re coming to the end of a stage in western civilisation of vulgar, vulgar, vulgar. With this sale, Damien has just added one more thing, PS, vulgar!”
As for Hirst’s wealth, Wentworth said: “It’s sweet. It’s like a little boy stamping down the street, yelling, ‘I’m worth a billion dollars’.”

I had to go to urbandictionary.com to get a meaning for dosh. Sigh. Is it just age? I am sooo out of it.

Rumblings in the Art World

2008-09-18T09:33:00.000-07:00

I haven't really mentioned in this blog that I do art... sometimes ... like when someone guarantees they will pay me for it, as in "on commission". I don't do it very often, mostly for design clients or odd word-of-mouth deals. So I don't really think of myself as a professional artist even though I have been paid for the work. It has always been just a part-time gig, and most of my living has been from design work.

Still, I pay some attention to the happenings in the art world, and so the news of British artist, Damien Hirst's auction at Sotheby's in London sort of caught my eye. Like a frozen mackerel slapping me in the face.

I was sort of stunned by it on a number of levels. But I guess it just points out the obvious, that everything changes. Maybe it is connected with the whole digital, internet revolution from EBAY to Blogs.

Anyway I just was thinking about what bothered me about the sale.

1. I don't love his work, but that is certainly beside the point. If someone wants to put a pickled zebra in their family room, who am I to judge.

2. The raging lefty in me is stunned to see that kind of money spent (ok, invested - I was going to say wasted but that was again a value judgement on the art itself) that way and so publicly. I realize I shouldn't be suprised, after all, I work often for really rich people. And I know I'm picking on one instance, one example, and there are thousands of other ways that exhorbitant amounts of money are concentrated in the hands of just a very few people. But what does that say about our civilization when there is so much misery in the world that goes untreated? I understand that it is difficult to draw a line and say this is enough or that is too much, but is there no end to this black hole of social conscience?

3. Maybe he has issues with his gallery representation, but it still seems pretty smarmy. Galleries are useful (at least they spread the manure around a little bit). Granted if you have ever had your work turned down by a gallery (and I have) you can feel a little "well f*!#@^() y@!*^", and it is true that it seems that they take a large chunk, but try to get Sothby to auction off your work before you are famous. He didn't whip up a reputation just by the virtue of his incredible talent... cough...no sour grapes here. Some galleries took a chance to use the space that they rent and paid their employees to try and sell his work so he could eventually become well known enough to dump on them.

4. And the final line in a New York Times article was, "Mr. Dunphy said that while Mr. Hirst wasn’t at Sotheby’s, he was following the results via phone — while playing snooker."

Something tells me I just plain wouldn't like the guy.

End of the World

2008-09-18T04:22:00.000-07:00

I just found one of the funniest links I've seen lately.

In case you have been fretting about the Hadron Collider creating a black hole that will destroy earth...

There is a website you can go to and check to see if the earth has been destroyed yet.

CLICK HERE

Art vs. Economics and Politics

2008-09-17T01:06:00.000-07:00

The text concerning this picture starts below at paragraph five. Alas, most of my friends won't bother looking at a post without a picture. I fear we are a group with MSS, magazine scanner syndrome. You get it from spending too much time in line at the grocery store. Then it invades your entire life. Hopefully this print is so tiny that they won't be able to read it, even if they suddenly had the inclination.

So I was thinking about posting on the subject of loans and bailouts. Actually I was going to release a copy of my letter to the US government requesting a meeting to start setting up my own government-backed, bailout loan.

I have been feeling a certain degree of morbid solace as it comes to light that an increasing number of companies managed by some of the finest financial minds in the country are faltering. Until last year I was harboring a certain degree of shame. Perhaps not shame, but certainly kicking myself in the derrière at least once a day for placing too much confidence in the almighty American dollar and real-estate. What do you expect from someone with degrees in art and design? Still, Bush was elected in 2000. It is not as if I had no forewarning whatsoever. (For the French fluent you can picture the cartoon of the guy slapping his own forehead and saying, "quel con, quel con." English translation, "What a naive, stupid, schmuck I was.")

But there is no need to go on with vaguely humorous analogies or even glaring examples of how Americans need to choose between government meddling, Democratic style, or government laissez-faire, Republican style... all of which is boringly familiar to my wacky-left-leaning-friends and just irritates my evil-right-leaning-friends.

Instead I decided to follow Ms. Plumb's lead and post about my artistic kid. Yes, that is singular, as in only one of the mismatched pair. The guy. The girl is not too interested in painting unless it glitters and goes on her fingernails and toenails. (As a barely related side note, I should point out that as a family we feel it is politically OK to accept donations of sparkly jewelry in sizes appropriate for a 4 year old.) But the guy is a dedicated young artist, who speaks eloquently with images on paper.

The example above was an early 2008 piece, Ikea marker on Ikea heavy newsprint. You may note the predominance of green with the occasional, seemingly random placement of red. According to the artist, those marks were actually part of a failed attempt by a jealous little flirt to sabotage his masterpiece. But the substance and force of the subjects with their careful and deliberate rendition remain unfailingly front and center to the viewer's eye.

The narrative which accompanies the piece explains that the larger and predominant figure is non other than myself, his Dad. The second figure slightly smaller, but floating in a semi-exalted position is my partner, boy-friend, whatever, known to the guy as his Alan. If you don't have an Alan, you might think about going out and finding one. They can be quite useful, especially when your Dad is being like the aforementioned schmuck and working on a weekend when he should be out riding bicycles. This may be the reason that his Alan, as the artist points out, has bigger muscles which if you refer back to the artwork are those aspects which the less erudite might perceive as fat legs and little bumps on the shoulders. I have the same little bumps, but on my neck, and I am either one of the less erudite or simply too embarrassed to figure out what those mean.

Last but not least, there is George. Yes, the infamous (a) George mentioned here on earlier posts. Although this representation of George is fairly recent, apparently the artist felt that it was important to show him in his younger incarnation virtually hairless and with a stub of a tail. There is no need to be alarmed. If you look back at pictures of George, you will see that he has a normal and quite substantial pelt with a full-size tail.

I guess that was what you call, artistic license. Come to think of it, that seems to be the way the current US government takes certain economic principles... with artistic license.

Oh No, Not Politics

2008-09-11T07:18:00.000-07:00

I have to stop reading about the US election on the Internet.

After pieces like op-eds in the New York Times I can't just quit at the end of the article. I am pulled irrepressibly into the comment section and then horrified by the sheer breadth of ignorance and stupidity in the American population. At least I hope it is ignorance and stupidity, because otherwise it translates into such a level of self-centered malfeasance... I don't even know how to describe it. And that is among people that read the NYTimes.

I have to get rid of my AOL account.

After following similar comment threads on pieces filtered through AOL you feel like slitting your wrists. No hope. We should have known better than to say something like “well, whatever happens, it can't be worse than the last 8 years.” I say “we”, I know I am not the only person who has said that.

I have been having this recurring nightmare where I see a man and some sort of horned and reptilian looking adviser discussing options. The one is asking the other what is it he will have to do to assure getting the extreme, religious right to the poles. And the other says “you know what you have to do.” And the one asks, “but exactly how do I get down and kiss the ass of several million people.” And the other points to a picture of a gun toting woman standing over a bloody carcass and says, “choose her to run for vice president.” And in my nightmare, she didn't even have her young daughter standing next to her. It gets worse and worse, but fortunately I always wake up before the whole disastrous future is revealed. Nevertheless, after waking, I'm then completely depressed for the rest of the day.

The only restorative therapy I have found is to read something here and there from people who have a reasonable, rational mind, with a better and more polite way of discussing the subject than I can muster myself. And I am happy to see a number of people who (for good reason) often steer clear of politics stand up and be counted.

I'll start listing a few I really liked, since I know that thousands of people wait on pins and needles to receive my recommendations and opinions...

