Cassoulet Café

Cockroach Chronicles: Part One

2011-11-29T22:15:00.000-08:00

The paralyzing fear began in the summer of '87. There was an incident in my bedroom. This is when I found out....they can fly.

It was a hot, humid Oregon summer. There was a somewhat smallish roach on my bedroom ceiling. I had a friend over to spend the night. We stared at it, planning its execution. As if it could read my mind, it decided to show me who owned the ceiling. It did not jump. It did not fall. It flew right at me. Screaming, I ran the direction I was facing...which required an Olympic hurdle over my foot board. I didn't quit make it. I landed on the floor, and the roach thought it best to land in my dark hair...eerily a perfect camo for the nasty little beast. Had I been blond, they could have gotten it out sooner. They could have seen it right away and flicked it off. But I am not blond (even though that was the summer of Sun-In), and that night commenced my fear, loathing and paranoia of these nasty, repulsive little monsters.

I generally only had to worry about them in the summer and eventually my parents pulled the juniper bushes from the front of the house, which were rumored to be attractive to roaches. These particular roaches were small, didn't invade cupboards, and just basically liked to fly around terrifying everyone. They liked to live outside. But things were about to take a turn for the worse.

I got married (no, that wasn't the turn for the worse), and we moved into a very cute, "retro" if you will, apartment complex. They were vintage 1940, in an older part of town. Moving day went fine...but then the sun went down. We turned on a movie, watched for a bit, and then I decided to go into the kitchen to get some ice cream. I flipped on the light and there were about 30 roaches, frozen-mid-scurry, all over the floor. In point two seconds, they were just gone. I screamed.

The next morning, as new brides do, I got up at the butt-crack of dawn to make Hubby his lunch to take to work. As we weren't yet unpacked, I had to go into the living room and dig through a big box to find the sandwich baggies. I was pre-Lasik, so I was blind as a bat. As I was diggin through the boxes, I felt something cold on the underside of my poor, poor bare foot. I said to myself, "Gross! I hate when I drop lunch meat and step on it. Ewwww!" So I started kicking my foot to get the meat off, because who wants to touch cold lunch meat on a foot? What fell off my naked foot wasn't turkey-colored. It was black. And the size of a date. But dates aren't allowed in my house (nas-tay). I didn't know what that black thing was because I didn't have my glasses on. I bent down within 3 inches of "It" so my nearly blind eyes could tell me what it was. As it started to come into focus, I saw that it was a big, black, fat roach! Not the little flying kind, the robust-crawled-up-from-the-sewer type. Big, slow and shiny. (How do I type a retching noise?)

I screamed bloody murder, and started running in a manner quite reminiscent of Ferris Bueller's sister when she saw the principal at her doorstep. I ran straight into the bathroom, screaming and crying all the way, turned the water on to "scalding" and scalded my foot. After sufficiently sterilizing my flesh, I ran (screaming and crying still) into my room, jumped on my bed and curled up into a ball, and told my husband to call the landlord, we were moving!

Stay tuned for Part 2 ....

To Welcome You (or Welcome Back) to Cassoulet Cafe

2011-11-18T16:27:00.000-08:00

Below was my very first story about France on Cassoulet Cafe Blog, a few years ago already! I'm going to recommence my blog with this post for those who are new here...Enjoy!

I have so many things to write about, analyze and discuss when it comes to France but I feel that I can't begin unless I get a relate our first days in France as expats.

I still can't believe I had convinced my husband to move to France, without him ever having been there even for a visit. Dreaming of something is one thing, but when it actually comes to fruition, worry plagues the fairytale in your mind and then gets replaced by nightmare scenarios. Mine was that Hubby would hate France and then hate me. So naturally, I wanted everything to be parfait when we arrived.

We decided to fly into Paris and then take a train a couple days later to our new home. We had two nights booked on Rue Cler in the 7ième arrondissement. For those not familiar with it because they haven't seen the PBS program that has made it famous, it is the stereotypical image we Americans have of Paris. A cobblestone street near the Eiffel Tower, lined with cafés, crêpe stands, flower and cheese shops, boulangerie, ....you get the idea. Top it off with a violinist on the corner playing classic French-film scores just for you, it all seems to be saying, "You're dreams have come true! You've made it to paradise!" It would seem.....

...Until we actually got to Rue Cler, by way of Métro, pulling our 3 spring loaded suitcases containing all our possessions in the world (well, on this continent), two gigantic backpacks, and a small child. Lugging and tugging, over the cobblestones. After having pulled all of that up and down several flights of steps and platforms the previous hour. Using public transport is cheaper than a taxi ride from Charles De Gaulle airport, but leaning on the side of "nightmare scenarios".

When we entered our hotel lobby, just a few long, bumpy blocks from the beginning of Rue Cler, we were exhausted, moody and stinky. Suddenly, I realized just what I had brewed up and convinced my poor little family to do! I started to cry uncontrollably. What if this didn't work out? We were stuck anyway! It was a burden I didn't want anymore.

At that moment, an American family came into the lobby, exuberant from their morning of touring, and tried to befriend us. They told Hubby how wonderful Paris was and they were sad to be leaving the next day. I hated them. They got to leave! I was here stuck for the next who-knows-how-long not knowing how we would survive this situation. And this was only Hour One!

After I scared them off with my sobbing, my husband consoled me and said it would all be great, he loved it so far. Ok, tears dried up, our room was now ready, time to shower, sleep and get emotionally stable again.

But when I got into the tiny room, went to use the tiny bathroom and then saw the flushing mechanism on the foreign-looking toilet (for those who don't know, the flushers in France are usually buttons or pulling devices on the lid of the tank), I started to get hysterical again thinking about having to flush like this for the next year. Ok, if you don't get the picture by now, I was completely irrational from sleep-deprivation, not making any sense, because back in The States I had raved to everyone about how cool French toilets were, because of their flushers!

After passing out and sleeping the rest of the afternoon, I awoke to Hubby saying he was going to go across the street to get some juice and snacks. He was eager to use his French independently. I was amazed but terrified he'd come back ticked off because someone was rude to him. I watched from the window above as he crossed the street and made a successful friendly purchase! He came back jazzed and ready to explore.

Late that night after soaking up the dazzling lights of le Tour Eiffel, we chose a brasserie near our hotel to eat le diner and suck down some vin français. Things were looking up. Of course wine will do that to you.

And then, the people at the table next to us seemed to be staring at us and with judgemental looks. I've been know to be paranoid about this, but I swear they were making a scene. It was a middle-age group of French men who were staring at us like we had just destroyed their evening. (Line from Shrek coming to mind: "It's rude enough being alive when no one wants you...") Anyhow, I was really uncomfortable and infuriated at the same time that they were gawking at us like we were barbarians. My anxiety peaked when I thought I heard the word "américains" in their conversation. Ok, now I had the proof! Turning to listen closer, I heard (in French), "Oh, look at me, I am American, I need my ketchup!" one said, and they all laughed hysterically in response. WHAT?! I didn't order ketchup. I hate ketchup. I kept listening, hearing stereotypical-American one-liners. It went on for several minutes. When they saw my expression, they laughed even harder. I wanted to leave, to check out of our hotel and hop the next flight back home. I HATE FRANCE, I screamed inside, French people are so rude!

act French!) and placed our order. The waiter, astonished that he was receiving the order in his tongue, smiled very lovingly as if to say "You showed them!" I'll never forget the shocked, open-mouth expressions of the men at the table next to us when they heard their language roll off my tongue, understanding now they I had heard it all. Sweet victory!

It taught me a lesson as well. Don't be an Ugly American, even if someone is being an Ugly Frenchman.

Tomorrow I go on to Part Deux: The TGV Tragedy! Vomiting, tractors, accidents and more Frenchiness. Sure to appeal to all sorts.

PS. All photos on this post have been taken personally by moi, except the Rue Cler photo, because I did not have time to find mine today :)

I'm Baaaaack!

2011-11-15T20:15:00.000-08:00

Bonjour! I am baaaaaaaaaaaaack .....from a two year hiatus...wow, the blogging world has changed so much, and yet, is still the comfortably the same.

I see many of my old blogger friends are now published authors! I'm talking selling books on Amazon.com! (ie: Anna Lefler of LJKGW) Her hilarious book is called "The Chicktionary"...I rediscovered her in the middle of a sleepless night and as I read her preview, I actually had to wake Hubby (wait, my bucksnorting had already awoken him) to read out words and definitions from her book but I was laughing to hard to spit them out. When I finally did, Hubby was laughing even harder than me.