WCS (I wish I too could sound like someone sincere,stable, and sensible without throwing in all the spurious hyperbole that I am prone to include.)
Dooce (her September 4 post – spurious hyperbole with panache - note: I did not read or contribute to the 2,443 and counting comments – I was way too afraid)
Gail Collins tries to calm us down in the OP-ED column of the NYTimes – well, you expect something sensible from a professional - (skip the comments and resulting depression)

Ordinary People

2008-09-09T02:24:00.000-07:00

How quickly the blossom fades and falls.
Edges tinged in brown,
trodden by the masses who pass without a glance.

How does the saying go? Better to have been famed and lost, than to never fame at all. No? Whatever, in short, back to the hum-drum life of the nobodies.

It was short, but it was sweet. That extra table suddenly appearing at the impossibly full restaurant. Magically being whisked to the front of the line at the Prefecture. Having the plumber call just to see if he could stop by and make sure everything was in good working order. The salesperson cheerfully and diligently searching the remaining stock of shorts to find your size.

But wouldn't it be nice to be truly famous in France? They love celebrities in France. I remember a French comic making a comment about how the French love equality and privilege. The line brought down the house, but being a newbie at the time, it flew right by me. Young(er), naïve, and virtually French-language-less.

Now it is so obvious, and humorous. Especially when ultra-rich Americans come to France and become indignant that they don't get special treatment. And you have to explain to them that no, it has nothing to do with you being gay, it has nothing to do with you being Jewish, it has nothing to do with you being black, (or oddly enough, all three at the same time). But... you aren't famous. Otherwise they don't care what you are, and especially, they don't care how much money you have. The restaurant closes at 2:30 for everyone... ah, unless, perhaps, if you are a celebrity. With celebrity comes privilege.

But even there, there can be a catch. Not just any celebrity. Discreet, humble, tasteful celebrities have the best chance at that impossible table popping up in the restaurant. A little too flashy, a little too arrogant, and back to the back of the line. (No snide comments about arrogance, we all have our weak points.)

It certainly doesn't hurt to be a Madonna or a George Cloony, but the ultimate spot of privilege in France is reserved for those rare few who are cultured, (tastefully dressed and well read) and famous, but poor. The magic combination. You can still claim to be one of the people.

We've got the poor part down pat. Now we just have to figure out how to get real celebrity status, scrounge up some cool clothes and memorize the names of a bunch of French authors.

Soooo Out

2008-08-26T01:07:00.000-07:00

As a family, we are a little less discreet these days. Along with Mylène Farmer, her gay public, Cindi Lauper, her gay public, Christophe Ciccone, his méchante soeur (Madonna), their gay public, at least one scantily clad guy*, and numerous other examples of what is fashionable and hip, our little family is having it's five seconds of fame.

The most striking aspect is just how normal and fuddy-duddy we look sandwiched among all the glitter. (And yes, how old, some of us look.)

Even coming of age in the turbulent and psychedelic place that was San Francisco in the 70's, never in my wildest youthful fantasies did I ever picture myself spread out in such a fashion on the pages of a magazine.

The world moves on, people change, and irrespective of any méchant ravings by those* who would still like to deny us our place, we exist. We be gay, we be proud, and we be family.

*I carefully perused each and every page (strictly for statistical reasons!), and I can say there is not a single image displaying full frontal nudity, male or female, in this issue of the magazine. If I missed something, and you found it, then I need to change my glasses, and you need to get a life. So the prudish corner of my being, however small, is quite safe, and even the strictest American censors would have nothing to hold onto. Not that the French give a rat's a' about American censors. :))
*Admittedly and fortunately there are not many of "those" types around our little corner of the world, this area being a hot-bed of left-leaning politics. And we have to thank a very large and very supportive family, from grandparents, to sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, and cousins galore.

Vacation Frenzy and the Missing Olympic Event

2008-08-13T02:45:00.000-07:00

August. The height of the craziness that is vacation in France, particularly in the south.

Appropriately in the French language, the word vacation is only available for use in the plural form LES vacanceS. The Larouss Chambers French-English dictionary uses the example "to take two months off" or "to have a two-month holiday". Anything less is hardly considered "vacation"; so for short periods you are more likely to hear the word congé, as in congé maladie (sick leave), or un jour de congé (a day off). Vacation in France is sacred. Beat me, whip me, god-forbid-pay-me-less, but don't even think of touching my vacation.*

I've never researched when this rabid attachment to vacation started, (sometime after WWII maybe?) or how it came to be that such a large portion of the rest of Europe and the world should gleefully participate.** But, rarely in France can you escape the glaring evidence, and in the south, anywhere near the Mediterranean, it is an inundation of gargantuan proportion.

Reasonable people, with the means to do so, escape well before the hordes arrive.

Sadly we are neither. So we are left with little alternative but to slather on the sun-screen, pinch our nostrils and jump into the maelstrom, hoping against hope that it doesn't suck us down to the lowest level of humanity so well on display in the streets and on the beaches.

We limit ourselves to rather short outings, and venture onto the roads during periods the least likely to get stuck behind a 20 kilometer line of camping cars. And surprisingly, delightful moments can be found, even near the sea.

As evidence, I present photos of an outing to the small but commercially viable port of Sète, a few kilometers down the coast from Montpellier.

This day was I believe, the French Championship of Joute Nautique. The biggest jousting tournament on the water is the tournament de la Saint Louis, held also in Sète on the 25th of August. (Every year since 17something or other.)

As you can see from the first photo, we arrived on time.

No one in the south of France arrives on time, so naturally, nothing starts on time.
But eventually, the crowds and the participants arrive and prepare for the first joust.

In our neck of the woods, it is always the red versus the blue, and everyone is dressed to the nines in white. No tacky shorts, no flexible (sissy) jousting poles. These guys are serious.
Line up.Prepare for the attack.
Go for it. (PS: Aww, I think it is just too cute the way the guys throw their arms around each other to protect their seating partner from accidental blows. "Honey, watch your head!")

Winner still standing... loser in the drink.

All in all, not a bad way to suffer through a day of the dreaded Les Vacances.

*... I know, neither self-employed people like myself, or farmers, or some minimum of civil service personnel, and all sorts of normal schmucks are stuck working and rarely if ever have the opportunity or take the opportunity to go on vacation. Martyrdom is our lot.
**... neither the time nor place to get into an analysis of vacations-school vacations - childcare -government support or lack thereof - family values - US vs France - etc etc etc.

Testing 1 - 2 - 3, Testing

2008-07-17T14:10:00.000-07:00

After an eight day stint of full time child-care, i.e. no mom except by telephone, I'm still recuperating. Oh, it was fine, but it did put me a little behind schedule.

I mentioned that there was much excitement that the boy was paddling solo. (With the aid of inflatable arm bands, but no human assistance.) So I thought I would post the proof.

Et voila... he sings to boot!

Next time I will change the subject, lest we approach the "cute fatigue" zone.

Nothing at all about the 4th of July

2008-07-04T03:33:00.000-07:00

Color me excited. I just found a two-day-old croissant in the micro-wave. I know that sounds pretty pathetic, but it is like finding money in the pocket of pants you haven't worn in years. (Assuming we're not talking about almost worthless dollars.) Plus, there is no one here to catch me eat it. Gagné.

Does anyone remember me being a big breakfast person? Coffee, yes. Eggs, bacon, etc, no-thank-you. However, there is this weakness for croissants, and I am quite capable of scarfing down a couple or more even before being fully awake. Which points out that I can partially clothe myself, go down three flights of stairs, cross the street, buy some undisclosed number of croissants, and make my way back without fully waking. I think that is pretty impressive.

But those croissants are one, relatively expensive when you add up a month's worth, and two, absolutely fat enabling long before the end of the month. So how can I in good conscience look at sweet cherubic faces, however deceptive, and deny them weekend pony rides after I have squandered the money on waistline busting bakery products.

Tough call, but I've been trying to limit my croissant intake. Ok, we didn't really have to trade pony rides for my pastry addiction. And admittedly, the best incentive is that I really hate shopping for pants. Outside of the undesirable silhouette created by a large gut, I have no butt. Which makes shopping for pants even less fun than normal since nothing fits. My legs attach directly to my back. Do not pass BUTT, do not collect $200. End of game. And therefore I am still wearing pants that looked well forward to the coming Second Millineum. Hence, I need to fit into my pants.

This is deteriorating from pointless to less than pointless.

At least I posted.

I am posting, therefore... I exist. Take that, Descartes.

The photo of René Descartes
was removed because
it never existed.

He never posted, therefore, he didn't exist.

So we may pose the question:

If René Descartes existed today,
would he have a blog?

It's All About Who You Know

2008-07-03T07:23:00.000-07:00

(continuing the catch-up requested by family and friends)

Forget the old jokes, "It's not who you know, it's who you b..."
If you are poor and live in the South of France (NP,NP - not Paris, not Provence) it is all about who you know. And fortunately we know some winners.
So last weekend we cashed in some dinner chits (yet another reason to keep honing your cooking skills) and landed in the pool of a friend's house not far from Arles. (OK, close to Provence.) Not just any pool. A stone pool with variable speed current, surrounded by lush gardens and terrace, all built into the remains of a large stone barn just behind the house. Typical of many 18th-19th century, village vigneron (wine-maker) houses. Completely private, hidden from surrounding houses by the remaining tall stone walls of the barn, now supporting nothing but mounds of lush, flowering vegetation. No, it is not for sale. But in the spirit of keeping everyone back home up to date, you get a peak - along with the monsters of course.
Excerpt from the lesson on "How to be a best friend?"... uh, build a pool in your garden like this? Just a thought.
And just for the cherry topping, we have lift-off. Boy is paddling solo. Hip,hip,...
Girl is still clinging but she does NOT like falling behind, so not for long.

One Year Older

2008-06-26T07:09:00.000-07:00

Of course when you come back from a one year hiatus, everyone and everything is naturally one year older. The kids, the cat, the car, the list of things to be done, all, one year older.

The list of things to be done can be discouraging as it never diminishes. But it does evolve even if much too slowly for most everyone concerned. The car is dangling over the precipice of a combination of age and a dwindling tolerance of using it as our primary source of transportation. (I think we may soon be more carbon responsible and subscribe to Modulauto which I hope will have enough subscribers to stay in business.) The cat went from just over zero to just over one, so as shown on yesterday's post, he is a dramatic visual aid to the passing of time. The kids make a close second, and I don't think many of our friends back in the good ol' US of A are interested in the progressive photos of an aging Renault Scenic, so I'll stick with the monsters.

From Summer last

To Fall

To Winter

To Spring

And Summer again.

I still haven't figured out whether they are keeping me younger or making me feel really, really old. The best answer would be c) both.

Just Act Like It Never Happened

2008-06-25T14:54:00.000-07:00

Well it has been a year. Exactly one year to date. And I am going to take a clue from my dear departed Aunt Edna, who as the story has been told, having "disappeared" for several years or so "modeling hands" in California, walked unannounced into her western Kentucky house one evening where she promptly started fixing dinner for her (still there) husband. Without a word. And nothing was ever said... by either... or hardly anyone else.

So, anyway...

In Part 2, "The Continued Kitten Saga", where I owned up to my cat withdrawal crisis, I mentioned a charming and generous French woman who raises Scottish Fold and British Shorthair cats. Well, after she graciously invited us (monsters included) into her stone-walled hillside home complete with lovely pool overlooking a lavender and sunflower crossed valley outside of Aix-en-Provence, we dumped her and her 1,000 euro pure bred as the fresh driven snow kitten for a half-breed bastard from a shack in the Cevennes.

I did my best to rationalize this betrayal, as you just saw where I indirectly point out that the folks outside of Aix are hardly depending on the sale of a kitten to make ends meet and will most assuredly not miss the euros as much as we would have, had we succumbed to such a rash act of fiscal imprudence. But I had a problem convincing myself that I was not/am not an ungrateful, selfish, uncouth American.

This of course is not (a) George's fault. He deserves nothing but praise in this sordid history. As you can see, he immediately invested in his role as (a) George, and has continued to carry the (a) George tradition with great aplomb.

Starting out like this

Surviving all of this

And evolving into this

And I totally believe the story about Great Aunt Edna. I think she was vain about her hands to the very end.

Urgent News Bulletin

2007-06-25T04:57:00.000-07:00

Do not be fooled by common misconceptions. These subjects have
not simply chosen to "tune out" of the art gallery experience.
They are in abdominal crises resulting from acute vegetable overdose.

MEDICAL ALERT

25 juin 01:15 heures

Today at lunch it was brought to my attention (I was in fact, forcefully informed through a complicated verbal discourse) that there is a direct, cause and effect link between eating too many vegitables and stomach aches.

Furthermore, apparently more than one or two teaspoonsful of the offending food element is more than sufficient to produce this undesired condition.

This phenomenon may reach critical mass as any subject approaches the age of three. However each individual is advised to make his or her own informed medical and nutritional decisions.

No further information is available at this time, however rumors are circulating of a massive and well financed mis-information campaign that suggests consuming as many as five or more individual varieties of the offending elements in each 24 hour nutritional period. Given the current medical alert, any such campagne is clearly directed towards destabilizing the core family unit with chronic abdominal discomfort.

Caution is advised.

Continued Kitten Saga

2007-06-21T06:05:00.000-07:00

Well, we are still in major kitten search mode here. Fortunately. The reason I say fortunately is that we went through a couple of days of crisis, where it was almost decided that spending money on a kitten at this moment is totally insane. Which it is. Totally. There is the hardwood floor to be installed. The new “artsy” radiators have to be mounted. We are only just back from throwing money at frivolous objects like flip-flops in London. The list is long and deep and the pockets are not.

That is not the point. The point is, I want a kitten. All pretense that this kitten is for the kids has fallen by the wayside. All pretense that a pet is a good teaching tool, a great mechanism for affective development, is finished, kaput, irrelevant. The only thing important now is that I want a kitten. I need a kitten for my personal well-being. And furthermore, not just any kitten. I need (a) George. Exclusively dog lovers, will never understand. Tant pis.

So, as you might see, I was falling into a major slump. Full-on depression. Turn me into a do-not-talk-to-me, the-world-sucks-lemons, monster. “You want to finish the electrical work in the living room? Don't look at me, I’ve got important blogging to do.” “Finish surfacing the walls in the hallway and paint? Keep dreaming.” “Frankly, I don’t care if the library* stays just like it is - it has books in it - what’s the problem?”

The problem is clear. Some sort of re-incarnated 17th century warlock without his familiar, I have suddenly become a loose, kitten-less, canon. Everything is in danger of being destroyed until this hunger is sated.

Problems of this sort are frequent on the French socio-political scene. And although I didn’t reach the point of taking my cause to the streets with assorted flags and banners, my French companion decided in typically shrewd French political fashion, that it would be prudent to indulge the beast. “What the hell, we might as well go ahead a find a kitten.” Yes, that is, if you ever want to eat another decent meal in this house.

The search for (a) George continues.

By now, the close observer has figured out that the original potential George as posted previously, is a moot case. Sold, vendu, as in doesn’t have a brother, go away, don’t bother me, yes I am a French person raising rare cats for sale, don’t even think I need to be nice to you. Case closed.

So why not just any kitten? Because. Just because. As I said, “I need (a) George.” And just any kitten is not (a) George. A kitten can be cute, even adorable, and still not be (a) George. The kitten can be male or female, but the kitten must look like (a) George.