La Belette Rouge has since come out of hiding and can now be known by her real name Tracey, and is published in big-time things like Huffington Post and actual magazines that you buy in the store! :) I'm so amazed and proud of them and happy to say that I "knew" them when they just started out!

As for me, I've been holding myself up in that little restaurant in the Caribbean (pictured above). No really, I just took a much needed break from writing to take care of some family obligations. My family and I have gone through many changes over these two years of non-bloggin...I know, seriously, how can life go on when the blog is stopped somewhere in 2009? I've had some ups and downs, tears of joy and of sorrow, and some fabulous travels that made me think even beyond France. I have fresh perspective and am ready to blog some more funny, as well as more travel related posts!

I hope you'll rejoin me!

A bientot...

Cassoulet's First Homemade Macarons!

2009-12-31T20:00:00.000-08:00

I'm in French Nostalgia mode, so I reopened my blog, and succeeded at my very first attempt to make La Duree style macarons today!

Messed Up

2009-01-23T00:00:00.000-08:00

You told me, because they told you

You warned me, like they warned you.

You did your best, unlike the rest

You used your talent, to release your stress

You drew your freedom, you drew your soul

You drew your dreams, for all to hold...

Until you could take them back for good

You painted the world you knew you'd have

The one you left

The one you had.

You slowly made your tiny hole

Into a home, instead of hell.

You brought it to us with your eyes and hand

You drew the only things you could see,

which wasn't much, to eyes that are free.

And when they ripped you away from security,

They said there was reason, "you're soon to be free"

But instead of getting a reward

You were at the mercy of the new prison's "lord"

When he slammed his fist into your head,

you didn't know it was coming, you thought were dead

The blows kept coming from all around

The darkness and pain kept you down

When they were done, they told you to leave

Or they would finish you, and leave you to bleed

They took your brush, they took your pen,

they took your life, and hemmed you in.

And now all you want is to go home,

Where you belong, where you will be

When

You

Are

Finally

Free.

Oil painting by My Brother, 2008

Coffee Talk...Revised

2009-01-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

I’ve already discussed cassoulet, for the “cassoulet” component of Cassoulet Café. But we really haven’t discussed the café part of it, have we? Be it the drink or the place. I mean, I’ve touched upon it, put in plugs for French and Italian coffee brands, talked about going to cafes, but I think I’ve really hidden how much coffee rules my life. Oh, it started out innocent enough. Trying to drink coffee at home, as an adolescent trying to feel like an adult, ending up with a disproportionate amount of creamer to coffee, to disguise the coffee-ness so it would be acceptable to a youth’s palate. Then ditching it for a Dr. Pepper.

Then Coffee-Mate came out with Hazelnut creamer. That is when my true coffee addiction began. It camouflaged the Folgers oh-so-well!

Then, as I started getting weary of all that non-dairy sweetness, we started to drink it black and a bit stronger. We moved on up to a metal can of...Yuban! But soon, we declared a ban on Yuban in our house, because we were finding ourselves in the midst of the Starbucks revolution and we adjusted accordingly. We thought that if we slurped down the burnt-tasting brew (and bonus points if we actually liked it), then we were true coffee connoisseurs. And certainly buying the beans and grinding them ourselves confirmed it! No more canned grounds for us, we said.

But then when we moved to France we suddenly felt like Coffee Pre-Schoolers. The coffee there was so strong that it shocked our palates (and guts) the first few mornings and we soon realized we only needed one cup to get going, as opposed to our normal three. After moving back to the States, we continued to make strong puts-hair-on-your-chest java, much to the dismay of our occasional guests. And when friends or family came to visit from France, we’d make requests for loads of Lavazza and Carte Noire to be brought to us.

Then my coffee maker sizzled out. Being the Google Queen that I am (and really, who isn't nowadays?), I had to Google "coffeemakers" and read reviews on oodles of brands and models. As I pored over brewing devices, I came across a site about home roasting coffee beans. Roasting my own coffee? Why would I want to complicate my life more than it already is by adding another step to my coffee drinking regimen?

When FedEx came the next week to deliver my new coffee roaster, I was ecstatic but intimidated. Could someone like little ol’ me really take these green beans resembling lentils and actually come out with a product even close to Starbucks or Tully’s? I wasn’t so sure.

Fast-forward two years. We are officially coffee snobs. After taking that first sip of home roasted brew, Hubby and I looked at each other and could only say “WOW.” No after taste, no burnt flavor, and do we detect…chocolate notes? As home roasters often do, we now refer to that chain as Charbucks. Because, my dear friends, charred coffee water is not a sign of quality, nor does consuming it make one the ultimate coffee connoisseur.

I’ve also added a French Press (ok, I have three of them) to my coffeemaker collection.

We serve up the best coffee in town, heck, in the state! and friends come from far and wide to enjoy a cuppa Chez Nous (at our house).

When my Best Expat Friend was packing to come visit from France, she called to tell me she received my shopping list, but said I forgot to include my normal order for the usual 10 bricks of Carte Noire coffee. “Oh no,” I told her. “We don’t drink that stuff anymore. From now on, you’ll be taking my coffee back to France!”

And she does.

Stay tuned, as I have some exciting things concerning coffee coming up!

Coffee, Please!

2009-01-04T02:37:00.000-08:00

This is a rerun of an early Cassoulet Cafe post...enjoy!

Let's have a little coffee talk. So I'll wait right here while you go pour yourself a cup. If you're not into coffee, any other hot beverage of your choice will suffice. But as for me, I'll be drinking un cafe'.

When we think of coffee, we tend to think of it as the Starter Fluid of the day; a warm companion that we can snuggle up to in the mornings before we face our day. We even go to great lengths to get a paper cup of it later on, maybe placing a group order for a colleague to pick up on her way back from lunch. Each cup check marked in code only a barista (or experienced coffee go-fer) could decipher.

However, in France, things are different. Coffee isn't just the drink, it's the activity. It's the act of sitting down to relax and watch the world go by. Ordering a coffee in a cafe translates into renting your own little piece of La Belle France for as long as you wish to be there. What a bargain! Chairs are strategically placed facing the same direction, lookin' at you kid! If you ever got a complex while touring in France thinking people were staring at you, you were right, they are! But it's not considered ill-mannered. C'est normale, as the French say. It's what you do. People watch.

So in order to rent yourself a slice of France, you just need to know how to order a coffee the way you like it.

My husband was shocked the first time he got a coffee in Paris. He successfully utilized his French lessons to order his favorite hot beverage. But to his dismay the waiter set before him a saucer holding the smallest tea-party sized cup he ever saw, containing a shot of black tar, garnished with a paper-wrapped sugar cube and baby spoon to stir it with. So, as if it was a shot of tequila, he tipped his head back and took one small gulp and voila! It vanished!

Then, he asked me, "Honey, how do I say "refill" in French?"

Now, at this point, anyone who is familiar with France is probably laughing right now. Everyone else, listen up! Refills do not exist in France. Unless you just want to order a whole new coffee and call it a refill to make yourself feel better. But it'll set ya back another 2 bucks or so.

So on his next "refill" he decided to use the sugar cube. It was so cute, wrapped up in decorative paper as if it were the smallest present in the world. He unwrapped it, then carefully lowered it into the precious few ounces of black goo and stirred it with the tiny spoon. However, the amount of sugar was disproportionate to the amount of hot liquid (Cubes big, Coffee Small). So he was in a quandary. Does he order more coffee to dilute the sugar? Or suck down the sickening sweet concoction and say goodbye to coffee in France forever?

Later, after learning there were indeed other ways to order coffee , he quickly honed his skills of ordering it with supplemental ingredients (milk or cream) to increase the volume, therefore extending his sipping pleasure. Café creme, cafe au lait, s'il vous plait.

Something you never see in France is coffee to go. Oh sure, you'll see American tourists in Paris lining up at that certain international chain to get their fix, but the French will be the ones using the tables and drinking from ceramic. Yes, the word "emporter" does mean "to take out", but just because it exists and is even advertised doesn't mean it's the right thing to do when it comes to coffee. I should know. I tried it, twice.

On a road trip from Paris to Brittany, we stopped at a little roadside cafe to counteract the drowsiness. When we walked in, we saw the sign "Café à emporter" behind the bar. I jabbed my husband and said, "Hey! Finally, a place that caters to American coffee drinkers!" So, in my best French I asked for 3 cups of coffee to emporter. The lady looked at me flatly and then said, "Je comprends pas, Madame." I pointed to the sign to explain, and she said, "Yes I understood, but why would you want it to go? Are you sure?"

Then, a few days later on our way back to Paris one morning very early, we stopped at truck stop (no, i didn't know they existed in France either). It looked exactly like a 50's diner you'd encounter on road trip in the States. A long bar with bar stools loaded with big burly truck drivers. Surely, they would do coffee to-go for me here. As I confidently sauntered up to the bar, asked for "Trois cafes à emporter" (3 coffees to go) I heard all 10 truckers whip their heads in my direction and dead silence filled the place. The waitress stared at me. The truckers stared at me, holding their itty-bitty cups of coffee between their fat sausage-like fingers. At that moment, I realized that even big burly truck drivers prefer to drink their coffee sur place and out of a real cup.

I got what I ordered, even if was handed to me in a thin plastic Dixie cup which burned all ten of my fingers.

So the moral of this coffee-flavored story is, when in France, drink coffee as the French. Relax, sit down, take in the sights and sounds around you. This is why you came to France. But under no circumstances, even if it is advertised, order "Un café à emporter".

My Fear Came True...

2009-01-03T11:59:00.000-08:00

As you may remember, my brother was about to transfer to a lower level prison, which was supposed to be a good thing. Well, in the California Department of Corrections, it seems that the MO is Opposite Day...every day! Of course, we knew that, which is why we have been on pins and needles for the last few months, just waiting for word of the impending transfer. He had been assured by his counselor that he wouldn't get sent to a dorm-type situation. In Opposite Land, this means that is exactly where he got sent.

Have you seen those Lock Up shows on MSNBC or National Geographic, where they feature the dorms, ex-gyms used to house hundreds upon hundreds of inmates in triple and quadruple bunks, one foot apart from the next, with all races, gangs and affiliations under one roof, nowhere to hide, no walls, no dark corners...you catch my drift. An atom bomb ready to go off.

Yesterday we received a call from my brother. Thirty minutes after he arrived at the new prison, he was jumped and beaten very badly by a gang of his own race. They didn't like the prison he came from. That was all. He thought his back was broken. They told him to leave. LEAVE. WTH? Basically, they weren't allowing him to be there and if he didn't "leave" they would kill him.

In prison, snitching is something you don't even consider doing. Even if you're hurt. The only thing he could think of was to tell the guards he was going to hurt himself. They immediately took him to a "crisis bed", which was a tiny linoleum cell, stripped him naked, gave him a mattress and two sheets. And there he was, for 21 days, until yesterday morning. They sent him to a mental hospital (because of the suicide threat) and he was able to call us.

I talked to him for two hours! He's ok, he got xrays, and is being taken care of now. I told him he did the right thing! After not knowing all these months, no phone calls or anything, this was such a roller coaster of emotions, I almost vomited.

We can actually call the day room and get him on the phone! It has never been like this these past 4 years. We've never had a way to contact him except by mail.

We have 14 months to go. I hope and pray that he can just stay where he is. We don't know at this point. But for now, life is good for him. He feels like he's in paradise, he said. They are treating him with dignity and he actually has a room to himself.

He didn't deserve all of this. Like he said to me yesterday, "I deserved something for what I did (bar fight), but I didn't deserve this much."

And so, I pull my poem out again, and relive the feelings of seeing my baby brother in the fight for his life. I'm still so proud of him for making the life's changes he has in prison. He's a good person. I wish this was over now. And now, I get the privilege to call him as soon as I post this.

*This is not him, this was his celly, he painted (oils).

I Receive the Craptastic Mom Award

2008-12-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

Before I post Arizona Part Two, I have to tell about a frightening experience that occurred on Monday. I absolutely detest going shopping with the two younger kids, Spazzy The Toddler and my 6 year old. She's not called Spazzy for nothing, and anyone who has been shopping with a 6 year old boy knows that this is completely dangerous, nerve wracking and just a dumb thing to do. But the cupboards were bare from being gone on vacation and I had to bring the kids with me. We got a cart that looked exactly like this (but red).

After a physically exhausting spree, we had a cart full of groceries and I happily paid for the them and started to leave, then realizing my 12 year old was sitting at a table in the deli section looking at hair style magazines. I cruised to the back of the store and found her. I did not leave the cart, I was still gripping the handlebar, but I just turned my head to the side to look at the hairstyle my daughter picked out. In a nanosecond, Spazzy stood up and fell backwards out of the cart and slammed the back of her head into the floor.

It made a sickening sound that keeps echoing in my mind even two days later. I screamed, "Oh my God! Oh my God!" and picked her up while scores of shoppers froze in time and stared at the drama. A manager and a deli worker lady came rushing over. (They seem to be worried for two reasons; one, for Spazzy's pain, two, for a potential law suit). Crazy Deli Lady started shoving cookies into Spazzy face while she was screaming bloody murder. I told her no. Then she said, "Could I hold her?" I was floored. Yes, I know that she was just trying to be nice and helpful, but to a toddler who has just had a painful, scary experience (who already prefers mom over anyone when she's not hurt), being handed over to a stranger would be the last thing in the world that would help the situation.

Then Crazy Deli Lady brought over a soda. Of course Spazzy didn't want it, she was in too much pain. The 6 Year Old gleefully took it for her. The manager that happened to be standing by the olive bar when it happened, ran and got her a bag of ice. Strangers were still looking, and I am 99.9% sure that my butt crack was showing while I was sitting and rocking her trying to figure out what to do. (I happened to forget to put my belt on that day, and I had a muffin top going that I was trying to cover up with my sweater, but bending over in a panic to pick up and injured baby and rocking her with all your might doesn't leave any hands free to cover muffin top/butt crack.)

I just wanted to be gone from there and take care of her without attention. Then she suddenly stopped crying, and started going to sleep. The Crazy Deli Lady said, "Oh don't let her go to sleep! That's bad!"
I held her while my 12 year old pushed the cart out the door for me. I flipped open my cell and called the doctor. The receptionist said to get her to the Urgent Care immediately and don't let her go to sleep. I was in full panic mode. I strapped her in the car seat and her eyes were open but fixed and she was quiet as a mouse. The kids and I were talking to her, trying to get her to stay awake. Hubby met me at Urgent Care and was already registering her when I got there. We were emphatic with the young twit behind the counter that the doctor needed to know immediately what happened, as there were about 50 people in the waiting room ahead of us and I wanted service immediately!

You know what she had the gall to say? "Well, is her head bleeding anywhere?" I wanted to reach out and grab her little lollipop head to get my point across. I said, "NO! But she fell from. The. Cart. On. To. The. Back. Of. Her. Skuuuuull!

Right then my cell rang and it was our family doctor. He asked several questions and then said it was a good thing it was on the back of her head, as opposed to the top or temple. He said it sounded like a concussion, and there was no reason to put her through a CT scan unless she vomits, starts acting bizarre, or I can't rouse her.

We exited the building and I ran directly into a cousin of B (who just died that day), and I couldn't even express my condolences to him about B, because I was so distraught about the injury. (We saw him last night and he said everyone in the waiting room was talking about us after we left.)
Finally, after about 25 minutes, Spazzy said her first words since the accident. She said, "Daddy, err kway-seeeee" ("Daddy, you're crazy" in Nacho Libre accent). We knew she was going to be ok then.
Moral of the story: Don't be an idiot mom like me who thought she was experienced enough not to need follow the safety rules, and that it would make too much of a scene to strap in a screaming toddler into the cart securely with the buckle.

I never thought I'd be that mom that should have watched this:

Arizona, Part 1

2008-12-10T01:24:00.000-08:00

So we just got home Sunday night from a "vacation". Hubby had to go to Arizona for work, so we decided to extend it out so we had two weekends to do some touristy things. Our first mistake was flying Allegiant Air. Ok, so it wasn't a total mistake, I mean, who can deny a $29-each-way-flight? Well, there were some catches, like $30 per checked bag, and also that you are obliged to pick your seats for $16 per seat, per way. But we still got a great deal. Which sort of soothed the 2 hour delays going and coming. Sort of.