I will try to illustrate, with 19th century photos from Nadar (Gaspard-Félix Tournachon) and contemporary photos from Madame Maurel (a nice, courteous, French woman who raises cats at Les Scottish Du Garlaban **)

This is (a) George.
Without pretense, George.
(George Sand, by Nadar around 1864)

This is not (a) George.
She is beautiful,
but not a George.
(Sarah Berhardt, by Nadar
around 1864)

This is (a) George.
Note the lack of pretense.
The calm, matter of fact,
melancholy demeanor.

This is not (a) George.
Adorable, panting,
puppy-like, "pick me",
I can do somersaults,
but not (a) George.

I hope that is clear now. So don’t send me any more pictures of cute, adorable, kittens. I will only entertain the purchase, adoption, or otherwise procuring , or publishing the pictures of (a) George.

Bless you,
Yours Truly,
Ben

PS: * Do not take away any fancy misconceptions by the use of the term “library”. The library also happens to be the kid’s room, the office, the guest room, closets...
* *If you are in the market for a British Shorthair or Scottish Fold kitten, do not even think of trying to beat me out of the race to get one of hers. This is a battle that observes no conventions and takes no prisoners. I will use my 17th century warlock powers to have you destroyed.

Lesson in Lazy

2007-06-18T07:22:00.000-07:00

No excuses.
Just lazy.

Does anyone know the name of this oddly flattened peach? They were delicious. Light peach fuzz on a thin skin. Smell just like peaches. White flesh, delicately sweet, with a teeny tiney pit about 1/2 inch in diameter.

They were brought to me from one of the outdoor markets yesterday. Sort of like when your cat leaves a mouse on the threshold of the front door. Voila, just for you... see how much I care.

But I need to know what their name is. Where they come from. How much they cost. How long is the season? Are they likely to be there next week?

I mean really, some people just don't use their head.
"I am too appreciative! But I need to know this stuff!"

Anyway, I'm going to do like the plant people say, stick the pit in a plastic bag with some soil-like junk in it and let it uglify my refrigerator for a while. Then I can give it to one of my rich land-owner friends to grow into a tree and 30 or 40 years from now when I'm dead and gone, everybody can get together and have delicious peach deserts from my tree.

I hope I don't have to let it sit in my refrigerator until next year. My generosity has limits. Remind me to tell you how long my dilapidated 1959 Hillmann Husky sat in my sister's driveway. We don't be wantin' the word "trash" batted around in the same sentence with our family name.

From Eggs to Babies

2007-06-14T04:48:00.000-07:00

Can you die from eating eggs of questionable age? They didn't smell bad, and the omelet tasted pretty good. Oh geez. Maybe the herbs hid the smell of imminent death. Maybe I'll just spend the evening kneeling before the porcelain throne - wishing I was dead. Why didn't I just throw the eggs out? I can't die yet, my family needs me. The little monsters are hardly more than babies.

Speaking of babies. Do women just loose all sense of reality when it comes to infants or what? Have you seen some of the examples being splattered across the blog-o-sphere lately?

I've been following (at a safe distance) several examples in our own little expatriate microcosm. The list is too large, and you are unlikely to follow all the links so I'll just give you one example.

Doc, at 10 Rue De La Charme, has added a charming young lady to the list. To whit she has posted a photo for all to see of this unsuspecting child all done up in a Sumo wrestler fashion diaper, captioned "Hope this makes you giggle as much as us." Pause. Where is Doc? Where is the woman of superb dry wit that can reduce a sacred subject to melted jello? This was the woman who could deftly and mercilessly place the killing blow to my already weakened sense of fashion self respect. It must be postpartum hormones. Or maybe it is simply the genetic female response to seeing a newborn infant. Yes, it must be that. And forthwith all those comments of beautiful baby solidarity.

All, or at least most babies are ... charming? They certainly have some sort of pull on us. But beautiful? Ladies, I'm sorry but I have yet to see a beautiful newborn infant. There must be a hormone thing going on here. A genetic compulsion programed to keep women from grimacing and drop kicking that red, wrinkled, mass of unformed flesh into the next field. Wait. Don't get me wrong. This is a good thing. They do turn into cute and beautiful babies at some point. A good 6 months or more if ours were any example.

Here you see an example at over 3 months, still bordering on hairless grimlens, not to mention the very spooky eyes. I don't have the nerve of showing anything younger. Way too scary.
They probably shouldn't let guys see babies soon after birth. Although, personally, I think it would help if women could get a grip with the hormones and be just a little more honest about this beautiful baby thing. A lot of guys must think they are wandering around in the twilight zone when they hear all those comments and look at the subject. We are in a try to match the words with the image game, and it kind of makes us feel like there must be something wrong with us. "Uh, yea, er, sure, of course, he's gorgeous." (Oh my god, my kid is going to look like J. Edgar Hoover.)

It is a wonder I didn't have a heart attack.

2007-06-13T00:07:00.000-07:00

As usual, there is lots of catching up to do. Any number of subjects to broach. Photos to post. Smiling faces. Tears.

I'll get to it.

But first, this is George.

Well, for the moment he is a potential George. He may actually be a Fred or a Tom or more likely a Pierre or Jean-Luc. He may already belong to another family because I was late in finding the advertisement in the kitten column.

The monsters are absolutely cat CRAZY. Anything cat or cat-like. And since I come from a very cat oriented family, and am very susceptible to little girls whining with batting eyelashes, and little boys plaintive si-tu-plait-ing, we are in the market for a furry feline. At 3 years, I'm figuring I can convince them not to squeeze all his insides, out.

George is of course adorable and George is more likely to have a personality that allows himself to be dressed up in doll clothes, pushed around in baby strollers, and otherwise tenderly tortured. But there are all those other Georges and Georgettes out there with little chance for a warm, stable, wholesome, and reasonably well decorated home.

Not that I care about the drapery ending in shreds, but my experiences with street smart genetics have proved risky in the past. And forever bandaging wee little hands and drying tears because the fur ball won't leave the security of his under-the-sofa-hideaway is not the purpose. What to do, what to do.

There is no question of physically going to an animal shelter. Speaking of risky past adventures. The resulting car filled to the brim with a collection of dogs, cats, hamsters and assorted furry critters is just not acceptable. And I own up to having no, absolutely not an ounce, of willpower when faced with all those pitiful little upturned faces.

I'm going to nap on it, and we'll see how it all pans out.

French Fashion

2007-05-31T05:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, we wrapped up the the twins' long weekend with a trip to the pediatrician in Beziers. One of those rare, normal looking family moments, bio-dad and bio-mom, each with an armful of squirming apprehensive child, arriving at doctor’s office for a 34 month check-up and a couple of shots.

Upon arriving in the room filled with the very coolest toys, all apprehension melts away. Boy is a little surly but cooperative except for removing socks. “Why would the doctor want to see my feet. They are just feet.” Girl happily sheds the dress and lounges on the examination table with a demure smile, eyes rolled slightly into her eyebrows, in as much to say “get a load of this, am I delectable or what?” Or, one could imagine in a gravelly Marlene Dietrich voice, “go ahead, Doctor, whatever you need to do, I am all yours.”

Measure, weigh, poke, peek, and stick. All perfectly normal. Everything within the norm. Actually, not just within the norm, but exactly on the nose, to the centimeter, to the kilo, to the wiggle of the toes. So what is wrong with this picture? Nothing of course. It is just, well, how does such a “special” family end up with such “normal” offspring. She is so “girly” he is so “boyish”. We, who are so well prepared to deal with any hint of uniqueness... no one to profit from all those years of dealing with our own experiences of being different. Sigh. The crosses we have to bear; it just never ends.

Nevertheless we are surviving and they are apparently prospering, at least mentally and physically. Alas, normal or not, growing up in a “special” family with Dads who are supposed to have strong decorative instincts obviously doesn’t guarantee that you are going to be on the cutting edge of fashion.