While we were waiting to depart in the airport, Spazzy The Two Year Old caught an airport worker lady's attention. This lady was nice enough, first commenting on her terrible cough and making sure I gave her some meds for the flight. But then she started talking to Spazzy with the most annoying baby talk I think I've ever heard. I would be safe to say that it would be the kind of baby talk you would stop doing to a baby at, oh, 1 month old max. And she didn't get a clue that it was upsetting Spazzy (thus making life harder for me). And she didn't stop there. She said, "Mom and Dad, can I sing her a little song?" Being that I am usually only rude and confrontational with people in my head, with imaginary replies that I never act on, I nicely said yes to her request, though I was horrified that a stranger was going to sing in front of all these people waiting to get on the same plane as us. I sooooo hate having attention cast in our direction, I'm very self conscious and like to blend in, not stand out.

Well, Crazy Airport Lady's song started, and it was baaaaaad. The voice was bad. The song was nerdy and very newborn-babyish. And it required Spazzy to "wave bye byyyyye". But Spazzy hid under her Cookie Monster (her ugly blue blanket she calls Cookie Monster that is a permanent fixture around her body), and would have none of this interaction the lady so desperately wanted with her. She kept singing the last line over and over, for her to wave bye-byyyyyyye. Spazzy started screaming from under Cookie Monster. The lady still wouldn't get a clue. Finally, I said, "You know, she doesn't feel good, she's been sick and she's a very shy girl." The lady was perplexed that this song works with her grandchild, but not my child. Finally, she left....yes, singing. "Bye byyyyyyyyye". About 20 minutes later, I was strolling Spazzy through the airport for the 39th time that evening, and who should we run into but Crazy Airport Singer Lady! Spazzy screams at the sight of her and CASL starts singing again! I pushed the stroller faster trying to get out of there, this time not even acknowleging the CASL.

Finally, we were cleared to board the plane, after being in the airport for 4 hours. During the flight, Spazzy feel asleep (thankfully, because she thought it was fun to kick the seat in front of her), but "because Allegiant Air is a Vegas-based airline, we are going to do a raffle to win prizes!" screamed the over-zealous flight attendant on the blow-your-ears-out PA system. It was so loud, that I actually acted like a toddler myself and covered my ears and rolled my eyes and made gasping noises. After that was over, luckily Spazzy was still asleep, the toddler across the aisle from me started howling and pummeling his parents. They seemed to be clueless as to how to entertain him. Being more worried about my own discomfort if my toddler woke up, I started trying to entertain this child to get him to pipe down. It worked. But this wasn't me relaxing on the plane with a sleeping toddler. This was work. And I was doing his parents' work! Still, I was too terrified of Spazzy waking up to stop entertaining this boy.

Two hours later, we landed and made our way to the car rental line. It seems like we attract crazy people to talk to us. I don't know why. We don't stare, we don't call attention to ourselves, we don't even make eye contact. But somehow the only drunk woman in the tiny Mesa airport, who by the way dressed and looked like a man, complete with a Hooters baseball cap to to pull off the look, tried to befriend my husband in line. She was loud. She was opinionated. She dropped the F bomb in between each and every word. She had no sense of personal space. And did I mention she was sloshed? She was also named April. She really looked more like an Arnold to me.

We eventually got our rental car, left April/Arnold in the dust, and added another loud-mouthed, opinionated traveler to our group of five. Her name was Fergie. Fergie Garmin....give a give a give a give a Garrrrmin. I shouldn't harp on Fergie, she did get us to Panda Express in a jiffy, Starbucks when we needed it, and most importantly she found an In n Out Burger! But she did try to kill us once. Driving up to the steep road to the Prescott Resort, she commanded us to take a right....right off a cliff! And once she was very emphatic that we had arrived at our destination, when it was just a empty lot in the desert with a lone saguaro cactus and not the steakhouse we thought we were going to. She also woke Spazzy up with her commands, or forgot to command us at all. We think Fergie is the great-grandmother of the Garmins.

To be continued....

Fergie-licious

Today I Grieve With and For His Family

2008-12-08T09:01:00.000-08:00

This morning before the sun rose, he died.

I do not know the pain of losing a child, especially an only child, but I imagine it and it is too horrifying to comprehend. Today I grieve for his mother's loss, her unbearable pain and the awful days, months and years to come, facing each new day without him.

I grieve for his grandparents, who face not only the death of their grandson, but also the grief of their own daughter.

The only consolation this family has are the promises they believe and cling to, until they can see B again on a paradise earth....

(Romans 15:4) For all the things that were written aforetime were written for
our instruction, that through our endurance and through the comfort from the
Scriptures we might have hope.

(Acts 24:15) and I have hope toward
God...that there is going to be a resurrection. . .

(John 5:28-29) . .
.Do not marvel at this, because the hour is coming in which all those in the
memorial tombs will hear his voice and come out, those who did good things to a
resurrection of life. . .

(Revelation 21:3-4) . . .And God himself will
be with them....And he will wipe out every tear from their eyes, and death will be no more, neither will mourning nor
outcry nor pain be anymore. The former things have passed away."

I Think I Ate A.....(meow)

2008-11-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

So, we left off with the Cabo story yesterday. As I was saying, we were strolling down the street and decided to just wing it and find a restaurant on our own. As we were approaching the Hacienda del Cuervo, there was a lively mariachi band playing at the entrance to beckon us to come in. We hesitated, but after glancing at the daily special posted, we decided the price was great, the atmosphere looked great, and the band was great. How bad could it be? And we might have a new favorite restaurant logged in our travel memories.

We were quickly ushered through an open air courtyard and seated. There were about 30 tables and exactly three of them had customers seated; including us. We ordered the special right away (3 tacos, chicken, beef, fish and one beer: $5) and as we waited for them, I looked over to the nearest occupied table and the American couple seated was arguing with the server about his bill. Details are sketchy, but American couple was standing their ground, despite the 9 mafia-looking servers standing to the side, hands behind their backs, watching the patrons every move, and taking turns approaching the table to find out why they were being so "difficult".

Suddenly, the happy, festive music stopped. I looked to the entrance of the courtyard where they had been playing, and realized, they weren't the Hacienda del Cuervo band; they were roving from one eatery to the next. For some reason, it gave me a crystal clear signal that things were not as they appeared on the other side of the courtyard gate.

It was very quiet, and the two other tables of customers had very worried expressions. I looked at Hubby and said, "Let's get outta here. I have a creepy feeling." If it weren't for the beers we were drinking and the food we'd already ordered (oh, and a dozen mafioso looking dudes staring at us), we'd have bailed.

Then came the bizarro exchange. One of the waiters, very young, maybe 15ish, came to the table and Hubby asked him a question. Bizarro laughed really, really hard. Hubby laughed along with him, to sort of soften the awkwardness of what we thought was a language barrier. Bizarro's eyes suddenly turned e-vil and he mocked Hubby's laugh, as if Hubby had been firstly mocking his laugh. Un. comfortable. Bizarro walked away, El Ticked Off-o.

Our food arrived and the presentation was actually good. There were three rolled tacos, stacked and garnished in such a way that would make Ramsay proud. Bizarro had a weird smirk on his face while he gave us our food, however. I tried to brush it off and chalk him up as "not right". Now, there were supposed to be three kinds of meat, chicken, fish and beef. The first one I took a bite of was stark white meat. I chewed, and chewed and chewed. The mafia was watching every bite we took...(*imagine crickets chirping*) More chewing, no swallowing. It was not fish. But it definitely wasn't chicken. Or even pork. I looked at Hubby. He was still chewing his first bite as well. We had panicked faces, but decided to try the next taco. I had to discreetly spit my food into my napkin. I just couldn't swallow it, it was like a tough piece of steak that just wouldn't go away.

I bit into the next taco, and the meat was identical looking. I cut open the third taco. Identical stark white, stringy meat. We chugged our beers, and asked for the check. They totally overcharged us by double, but we were so uncomfortable and sick to our stomachs, that we just paid and left. The whole time, the servers and kitchen crew were standing on the stairs watching us. It was the craziest restaurant experience I've ever had, and I just had a terrible feeling I couldn't shake the rest of the trip.

Later that night, we finally discussed it. It was like the experience was too hideous to talk about for several hours. We analyzed the white meat. We went over and over what meat it couldn't be, because of the missing obvious characteristics of poultry or fish. It was unidentifiable. There was no other meat like it that we've ever had.

And that is when we decided, it was probably cat.

PS. If you click on the link, you'll see the restaurant is now out of business. Hmmm...wonder why?

PPS. Who here thinks I did eat a cat? Could anyone help soothe my soul by telling me another less repulsive possibility?

Why I'm Cutting Down on Eating Out

2008-11-25T00:00:00.000-08:00

At first thought, you may think this is going to be about the terrible economy, the rise in the cost of living, and maybe me giving you a few tips on how to stretch your budget. Nope, not a chance. I'm as baffled as you. No, this story is in the gross category, not economics. A couple Thursdays ago, I actually put the laptop down *gasp* and turned on the TV. As I was flipping the channels, I saw the previews for a show that was coming up next. It involved lots of screaming, an embarrassed fat guy, rotten food, and cockroaches. Setting: a Mexican restaurant in New York. Behhhh...I just had to watch it!

For those who are addicted to this show like me, you know already which one I'm talking about. For those who don't, it is Kitchen Nightmares, with screaming-abusive-obscenities-F-bomb-dropping-chef-who-always-turns-nice-in-the-end Gordon Ramsay.
So, as I watched him go inspect the filthy kitchen and freak out when he found green chicken and garbage cans full of beans being served to the customer, I couldn't help but start mentally making note of all the restaurants in our town that were not dissimilar.

I not only have a cockroach phobia, but I also have a phobia of dirty kitchens and dirty cooks preparing MY food. We've all heard and passed on the Urban Legends about dirty eateries....for example, the Taco Bell burrito that was filled with something brown, but those weren't beans! You know the stories.

And I guess my phobia of restaurant filth not only goes back to my Super Hygienic OCD mother about cleanliness, but also my first job. People scoffed and laughed and made fun of me, but I truly believe that my super work ethic I've carried with me through each job was because of my first job.
McDonald's. And the McD's that I worked at was spotless. The managers were all Nazi SS guards, and believe you me, if there were no customers, you were not kickin' back sipping a Shamrock Shake, you were cleaning. And if it was already clean, too bad for you, you were cleaning it again. If something as small as a ketchup packet fell onto the floor, you threw it away. You did not under any circumstances put that thing back in the bin, or god forbid, into a sack of outgoing food.

I never once saw a single vermin in that McDonald's. The only vermin there were the managers. And the grill cooks. Because I took my job so seriously, they kept me back on the grill for way too long. Don't the teenage girls usually get mainlined right to the till? I flipped burgers too well. I was stuck with zitty, perverted, nasty guys who thought they were so clever when they said my name and then shot their mayonnaise gun. I was ultra shy back then, a bit naive and didn't know anything about sexual harassment laws.

These pervs are the reason I will order my burgers "without pickles" every time. When the Gestapo wasn't looking, these idiots would launch sliced pickles at each other's faces, pus filled zitty faces, rack up a point for every "stick", then peel it off their faces and put it on a burger going out.

If I want to be technical, McDonald's wasn't actually my very first job. That would be the two days I worked at a disaster of a French restaurant, located in a strip mall, with a screaming owner that would make Chef Ramsay look like a little lamb. Again, I lasted two days. When a plate was coming back into the kitchen to be washed, the owner saw they didn't eat their tomato garnish he had made with his own hands. He screamed and yelled how idiotic those people were, grabbed the tomato off the dirty plate, stuck it on the next plate going out, and then hissed at me, "You didn't see that!!!!" I quit that night.

And now after watching several episodes of Kitchen Nightmares, thanks to http://www.hulu.com/ I can watch them as often as I want to, I have decided that as much as I love to go out to eat, I might have to scale back to just one. Our Greek restaurant, where the owner's kitchen is in plain view, and clean...and he's a friend. I've already had major reservations with two of our many Mexican restaurants, though we eat at them fairly often anyway. One of them is a family run business and Hubby and I went to school with the son, who is now the manager. We sort of feel obligated, plus they make the very best homemade flour tortillas in the world. The rest of the food is sub par. And it has the nickname "El Squirtos" by everyone in town, because most people leave with the Hershey's Squirts. But people still keep going there.

The other Mexican restaurant in question is an overpriced, over popular place in town. I don't care for it at all, but 90% of the town does. It gives me the creeps, this place, and I have heard rumors of roaches and rancid chicken. They were confirmed last week. Our friends went in, sat down, ate some chips and when the waitress came over to take their order, the wife noticed a ROACH crawling up her leg! She screamed and the waitress beat it to death and then said with a snarl, "You brought a cockroach from your house! That is not from here!" My friends were not only insulted, they were disgusted and could not stay.

I've had a nightmare eating experience in a Mexican restaurant...actually situated in Mexico. A few years ago Hubby and I went to Cabo for a few days. We'd eaten well, based on restaurant recommendations from a friend who lived there. But one day, we decided to wing it. And I don't mean chicken wings.

To be continued....for now enjoy watching the grossest Kitchen Nightmare to date in Cassoulet's opinion....

Licorice The Mouse

2008-11-24T00:00:00.000-08:00

Continued from this post here.

So the mouse in the cage did not look like our pet mouse Licorice. I screamed, and told Hubby that he just picked up a wild, disease-ridden rodent! Panicked expression on his face (he's a Germ-a-phobe), he ran to the cage and insisted it was Licorice, but with a 'fro. It's true, Licorice had a new 'do. It was a 'fro. And a little lighter color, less charcoal grey, and more, dust ball grey. Like she'd been camping out in a dust bunny. Or got lit up by the pilot light in the furnace.

So, she stayed there in her cage for a few more days; enough to fake us out that she'd stay. And then *poof* disappeared. There were mouse droppings all over the garage, showing us that she was definitely not changing her address.

As I was leaving to take a walk last week, I saw the red carpet runner that I threw out in the garage after I destroyed it in the dryer, and not wanting the neighbors to think I was trashy (you know, the kind of neighbor with a mice breeding ground in their garage), I picked up the carpet and walked it over to the trash can that was about to be picked up by the garbage man. I almost made it, but I felt something lightly scurry across one of my hands. Having just written Cockroach Chronicles, I was a tad bit jumpy.

I screamed hysterically (maybe more than a tad bit) and threw the carpet! Something leaped off my hand and made a muffled splatting sound on the driveway. I stopped screaming when I saw it was not the Cockroach Chronicles Revisited, but just Licorice. She had been living in the discarded rug and when I picked it up, she scurried out and jumped on my hand, then got flung off when I went crazy.

I'm sure the neighbors got a laugh. I reached down and picked Licorice up and put her back in the cage and told Hubby that we have to take her to a field and let her go. No one pays attention to her, and I definitely don't want her getting the romantic attention from a wild mouse.

This morning, we had to make a run to the dump. As we were loading up empty boxes, Hubby picked up the red rug. Out plopped Licorice, and because Hubby is skittish and has short-term memory, he jumped and yelled when she came out. That was enough to make my day right there!

So, as it stands, we still have the mouse. Any creative ideas about how to get rid of a pet mouse, nicely?

Once Upon A Time...

2008-11-21T00:01:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, there was a nice little family with 4 little kids. The mommy and daddy had had wacky/bad childhoods respectively, but they made a surprisingly normal life for their own children. The kind of life that they wished they'd had, but without spoiling them.

The kids were actually nice little children, with good manners in public usually. However, at home, they could be naughty. They tormented each other, fought with each other, and often made their mother cry because of it. The little kids had a love/hate relationship with each other. Probably like most siblings.

The two older kids, Oldest Sister and Oldest Brother, would relentlissly tease Baby Brother. You see, the two oldest children had dark hair, dark eyes and olive skin and definitely looked like siblings. Even though they had the same two parents, Baby Brother was the opposite of them. He was blond haired, hazel eyed, and quite pudgy. He also developed a temper at 2 years of age, worsening as he got older. But Younger Brother was so cute when he was mad, the oldest children thought. It was entertaining for Sister and Brother to tease him.

At about age five, Baby Brother began developing annoying "quirks" and weird habits. He cleared his throat a million times each hour,resulting in being verbally assaulted by the others. He got angry a lot, and would turn himself into a little billy goat and ram his siblings with the top of his head. They would laugh, which would make Baby Brother even more angry. He would foam saliva at the mouth with frustration that they weren't taking his anger seriously. Brother and Sister laughed even harder. The mom and dad didn't think the teasing was funny nor acceptable.