I design homes fashions, not clothing. You see the evidence photographed during the highpoint of the weekend. An outing at a farm designed to delight the child in all of us.

You will note the adult, funky hat, flowered shirt and geeky glasses. Moving on to the boy child in two-sizes too small small polo shirt over mid-calf jeans, and clear blue Crocs with socks. Ouch. Mademoiselle is more conservatively dressed in the classic “little black dress” (perfect for a barnyard outing), over a similarly sized, chicly “patinated” long-sleeve “T”, and finished off with the same demure Crocs in rose.

This belated invasion of the dreaded Croc has been much commented on by the more fashionable Americans in France. To which I respond, one must bear in mind that World War II set Europe back by a few years, and it hasn’t quite caught up. (This of course ignores the principal fashion trends that spread in the opposite direction, and does not even consider all the fake YSL bags wagging their way across all 50 states.)

Fashion faux pas or not, any shoe that you can stick in a bucket of disinfectant is OK by me. In fact I am thinking of designing a disinfectant walk-thru outside the apartment. But I want it to wash hands and faces as well as feet, and if it can wipe a butt, all the better. Certain jobs being eliminated by computerized robotics wouldn’t bother my left-leaning politics in the least.

Which brings me to my most impressive revelation of late to conclude these brief comments on the homo-parental experience. This is a confession. Not just any confession. For a professional arbiter of taste (ok, home fashions, not clothing), born and reared in the finest Puritan tradition, he who cannot curse in print... will aid and abet his children to urinate in public without the slightest nod towards propriety and little if any privacy.

I am being punished for every unkind thought I have ever had towards anyone acting less than correct in public. Do the math, one man out and about with newly potty-trained twins - read as tiny inexperienced bladders - who insist on doing everything at the same instant. In the park, on the street, behind trees, next to telephone poles, mailboxes. Anything remotely considered a visual shield from at least a portion of the passers-by. We are there. The dogs and the street-folk got nothin’ on us. For some of us, that is truly a life changing experience. For the rest, I guess it is just one more puddle to cross. Yuck.

PS: No, I am not completely handicapped. I can use the word pee in print. Pee, pee, pee, my children pee in public. And now it is out there for the whole world to find. And step in.

say Fromage

2007-05-21T14:23:00.000-07:00

This is for Loulou. Well it is Chez Loulou inspired because she started talking about cheese every Tuesday and asked if anyone wanted to join the game.

Hardly one to pass up a chance to eat more cheese, I thought OK, I'll give it a whirl. And a whirl it is considering my schedule. (I am not too old to whine.) But I picked up two versions of one of my all time favorite cheeses to "share". One from Corse and one from the Pyrenees.

I am a brebis fan. Especially the ones that are firm and slightly salty, but not as much so as the Italian Pecorinos which you usually shave or grate. Before being completely initiated in the TRUE, the ONE, the ONLY language (cough) I never knew that I was a brebis fan. I though I liked sheep's milk cheeses.

But on one of my first extended excursions deep into the French heartland I had a discussion with my then future MIL during the course of dinner. She had asked me what were my favorite cheeses. There was no intention to trap me, she doesn't have that sort of mindset, she is quite a phenomenal woman. It was just a way to make conversation.

At the time my French was limited (enormous understatement) and I responded that my favorite cheese would be sheep's milk cheese. I put it "fromage de mouton."

Being polite and somewhat proper, she responded that, uh, but there is no such thing.

And I am like, but of course there is. Mouton, sheep, the one you where you get wool, you can also get cheese.

And she's like, but no, it is physically impossible.

Meanwhile the more bi-lingual savvy are pounding their fists on the table, rolling on the floor or otherwise amusing themselves. They, the evil ones who left us in this stalemate.

For those fluent in French it is fairly obvious. Yes, a "mouton" is a sheep, but generally speaking a male. A ram. While a female sheep or ewe is a brebi. So in her eyes I was trying to insist that you could get cheese from the ram. And that is as far as I will go with this.

Nevertheless, I still love fromage de brebis.

My favorite of the two was from the Pyrenees. It was a little sharper, nutty, lightly salty, and a little firmer. Still no trouble to slice but if you didn't handle it carefully it would crumble. The crust was nice and grungy looking and became thick in spots.

The brebis from Corse was from a smaller round. It suffered a little because the crust was a bit ammoniated. Still it was very good once separated from the rind, "la croûte". It had a smoother consistency which held together easily when sliced thinly, and the taste was milder, and more buttery with only the tiniest hint of saltiness.

I suspect the ammonia odor came from being cut and wrapped too long in plastic. (I wasn't at my favorite fromage shop, and I normally wouldn't have bought something I recognized as a potential problem.) Otherwise I have a feeling many people would prefer this one from Corse.

One of the easiest "brebis" cheeses to find is called Petit Basque and is quite good if not as complex as some of the cheeses from smaller, less commercialized producers. I would also be quite happy with a Spanish Manchego.

They all run from 20 to 25 euros a kilo. Not cheap. But with a good glass of wine, they make a wonderful desert. And even if the French don't cotton to it, I love them with slices of fresh fruit, particularly figs in season.

those other ex-patriots

2007-05-21T04:47:00.000-07:00

The empty coffee cup was sitting on the kitchen counter top, the corner of the list of American food products lying just underneath. In a typically lazy fashion, I tugged on the list, the cup fell on the stone floor, and ... nothing. It didn't break. Who says IKEA doesn't sell quality merchandise? My bare feet thank you IKEA, as well as the happenstance that there was not the usual steaming brew therein. And I didn't have to spend a half hour searching for shards of coffee cup which might pierce little feet as well as my own. We are a barefoot happy family.

Les Monstres just prefer life without shoes. My French immediate family, male and female, doesn't like shoes in the house as a matter of cleanliness. For me it is more a case of vanity. At age 54, my feet are about the only things left on my body that I think is sexy.

Nothing to do with a foot fetish. Just plain visual aesthetics. As a design/art/architecture person, I'm very visual. And therefore, I am less than thrilled about the degradation aspects of the aging process. The spiritual, inner beauty bit hasn't sunk into my acceptance process.

But on the bright side, I'm thrilled about my new "Crocs". Yet another way to show off my sexy feet.

If you don't think my feet are sexy, please keep it to yourself. Leave me this little shred of something to make my days bearable.

So the list I made before I had the scary coffee cup tumble, is about imported American food stuff I found here. No purchases have been made, but there are a couple of items for which I find comfort knowing they are available if I'm in a panic.

The food subject came up because I was stalking Amy at her blog, Chitlins & Camembert. I have a thing about southern literary types, especially if they are from Alabama or Louisiana. You can ask Sarah Shankman at wherever she happens to be if you can find her - somewhere in Greece or Turkey at the moment- or just Google her. Once upon a time she made the mistake of moving next door to me, and her life has been miserable ever since. It is probably my fault she hasn't even written a book lately. But I'm going to bug her about that in a couple of weeks when I stalk her in London. (Just because you travel does not mean you are safe.)

So Amy, although lucky not to live next door to me, poor thang, is just wait'n and wait'n to have this baby and probably isn't thinking too straight so she puts up a long blog about her mother's index card recipes. That's cooking recipes put on index cards which anyone who was born before 1980 might recognize as an integral part of the American homemaker experience in the middle of the 20th century.

Amy has just finished a 3+ year project of typing up all the information from those cards into a database or some sort of organized format on the computer. And, printed them all out. And, dolled them all up in a multi-ring binder. Need I say more. Well, she freely admits that she had run out of projects and had some free time on her hands. I say get that baby out of there and give this woman her life back.