Soon, the older siblings came up with the brilliant fabrication that Baby Brother was adopted. This is what they told him when he was acting up or being extra annoying with his throat clearing or hand washing obsession. They would try to prove the Adoption Theory to him by saying, "Look at ourrrrrr hair, it's brown, yourrrrrrs is blooooond. Look at ourrrrr eyes, they are browwwwwn, yours are haaaaaazel." and so on. They didn't perceive that instead of tears coming out, it was rage bottling up inside his little body. Their mother knew. She pulled him into her room, got out the special box of secret treasures, and showed him the photos of his very own birth to extinguish his fears.

Next time the Elder Siblings tried to say he was adopted, he replied with a "NanananaNAHnah...I have pictures of me coming out of mommy's tummy, so I know you're liars!" Lying was something Baby Brother detested. It was something he was compulsive about not doing. Even if it meant telling and retelling stories until he got each and every detail just perfect. Just so his conscience was clear that he didn't accidentally lie.

But there were many good times too. Baby Brother was fun when it was just one on one. He had the best sense of humor and was always making the others laugh. He was funny, he was sensitive and he was creative. He always had a soft spot in his heart for the underdogs in the world, as well as for babies...prompted by the birth of Youngest Sister, when Baby Brother was 5 years old. He often worried about people biting Baby Sister's fingers off. Could it really be done? He asked The Mom 99 times each day. Oh, he would never have dreamed of doing it, he was just worried it could happen. Maybe? Possibly? What if? He lost sleep over things like these.

Even though there was fighting and teasing, Baby Brother and Oldest Sister ended up having a very close relationship, even though they did fight more than the other siblings did.

In time, the Siblings grew up as all children do, and Oldest Sister got married. Then Older Brother left home. Then Oldest Sister had her first baby. Baby Brother and Baby Niece developed a bond from the night she was born that grew and grew.

Let's change Baby Brother's name to Younger Brother. Time passed, and Younger Brother left home and discovered the party life. But Younger Brother had previous issues. He was often depressed. He often had panic attacks. We realized his quirks and obsessions actually had a name. OCD. And his OCD was out of control often. So, Younger Brother decided that he felt better when he was drinking alcohol. But that brought only problems.

When Younger Brother would come Home to visit, he never drank. He was too worried about making sure Niece and Nephew were safe at all times. He played with them. He drew with them. He did Mad Libs with them, with gratuitous use of the word "poop" and its synonyms, resulting in hysterical laughter and pure joy for the Niece and Nephew. Oldest Sister trusted him completely with her children, for he would have fought to the death to protect his flesh and blood. He adored them, and they him.

When he left, it was always with tears and promises and plans. But, when he returned home, he always turned back to the party life.

Younger Brother was always disposed to anger, so when he drank, he liked to fight. Usually there were lots of other inebriated "boys" who thought this was good sport as well. And thus started the ritual of barbaric fun, so glorified by mainstream entertainment today.

Oldest Sister was always worried. Oldest Sister wondered if her teasing the many years before somehow turned Younger Brother's anger on. Oldest Sister wondered if she bears the responsibility for his outcome.

One day, Oldest Sister received a phone call. Her cousin was shot dead at a party the night before. Younger Brother was always with Cousin. In fact, he had previously saved Cousin's very life in a bar fight Cousin started, and Younger Brother went to jail for kicking the man who had Cousin in a choke-hold. Younger Brother stopped drinking after this, didn't stay in jail and cleaned up his act. He knew that drinking was only creating problems.

One night, he got a call from Cousin begging him to come to The Fateful Party. Younger Brother refused repeatedly saying he didn't want to go, because there would be alcohol and he didn't want to be tempted.

Cousin went without him. As the party was ending, he was shot at point blank range in the stomach with a shotgun, trigger pulled by the host of the party (a life long "friend") for reasons we'll never know. Oldest Sister, Siblings and Mom and Dad knew there was another death besides Cousin, pending notification of next of kin. The Family had no news from Younger Brother. For two days. Oldest Sister was sure he was laying in the morgue, with a tag on his toe reading John Doe. For two days, Family agonized. Younger Brother's phone was ringing unanswered. His cell phone was going immediately to voicemail. Oldest Sister decided that she now knew what it was like to lose a sibling.

And then Oldest Sister's phone rang...and on the other end was quiet sobbing, if it can be described as such. It was Younger Brother. He was not ok. He felt he should have been there to save Cousin...again. He drove to the scene of the crime the day after it happened, and saw the bloodflow down the driveway. He was not ok.

Oldest Sister got on a plane and went to Younger Brother, 1000 miles away. She saw his eyes. And knew change for the worse was imminent. Survivor's guilt is something that can morph into something very hideous and self-destructive. Younger Brother didn't talk for hours. And then, he said to Oldest Sister, "All I want is what you have. A good marriage mate who is also your best friend, and kids. I want that for myself."

Several months went by after Oldest Sister went home. One day, Younger Brother called and said him and Girlfriend were just minutes from Home. It was a surprise visit! The Family had 7 short but almost perfect days together. Photos were taken, moods were good, spirits were lifted...until it was time for them to leave. Girlfriend sparked a fight with Younger Brother, and he vowed to make her go the 1000 miles back home without him. He told Oldest Sister that he knew what he wanted, and it was to stay here with The Family and watch Niece and Nephew grow up.

Oldest Sister begged and pleaded for him to just go back with Girlfriend, then he could pack his stuff and come back the right way, without making her drive 1000 unfamiliar miles alone, crying and heartbroken. Oldest Sister regrets this conversation.

Because soon after they left, an Old Friend of Youngest Brother called Oldest Sister and said he would be in town and could he have his phone number to say "hey"? She gave it to him. She regrets answering this phone call.

A week passes with no word from Youngest Brother. Old Friend's father calls Dad and says, "My son is in jail. He was with your son. Do you know where your son is?"

Frantic calls are made. Details are sketchy. Bar, drinking, fighting, arrests. Phone calls go unanswered. Oldest Sister Googles the County Jail. Inputs Younger Brother's name. And The Family's world flips upside down. Just like that.

Younger Brother finally calls The Mom a few days later, crying. Blaming himself for Cousin's death, he had started drinking again. He went to a local bar with Old Friend that night. Joined in a fight in the parking lot. Cops came, everyone ran, except Old Friend and Younger Brother. He's crying, and of all the things he could say, he sobbed and said, "I'm so ashamed. I can't believe I'm going to miss Niece and Nephew growing up."

Oldest Sister doesn't appreciate Blame Games, or Playing the Martyr, but she does feel that she could have done things differently for a better outcome and a better childhood for her brother. She knows the teasing and her impatience of his "quirks" didn't help him at all. Oldest Sister knows Youngest Brother best. And this is what gives Oldest Sister the power, endurance and courage to be there for him and to support him through his consequences for using alcohol and fighting to try and get rid of his demons. For she knows what his potential is.

The Family is all Younger Brother has left now. The "friends" all disappeared. The Girlfriend bailed. No one was left except The Family. It's a good family, and Younger Brother writes and tells them this in each letter he composes. He knows what he lost. He won't lose it again.

I know what his potential is. Because he is my baby brother.

Oil, Self portrait of Younger Brother, by Younger Brother, 2008.

My First Blogging Award Ever!

2008-11-16T15:55:00.000-08:00

What a Superior Day! Wow, I needed it. I received this award for Superior Scribbling skills (aka: my blog) full of French-y-fied drama, complaints, reflections, memories, obsessions, humor, food/drink and utter gross-ness. I received this award from a weasel....no, The Weasel, The Red One Herself, La Belette Rouge.

So, I now have to follow as well as post The Award Rules.

Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends.
Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.
Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!
Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

So, drum roll please, I am awarding this to these Five Fabulously Scribbly Blogs (in random order):

Not So Stay At Home Mom This woman's blog caught my attention recently, because she has "one of those kids". As I was reading, I sort of got dizzy and faint and thought maybe she might have kidnapped "Spazzy", my two year old daughter, for her tales seemed eerily similar to ours. Quick check into the bathroom revealed Spazzy had not been nabbed, for she had opened the linen closet and scaled the shelves to the tippy top where all the Poison-Control-Should-Be-Called-Soon items were hiding. Oh, weren't we supposed to not be talking about me right now? Anyhow, NotSoSAHM has one of those kids, and when I saw the photo of her daughter, I officially blacked out for .12 seconds because she not only acts like Spazzy, but could be her twin separated at birth (if I'd have actually been pregnant with twins, and one was ripped away from the hospital room in the night, and shipped to NotSoSAHM). Spazzy's Twin, Ashlyn, also Scribbles on her mommy's blog, and is a must read.
Debbie Does Drivel cracks me up. She lives in Maine (ME) which is where my Grampa was from. And she is freakin' hilarious without even trying, it seems. (Duh CC, she's a Humor Blogger...they don't receive that designation for nuttin') Her post The Creature From the Garage Loft made me laugh so hard it inspired writing about my own pet drama.
Completely Alienne is a new blogger with superior scribbling. She's had a terrible tragedy and is trying to cope and continue living, while raising teen daughters Lenin and Attila (names have been changed to protect the innocent mom). This woman is strong.
The Preppy Princess not only is a very thorough Scribbler, she gives us eye candy to go with it. We love her multiple viewpoints (or is that personalities?) blog and we love her comments on our blog. We love how she says "we" and "our" and we want her/them to have this award for her pretty, preppy, pink and very conversational web log.
What French Dream? (or Living the Dream...not!) hits close to my heart. As my readers may or may not know, Cassoulet Cafe started as an ex expat in France blog, dishin' about all the good and crappy things about France. Speaking of crap, the first post I read on What French Dream? was this post about French toilets. It's hilarious and it's all true! She also took my challenge on Cockroach Chronicles by posting her own nasty bug experience. Exploding couscous is also on the menu.

Still Life (Still Alive)

2008-11-13T09:59:00.000-08:00

"Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time."(-Thomas Merton)

We received a very special delivery the other day. Since my brother is being transferred to another prison, he was required to send home most of his possessions. This means his artwork, supplies and art books. This is bitter sweet, because it means his masterpieces, which were a virtual window to the outside world, are now here with us. Sweet for us to be able to have in our possession. Bitter that he doesn't have them anymore.

When we opened the boxes and looked through his hundreds of doodles, sketches and practice pieces, I felt as if he was home. I didn't feel so far away. There was something on the bottom of the box, a rolled up piece of canvas. I pulled the canvas scroll out, seeing my brother's name and compulsory inmate number written on it. It tied by a string. I untied and unrolled it, and when I saw what it contained, my heart skipped a beat and I gasped. It was his paint brush holder, with all his brushes.

Maybe it's because the only things previously allowed to make it out of his cell are paintings and letters, or maybe it's because I knew what these brushes have created in his hand. But, to behold his brushes made tears well up.

It was as if I was seeing his very hands. These brushes have created his expressions and feelings for four years now. These brushes have been the key to his very survival and his literal life line. They have created his virtual escape of the six-by-nine foot concrete box he lives in with another person. They've created his portal to exotic places and back home to people he loves.

As most prisoners do, they learn to make something from nothing. My brother often put in orders for art supplies, paid for them, and never received them. His brushes were getting worn down. His solution: grow his hair out to harvest and make "new" brushes with. (He also convinced an inmate who had a pet gopher that died, to let him get some hairs from him for his brush before the burial. ) These are the brushes I beheld.

The still life that he did is something I cannot quit staring at. I've never really been into still life art before, though I do appreciate it. But, this is captivating me.

What do you see?

PS. Sorry for the poor quality photo I took of his painting.

A Baby Sitting Job

2008-11-11T23:11:00.000-08:00

I had lots of baby sitting jobs as a teenager. Some of them were tolerable and two in particular were downright disturbing. But the most important baby sitting job I had was also the most fun, and the one that taught me and touches me the most. The one I'll never forget.

For me, most good things seem to happen in summer, my favorite season. This was no exception. My summer job was to baby sit "B". I knew his family well, and I was so excited that they actually trusted me enough to care for him during the work day. I began when he was 3 years old. I was not only thrilled to have a job, but I actually liked B! Besides being cute, he was also...quirky. I happen to love quirky kids.

When I would get to his apartment, his mom always ran down the usual list of things that made him crazy-hyper that were forbidden: sugar. I would laugh and assure her I remembered. She would tell me this for my own protection. As I had a long day ahead of me, she warned me how hard my job would get if I gave in.

When she would leave, we would turn the TV on. But not to Barney or The Smurfs. These were the days when MTV actually played music videos, and B seemed to know the words to every single hit. My favorite was watching him perform "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard. He was my little 3 year old entertainment.

After we did that, I would usually sit in the recliner with him to "read" his favorite book. Which was not actually reading, but a game we played. The book was My Book of Bible Stories, and his mom read them so often to him (you know how kids are) and he listened to the stories on tape so often, that he literally had memorized the entire book, Adam to Armageddon. So I would say, "Ok B, tell me Story number 66" and he would start to recite. I would follow along in the book to see if he got it right. He did. Every single time. Over 100 stories and he knew them all before he could even read a word.

This book also had vivid illustrations. One time B's mom had taken him to the store. When they got to the cash register, she said the cashier had tons of makeup and jewelry on, with very long red nails. She was trying to engage B in conversation, but B was having none of it. When the lady wouldn't give up, he finally said, "Wady, you wook wike Jezebel!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" His mom was mortified, but then admitted to me, "Well, she did look like her.... sigh..."

Summertime is hot and calls for cold drinks. What better to battle humidity with than a Slurpee from? 7-11 happened to be near B's house. So, I suggested that we take a walk down there. When we got there, I told B we were going to get Slurpees. "What's that?" I got one for him and let him taste. His eyes grew huge at the first taste of the sweet, cold, sugar-laden drink. It was soooo good! We slowly walked home, slurping all the way. Every 1 or 2 minutes, B would say, "What is this thing called again? A slimy?" "No B, it's a Slurrrrrpee." No matter how many millions of times I told him that summer, he always forgot and called it a Slimy. "Are we getting Slimies today?" "No, B, you had one yesterday and went crazy-hyper. Your mom's gonna kill me."

So, we'd curl up in the recliner with a book, and B would start rubbing my elbow. This little boy loved skin. He especially loved to rub people's elbows with the palm of his little hand. He rubbed ever so softly, in a circle, smiling up at me every now and then. We would tell stories and play games. I thought he was the cutest little boy in the world.

As it does, time passes. Quickly. B was older, about 9, and I didn't need to babysit him anymore and besides, I was in a flurry of wedding plans. I remember being told that B asked his mom if he could come with her to my bridal shower. I was honored! Maybe he did still love his baby sitter after all. During the gift opening, he sat in the front row with the little girls to watch the gifts being opened. All the little girls were killing each other over who was going to pass the next present to me. Not B. He sat there with a sly little grin on his face, watching, and I felt so proud that he was secure enough to ignore the fact that he was the only boy there.

A few days later, his aunt told me that B said, "Wow, now I know why people go to bridal showers! They get to see down the bride's shirt every time she bends over to pick up a present."

More years pass. B grew up. B is 24 years old now and married. Nine months ago, they had their first baby. I could not imagine B being old enough to be a daddy, because to me he is still a hyper, Slimy Slurping, precocious little 4 year old. Though I can totally imagine him being a daddy. And a darn good one. Rubbing those little baby elbows, toes, head. A great dad.

Three days after he first laid eyes on his new baby daughter, he received a call from his doctor. He was dying. A newly discovered, rare form of kidney cancer with no successful treatments.

Four months of painful surgery, recovery and backfiring experimental medication....and in July he was given 2 weeks more to live. But he is still here, albeit ravaged with tumors in every part of his young, but failing body.

The only thing I could do was write to him. I did. I told him how much those summer days meant to me, in charge of him. How he made me laugh, and how those memories have always been precious to me. I told him that in life, there are people who touch us profoundly, yet we sometimes let them slip away and it becomes months then years that we haven't talked to them. But that doesn't mean that we don't still love those people. That we don't still think about them each and every day. I told him he was one of those people in my life.

Cockroach Chronicles: Part Two (Ewww!)

2008-11-10T23:45:00.000-08:00

So I didn't creep you out enough yesterday. You're back for more! It's like sniffing a sponge over and over. Or smelling sour milk repeatedly. You just have to go back and make sure it is as bad as you thought it was the first time.

Have you ever stepped on a roach barefoot? More specifically, a roach on carpet, while in your half asleep 2am stupor trying to make it to the toilet? Roaches are cold. For three long years I flipped on the bright hallway light to make sure there were no roaches dying on the path to the toilet. I would say 50 percent of the time, there was one there acting as a road block.

But that pales in comparison to what happened next.