But being the obsessed stalker that I am, I immediately ran out to find some of her missing ingredients. The inanimate ex-patriots. Wrote them all down on a list that I put on the kitchen counter, under my coffee cup. The one that fell. In fact I had already scouted out a few items I believed she had earlier reported as difficult to find out in the boonies of France. As a dedicated stalker one never passes up the opportunity to provide a service. "Woo-hooo, I can send you a bottle of Karo syrup and some pecans. They have them in a specialty shop just around the corner from me."

Also available: Pancake mix; micro-wave popcorn; maple syrup (ok, from Canada); Skippy peanut butter (crunchy or smooth); baked beans; Hellmann's mayonnaise (just in case you have a recipe card that specifies "Hellmann's"); Louisiana Gold pepper sauce; Louisiana "One Drop Does It" hot sause; cranberry juice; Grandma's Molasses; Ocean Spray cranberry (can); and the list goes on...

And in typical Southern fashion, "Where was I?"

2007-05-14T09:04:00.000-07:00

First it was April almost gone, and now it is May half over.

This is not terribly surprising. This is life zooming past as usual. But all the same, I am just really, really jealous of the individuals who seem to juggle their family, their friends, their kids, their work, their home, the animals, the plants, the insects, the government, (those last two place side by side on purpose), the endless-list-of-stuff-to-do and still have time at the finish of the day.

I am in awe, or I am asleep. One or the other.

Here in the merry, merry land d'Oc, the end of April looked something like this. Awww.. sometimes being Dad is just the BEST.

The first of May was a trip to Nancy for a family wedding. A very pleasant experience considering the wedding was the day before the final election and under the circumstances a bit like being sent into "the mouth of the wolf" (French version) or into "the lion's den" (American version).

In spite of being a small (minuscule) business person, my political leanings have always been somewhat left of center. Even if the objective is to arrive somewhere in the middle, I just feel more comfortable if the project starts somewhere to the left.

My friends on the right obviously don't agree, but right wing, conservative governments make me nervous. Too much potential for really bad stuff. Just look at the damage a "Shrub" can do. (For those who think the "Shrub" has been innocuous, I have no response. And for those who claim oh, no, it isn't the same and it couldn't happen in France, I have no response.)

I realize that not every slippery slope ends in disaster. But if I have to choose between a political philosophy which is more likely to produce a government that gives away too much of my money to people who don't deserve it, and a political philosophy which is even slightly more likely to produce a government that thinks the solution is to blow up everybody you don't like... it is a no-brainer for me.

Relax, we can still be friends. Just leave your handguns at home when you come for dinner.

Just to ruffle feathers, I like to tell people "back home" that I voted Communist in the first round. I love saying that. "Hello, I voted Communist." "What's up? I voted Communist." It really brings home the NOT in the USA anymore.

Never mind that it isn't true. Since I haven't completely severed the cord and actually become French, I couldn't vote. But it's the thought that counts. "I would have voted Communist just to ruffle your feathers. All the best. Love, Ben."

In any case, the wedding was charming. Tastefully modest, and delicious. Which in my book means they spent all the money on the food and wine. The guests were warm and welcoming. And I am happy to say that regardless of political leanings, lefties and righties were equally open and accepting to our own personal version of family. (The bride is my partner's goddaughter.)

For once I was able to walk into a French "city hall" and not break out in hives. The church didn't make strange noises or give any indication that it would collapse as a result of my walking through the doors. And as a bonus, the bride and groom were genuinely cute, so it wasn't necessary to make up remarks about how "they make such a lovely couple" etc.

The only rub spending time with all those 20-somethings is that it makes you feel old. Well, it made me feel old. Aside from that, I got to wear my Prada suit which has been sitting in the closet for over a year, and was thus granted a reprieve from the pending sentence of being sent to the French version of the Salvation Army. And, I think there was only one photo accenting my shiny pate, which I will show and be done with now and forever more.

I was able to enjoy a little R&R. (OK - having a rightish side of the family provides certain side benefits - but it doesn't change the political philosophy bit.)

He is quite impressive, a sizable hunk of horse flesh at almost 18 hands, which makes a nice mount for my long legs. But something like 30 years have passed since I've done any serious riding, so I played it safe and kept my derriere firmly in the saddle and his nose away from the fences. For someone with younger bones he does a nice job of this sort of thing...

That was a nice bit of nostalgia and play time and then it was back on the night train and back to the real world.

Home in Montpellier, the next out of ordinary task was registering the wee Franco-Americans for this fall when they will start their first year at kindergarten (L'ecole Maternelle). Les monstres will be 3 at the beginning of August and - amidst the blare of heralding trumpets - they are finally "propre" or as you might say, potty trained. Well, almost. The big burly guy is once again lagging behind his sister. But there is much confidence that he will follow suit, and manage his bodily functions with the same aplomb he musters for the soccer ball. The stadium crowd is on it's feet shouting, "Ni-no Ni-no Ni-no."

The registration at school went quite well. Once again, a nod to Montpellier's progressive attitude, nary an eyebrow was raised when a collection of 4 parental types arrived with twins. The biggest quandary was how to fit all the names on the form. But with little hesitation and a little "white out" the head mistress added names in-between-lines and all was proper and in order.

They will be in the same class the first year, which will not help the timid guy break out of his sister's shadow, but everyone seems to agree that it is less traumatic for twins practically joined at the hip. Once step at a time.

That's the phrase for this month. Trying to get up to date. One step at a time.

Mixed Blessings and Guilty Pleasures

2007-04-23T07:41:00.000-07:00

April has almost gotten away from me. Maybe it has been the wonderful weather or the house guests or the intermittent clouds of cement dust wafting through the apartment, peu importe, but being focused and productive has not been the result.

Montpellier has a typically Mediterranean climate. We get cold and wet weather for parts of the winter, but it is tempered by the proximity of the sea which results in a milder climate than areas only a few kilometers further inland. Much like San Francisco, a land suited to palm trees and Bougainvillea.

Summer seems to have arrived early this year after an already mild winter, and in one fell swoop everyone has packed up their winter wardrobe and planted their beshorted derrieres in the outdoor cafes. You can feel this huge collective sigh of relief as if everyone had been trudging through the snow every day for months. After all, when you are accustomed to 300+ days of sunshine, a little rain and cold can put a real crimp in your winter. There is a telltale sound reverberating along the narrow medieval streets. Flip Flap Flop Flap. The thongs have arrived, and with them, the advance guard of tourists. (I am speaking of the thongs you wear on your feet, not those to be found on the afore mentioned derrieres. We are far enough from the beach that we are not generally subjected to that level of fashion faux pas.)

Still, we have a couple of months before the veritable hordes arrive from the North, and until then, the locals take full advantage. The Sunday mornings are particularly blissful. The youngsters are still in bed nursing their hangovers from the previous evening’s club scene so the old folks can hobble down to their favorite cafe, and calmly soak up a little sunshine.

On this particular Sunday these particular old folks were nursing their own hangovers from the previous evening’s 6 hour dinner party. By 11:30 we managed to drag our weary butts out of bed, grope our way to the local polling place, and then find a free semi-shady table in one of the squares which on any other day would be overflowing with tourists and university students. Along the way we ran into friends who decided to join us for lunch. And afterwards we all spent the rest of the afternoon at their killer apartment overlooking the rooftops, drinking coffee, talking design and antiques, and of course bemoaning the state of politics in the world. This taking us into the evening when it is time again to talk food and figure out what to do for the next meal.

Ah... house guests gone home, kids with the moms, concrete floor complete... one could almost
slip into the dream of a care-free existence.

What do you feel like doing for dinner?

You want me to install the door on the laundry closet?!

... Some people really know how to burst your bubble.

Where ARE You From?

2007-03-30T05:13:00.000-07:00

I’m not the type to be homesick. For whatever reason, I never have been. Genetics or environment, who knows, but whenever I packed a bag or a truck and left home, I rarely looked back except to wave a hello to old friends and see how they were doing. To be honest, I’m not sure I really know what it feels like to be homesick. Weird. To think fondly of someone you haven’t seen for a long time. To reminisce fondly about experiences you had in a certain place and time. Those are concepts I have experienced. To be sad about missing someplace and have a longing to go back to where you were before? I somehow misplaced that part of my personality.

But this morning I was struck with a pang of nostalgia. At least I think it was nostalgia. I was avoiding work on a client’s kitchen design with problems that have me (temporarily) stumped. So in typical procrastinating fashion, since I was already on the computer... I started reading blogs. Chez Loulou was just getting back from Spokane, Sam de Bretagne is obviously blue and missing Minnesota, and then Living the life in Saint Aignan threw in a photo of San Francisco. All of which made me think of the 22 year old “boy” that arrived at California’s Golden Gate, all agog, in his VW van.

Was I ever really that young...

Along with the rest of his baggage, he arrived in San Francisco with a rather distinctive accent honed on those formative, rural years in Kentucky and Virginia. That is to say it had a certain farm-bred “southern edge” to it. So the first question everyone asked was “Where are you from?” That is WHERE are you FROM spoken with a sort of incredulous intonation. And this was the bane of my existence for at least a couple of years until I managed to soften it enough to pass without endless comment. (Although, I did learn along the way that there were instances when you could use that accent to advantage - which I did, mercilessly - and felt that it was justifiable revenge to do so.)

Now I’m back in the South, and once again my accent is often a topic of discussion. Are you English? Are you Dutch? American is usually the third guess, not because my French is any better than any other poor American struggling to make himself understood, but there just aren’t that many Americans flooding this area of France. It’s that Not Paris - Not Provence syndrome. I guess it is better than the old stupefied look followed by the where (in what godforsaken part of the country) are you from of my youth. Only this time, there is little hope of losing the accent.

And now with the miniature Franco-Americans running around the house, I can see the cycle starting all over again. Different generation, different South, same story. Regardless of what we try to do, they are blossoming into true Languedociens. They pronounce pain meaning bread like Americans pronounce pain meaning ouch. I kid you not. How funny is that. “Si tu plais, encore du ‘paeen’.” They are asking for more bread, and my mother would think they were asking for a whippin’. Please, more PAIN. No Mother, there is no S&M in this family. Not even when they ask for it politely.

PS: For the completely NON-French-speaking person who happens to read the above...
In "proper" French, and I use the word proper in the loosest of terms, the "n" in the word "pain" is absolutely not pronounced. It is a "p" then an "a" like the "a" in "and" but you don't close on the "n" UNLESS you grew up in a family in the southern region of Languedoc. Languedoc did not readily give up its occitan "langue d'oc" and numerous "peculiarities" linger on in the speech of the natives. Do I hear tom-toms beating in the distant hills?

Parental Learning Experience - No Pictures Please

2007-03-27T00:41:00.000-07:00

Guess what:
Little bitty kids don't really know how to say they are feeling nauseous.
Result:
Not pretty.
Ramifications:
Intense feelings of guilt for insisting that they try just one bite of food.
Punishment:
Adult gets to experience, first hand, the same virus.

Hindsight Hint:
When a 2+ year old sits at the dinner table in a pleasantly warm house, says he's cold and refuses to eat. He just might be sick... very soon.

Acceptance Exercise:
They get sick, you get sick. Get over it. Besides, you are lucky when only one at a time is sick. When they are both sick at the same time it is exponentially worse.

Home Sweet Montpellier

2007-03-22T13:58:00.001-07:00

Montpellier is sweet. It is sweet in the hip slang sense like your old Corvette is cherry, or your old man is pretty cool. It is so sweet that I tend to be like my sister when she moved from the east coast to the California Napa Valley. “OK, I managed to get here. Now close the gates, shutter all the windows, and don’t tell anyone how great it is. “

Nudging all my little ducklings into place here took some doing and some luck. Mostly luck, but it still means that I have a vested interest in Montpellier holding onto its more endearing traits. Although there is probably no need to worry about “my Montpellier” disappearing, the region does have an astonishing growth rate compared to most areas of France. Still, not that many people are going to feel the same way I do about a smallish city of 250 thousand, a quarter of which are university students. Right? Even if the metropolitan area is close to 500 thousand, it is a far cry from Paris, or Marseille or Lyon, or Bordeaux, or Lille. In fact, it comes limping over the finish at number 8 among cities in France. So I don't really need to worry. Right?

It is not a big deal for some that there are two large opera venues, a world renown modern dance festival, or a strong theater and music scene, not to mention an “important” museum which just went through a 4 year renovation and has reopened to rave reviews. All that is true of plenty of cities, and Montpellier is a good 6 miles away from long sandy Mediterranean beaches having neither the glittering, gold-encrusted glamour of the Côte d’Azur nor the lavender caché of Provence. It does have a smart little airport with plenty of Air France flights to Paris, but if I “just gotta get outa town” I prefer to endure the 3 hours on the train to Gare de Lyon, or go Spain-ish and take the car to make the 3 hour drive to Barcelona. The burdons we have to bear. It doesn't sound that great. Right?

Montpellier is a city that was at it’s zenith during and for a couple hundred years after the middle ages. And coinciding with that history, it has one of the largest pedestrian quarters in Europe. About one square kilometer full of winding streets, charming squares, and architecture that just reeks of history. Scratch that, people flock to charming, Montpellier is NOT THAT charming. Perhaps I’m a little biased. Being a complete freak for historical novels set from the middle ages through the nineteenth century might put me in that category. Arthurian legends, swashbuckling musketeers, rob from the rich give to the poor type guys, their horses and carriages careening down narrow, cobbled streets. They rock my world. And here I am rolling out of bed to sneak out of the apartment, descending three flights of 300 year old stone stairs, and scuttling across the marble paved street to pick up the morning baguette. Looking up as I dash for the center of the street , I almost feel like I need to confirm that there is no risk of someone emptying a bedpan from the big windows above. How close to heaven can you get? ... Maybe a little biased.

And that doesn't even take into account that I spent half my youth watching my feet for signs of hair and waiting for Aragorn to come and rescue me. I was sure I was a hobbit. If you check Montpellier's history you learn that at the beginning of the 13th century the city was the dowry of Marie of Montpellier for her marriage to Peter II of Aragon. I walk past her house all the time, really, it is still there. But I just can't figure out why Tolkien didn't catch the misspelling of the name Aragon. Maybe it was the accent that threw him off.

I could go on, and probably will, but rather than regurgitate much of the basic information that can be found in any encyclopedia I’ll try to present a more personal perspective of this somewhat unruly little town. And of course, take some more photos.

THE MICROWAVE FILES

2007-03-16T08:28:00.000-07:00

Most of the French people I know (and I know quite a few of them) use a lot of sponges (this is a good thing - this is a sound ecological practice) unlike many Americans who have the habit of grabbing a wad of paper towel to solve every cleaning situation. Guilty as charged.

BUT... I have an issue. Sponges are great big succulent sources of bacteria. And I cringe every time I see that sponge wipe across the table after a meal and get tossed into the sink. Repeat the process. Repeat the process. Repeat...

In my house the French adult is a complete clean freak. Two showers a day, wear it once and into the clothes bin, vacuum, dust, bleach, mop the floor,... sans arrêt (constantly). But that sponge swings its way across the table top, the counter-top, the chair seat, and plop, back into the sink.

Since the French can be sensitive about any criticism, and since I love the French, and I don’t want them to feel I am criticizing anything, I have a personal quest. I try to keep it under wraps, but I think I can divulge it in an English language venue without too much danger of reprisal.

I go around popping sponges in the microwave. Shhhhh. Like my mother went around straightening pictures. Even in other people’s homes. No, not in the homes of complete strangers or casual acquaintances. But in the homes of other family members and close friends. OK, I don’t do it a lot. I’m too afraid of getting caught. But...

The odd thing is I have never run into anyone else who uses the microwave to sterilize something in this fashion. I also do it to wooden kitchen spoons and forks. Soak them in water and then into the micro they go. So I’m beginning to think I am the weird one. Doesn’t it seem logical that the microwave is going to kill any bacteria as it super-heats any water in the object, be it sponge, spoon, or anything else non-metallic and non-pet-like in appearance? Do I need to check myself into a clinic for improper microwave usage?

I know not to ask my son that question. He has learned to be skeptical of Papa and the microwave. No, regardless of how bacteria ridden he may be, I have never tried to stuff him into the microwave - I’ve read all the wet poodle stories - and I know better than to heat a bottle of milk in the microwave and then pop it into his mouth.

Are we ready for the cute kid story?

Ok, at the risk of “you had to be there”...

All French kids have a doudou. A doudou is a stuffed thingy, maybe a representation of a well known character, maybe an animal, or just a soft blob of fabric covered stuffing. The doudou is a BIG deal. I’m not really up to date on this practice with American kids although I know that I had a blanket that I kept as close as possible for as long as possible. But in France the child rearing experts insist the doudou is a completely necessary and vital element in the child’s early development.

So anyone halfway conscious gives their children a doudou right off the bat. If they are conscious and smart, they buy multiple copies of the same doudou from the very beginning so it can be washed and or replaced if, godforbid, you should loose it or destroy it in some unseemly fashion.

Being the progeny of model parents, my miniature Franco-Americans naturally have their doudous. Now passing the 2-1/2 year mark, the doudous can sometimes stay in a back-pack or even be left at home if everyone agrees that the outing is not likely to result in any sort of personal crises which requires the comfort of one’s doudou. Nevertheless when bedtime comes around, the doudou is in high demand. You never want to know what the consequences are of being without the doudou when it is absolutely in demand.

Background complete. On with the story.

So some months ago, when the twins both decided all of a sudden to ditch the pacifier, the boy started chewing on the ears of his doudou. My guess is he didn’t really want to ditch the pacifier, he was just putting out a dare to his sister and when she took the bait, he had no choice but to follow through. Backtracking is not an option - it’s a guy thing, even little bitty guys.

He chewed so vigorously that he would stuff an entire ear, and half the head in his mouth, which resulted in a doudou which was at the end of the day very wet and very disgusting.

Round about one bedtime, Dad realizes, yikes, the spare doudou is not in the house, the drying machine is way too slow and noisy, and the doudou is at its dripping, disgusting worst. Of course, you know what is coming... the microwave. No metal, no problem. Ninety seconds in the microwave = no bacteria, at least for a while.

I probably don’t even need to finish the story.

This is also at the peak of the still current period when the miniatures are very concerned about things being hot. You don’t touch the stove, you blow on your food. “C’est trop chaud!” It may have icicles forming on it, but you need to blow on it because it is too hot.

In the meantime the doudou has passed his 90 seconds in the microwave and is waiting patiently in bed next to the pillow.

Enter boy child, who climbs into bed and picks up his doudou ready for a good night hug. Only mildly alarmed, but with big round concerned eyes, and clearly expecting some sort of remedy, “uh, papa, my doudou, he's still a little hot.”

Papa is useless, he can’t blow on the doudou because he is crumpled on the floor, holding his stomach, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Oh hell, like I said, you had to be there.
End with sheepish grin.

Thinking Out Loud

2007-03-16T08:14:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been a bit of a “jack of all trades and master of none”. So the delimma about what form this blog will take is probably going to resolve itself in the same manner, and consequently wander around in different directions. Poke a hole here, turn over a rock there. Not the best format for developing a consistent readership, but since I don’t yet have any plans for the blog to be productive in any particular commercial fashion, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

I will try not to let the posts fall into a pattern of nothing but kid stories and parenting issues.

This is a challenge because being a parent takes up a huge portion of your brain and leaves very little space for dealing with everything else. A condition that is probably accentuated by becoming a parent at an “advanced” age after entertaining very little hope of ever having children. Note: There is no plan to go into the subject of how many brain cells were lost in the 1970s.

But I am only human, so periodically I am certain to fall from the intellectual heights of the great issues of our times and descend into the cutesy and somewhat banal realm of oh-my-god-look-what-my-kid-did. The time for that sort of post is limited anyway. Soon they will be old enough to resent any intrusion into their private lives, and not take kindly to public displays of their trials and tribulations. Under those circumstances, finding myself at the wrong end of the keyboard is not part of the plan.

Anyway... this is a very uninteresting post, but I felt obligated to wrap up the whole
what-am-I-going-to-do-with-this-blog thing.

Now, to get on with life...

quandary - un dilemme

2007-03-14T13:21:00.000-07:00

Once again I leaped before looking. A person my age should know better. A person should take the time to reflect on the process, to consider the possibilities, to examine motives, to contemplate consequences. Just what it is you think you are about to do. But of course, that’s not me. If that was me, I wouldn’t be living in France.

Me, I leap.

Now, after having made the leap into the blogging world, I realize of course that I haven’t planned what sort of blog I expect this to be. Personal anecdotes or essays? A food blog? An American in France blog? A look at my cute kids blog? Political ranting and raving? An alternative family blog? A was-that-a-mid-life-crises blog? Serious or Silly, Touching or Sarcastic, Humorous or WHAT?

I tend to be a bit timid (yes, even for someone who at 49 displaced his life to a foreign county). I am not really a great cook (although it is true I grew up in a multi-generation restaurant family, and I enjoy cooking and I LOVE to eat). There are more Americans in France than I realized, and they all have a blog (but I think I might be the only 53 year old with twin toddlers, a wife, a boyfriend, and a substantial variety of extended family members in a semi-rural southern region of France i.e. not Paris not Provence.) Speaking of toddlers, there are of course thousands of cute kid blogs (no parenthesis required). I get all anxious when it comes to politics (a subject difficult to avoid in France, even more-so than in the US). That comment after “Americans in France” just about sums up the alternative family bit (possibly a touchy subject for some). And mid-life crises seem so banal (plus I think mine is pretty much over - now it is just a matter of dealing with the aftermath!)

So where is my therapist when I need her? Probably lunching at some trendy Berkeley eater about now. (insert expletive of choice)

In addition, I don’t even know who I expect to read this. Obviously, people who blog expect SOMEBODY to read, even if it is only their old English professor who nurtured the hope that she was tutoring the next Henry Miller. (Actually I have a cute, true, “old high school English teacher” story which I can tell... sometime.) Of course I am too old and too timid to become a Henry Miller type. Not to mention lacking in genius. But if I continue spending inordinate amounts of time on blog-like things that create no income I might yet achieve young Miller’s more dubious reputation for living grace of the kindness of others.

In the mean time, a decision not to make a decision is a nice cop-out and I will just throw up a couple more kid pictures. Hey. Almost everybody loves cute kid pictures. They make us feel all warm and cuddly happy.

By the way, I did ask permission. The boy said that frankly, he didn't give a damn. (roughly translated) And the girl said it was OK as long as she got to choose which shoes she would be wearing. Me. I figure it is OK until they are big enough to sue me. And it is highly unlikely any of their French friends will ever read this blog. That is an understatement.

Beginning

2007-03-10T06:22:00.000-08:00

This Blog is going to start with a sort of geographical riddle.

(Such riddles may, or may not, become a regular thing in this blog - if it actually becomes a blog.)

Photo:

Description of photo: Les Monstres and Le Responsable cooling it on a stone wall overlooking a small valley next to an ancient religious building found in the foothills of a moderately mountainous region close to a village known for its marble used frequently in the construction at Versailles.

Where are they in this photo? Hint: They are not visiting their relatives in Kentucky where Versailles is pronounced Ver-sales.