We made plans to go hike a water fall with friends. We got ready and went to pick them up. We made the hour drive to the falls, got out and began the hike. It took about 45 minutes to get to the falls. In all, from the time I put my shoes on earlier that day, until I reached the waterfall, it was 4 hours.

I hate wrinkles in my socks. I kept feeling like there was a wrinkle in the heel of my sock. I pulled and pulled but there was no possible way it was a wrinkle. I thought maybe it was a tiny little twig or piece of straw that wedged its way in there. I suffered through, trying to ignore it, like my mom always told me when I had sock-wrinkle phobia as a child. When we got to the top of the trail, I'd had enough. I took my shoe off to see what was causing me the discomfort.
Do you see where I'm going with this???

It was a big, fat, juicy cockroach! I started hopping backwards on one foot, with my hands over my ears, shrieking like a crazy girl. My shrieks turned into howls and tears and actual retching. My husband and our two friends thought I was having some kind of a seizure. Everyone at the previously peaceful falls watched in horror. I was convulsing and managed to spit out, "R-r-r-r- (retch) ROACH. ROACH. SHOE." (retch again). My husband and his friend ran over to the shoe, kicked out the roach, and grabbed some rocks and started stoning it to death. I will never, EVER forget how many direct hits it took until it finally died.

The creepiest thing is that it was trapped under my heel for four hours, and it was still alive. (Now is not the time to tell me that horrid story about how roaches live for a week with their heads cut off. I already YouTubed it. I cannot discuss.)

I ripped the contaminated sock off, refused to put my shoe back on, and hobbled the rest of the way back to the car.

And if you mention "sock", chances are.....I have a roach story to go with it. Fast forward a few years. Parent's house again. Put on a fresh pair of socks to wear around their house (no shoes rule). Something was tickling my pinkie toe. I screamed and said it felt like a fly was in my sock! My sister said, "With your luck, it's probably not a fly, but a roach." I ripped that sock off and there was a baby roach that was cut in half but still alive. Cut in half by my pinkie toenail. And did I mention, still alive?! And you know I don't have to actually type the word 'screaming' for you to visualize me now.

So the last roach story of Cockroach Chronicles: Part Two, happened again on a summer's evening at my parents' house. We were coming to get the kids after an evening of house hunting without them. My son was a whiny baby, and he was crying and looking out the living room window as we pulled up. I got out of the car, walked up and rapped on the window and make funny faces at him to make him laugh. I swatted away some mosquitoes and moths that were hangin' out near the porch light.

I walked in the door. I felt something run across my face and down my neck. I didn't need to let me imagination run, because my sister's eyes were as giant as saucers, mouth wide open, no sound coming out, staring at me. I did the Roach Run (again visualize Jennifer Grey in Ferris Bueller's Day Off), slapping my face and screaming at the top of my lungs. I slapped that foul beast off my face, it slid across the kitchen floor, looked at me (it's true!) and ran back into the living room.

What is it with me and the bug I fear the most? I can honestly say I have never eaten one on accident, and if I did, you better believe you'd never see another blog post again. I'd be gone. Dead, that is. I know I'd have a heart attack. And if my children ever ate one, well, I'd have to get new ones. Not really. But I might not look at them the same again.

And why are there so many stories about roaches entering body orifices at night? Ears, noses, blehhhh,...and even stories of them eating eye lases and toenails. I. Have. To. Stop. This. Post. Now. For. Sanity's. Sake.
Enjoy:

Cockroach Chronicles: Part One

2008-11-10T08:25:00.000-08:00

The paralyzing fear began in the summer of '87. There was an incident in my bedroom. This is when I found out....they can fly.

Stay tuned for Part 2 tomorrow.

Why I Hate Wal-Mart

2008-11-04T09:51:00.000-08:00

Because our other Leap Pad pen cord was used as a leash to pull the Leap Pad around the house with, I was in the market for a new one. I found them very reasonable at gasp! Wal-Mart. I hate our Wal Mart. I hate it almost as much as I hate cockroaches. (And I do realize I didn't do the cockroach post, but I'm working on it.) The price was $24.88. I was running so very late , so when it rang up at $34.88 I just paid and left with the intention of coming right back for a price adjustment.
When I went back, the WalMart drama began. I was behind a car in the parking lot that had its blinker on for 5 minutes waiting for this other car to back out. Frustrated that I chose this aisle (because my special talent is choosing the wrong lines everywhere I go! Oh, and also having tall people sit in front of me at the movies.), I had no choice but to wait. But, in true Wal Mart fashion, trouble was brewing where parking spaces close to the front are concerned.

Facing our direction was a Kia SUV that had just happened upon the scene and stopped to wait too, but illegally. He was not there first and he did not even have his blinker on. Could he be so rude as to whip in a take the spot of the rightful owner who was waiting an eternity with her butt blinking? YES, he was that rude! He practically flipped the Kia to get it into the spot before the legitimate lady had time to take her foot off the brake.

It didn't end there. The lady actually pulled her car up behind the Kia and jumped out with a hot Mocha in her hand and started charging at the mullet-wearing Kia driver and his passengers. She was screaming and shaking the Mocha so hard I was a bit concerned she might scald her face. (Maybe it was assault with a deadly...or hot...weapon) She continued her banshee act, but Kia-driving-mullet-boy just laughed at her. Then she just got back in her car and went to find another spot.

PEOPLE! (Well, people of my particular town) Do you not realize that we live in redneck-gun-toting territory? This is not LA, but many people here have visible rifles in their vehicles (just in case they see a deer I guess) and a portion of those people are a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket. Albeit, most gun-toters don't drive Kia Sportages. But whatever. (I'm didn't say I wasn't the Drama Queen.)
Nerves shaken, I still proceeded into the Wal-Mart to get my ten bucks back. And, here's the main reason I hate our WM, everybody there was in their "best" pajamas. Hmmm...must be a special occasion. Oh yes, it was the day before Valentines Day. I love a Pajama Party, but with my close friends, not strangers in the Wal Mart. Even though people were shopping for their loved ones, these same people had them in tow and were screaming at these "loved ones", be it child or significant other, as if screaming loud and trashy is going to get the good attention. Those PJ wearin' screamers were buying cheap Sam's choice candy in mass quantities.. I can't take these people seriously; they were wearing the clothes they obviously slept in for the last week. Couldn't they at least upgrade to sweat pants?! I saw them in Woman's World for $2.88. The same price as the Sam's Choice chocolates. I also have seen reasonable prices on bras in Lingerie (if you could call WM undies "lingerie".) Bras are there to help us. Please use them, even under pajamas. If you can't put on a bra to go out in your PJ's, you shouldn't have freshly filled, polished and decorated acrylic fingernails. It sort of defeats the purpose when they are back dropped by dirty pajamas and grungy slippers.

So, making my way to the customer service counter, I tell them they overcharged me $10. They send a girl to go all the way across the store and investigate. Too bad for me that she walked like she was heading to her own execution. I moved to the side and prepared to wait.

You can't help but people watch when you are surrounded by the wierdest people grouped together in one shop-til-you-drop setting. I swear, in 20 minutes three guys came in to take jumbo size diaper packages back and get some money. They seriously all had mullets. They all wore plaid flannel shirts and black Levis. And all the diapers that came in were the same cheap White Cloud brand, with the packaging looking like it had been dragged through the yard by a Kia with a gun rack. I mean, they'd only be getting about $4 back! Suspicious.

Finally, the slow clerk came back after 20 minutes and reported that all of the Leap Pads were indeed $24.99, except for the one I chose. What was the difference?! Electronically, not one thing. Features different? Nope, exactly the same. But the one I chose happened to be green. I sarcastically said, "Isn't that funny, they're all that price, even the pink girly ones, but the green is $10.00 more. Goodbye!"

I left fuming, vowing I' would never step foot back in that store again.

Until I remembered I have pictures waiting for me in Photo...... Oh yeah, and we don't have a Target.

My Poem

2008-11-03T07:28:00.000-08:00

Answering the ring
and
Hearing my brother’s shame
Telling me where he was
Having no explanation
His Humiliation

Seeing our mom suffer
She’s
Worrying about his new world
Understanding he cannot say.

Finding the strength to go to him,
and
Seeing him at last…
My eyes
Overflowing with tears of happiness,
but
Stinging in pain of truth.

His segregation

Seeing my baby brother in prison blues
His clothes are
Shouting “PRISONER” in yellow for all to see
Forcing
Others to guess what he’s done
To deserve this appalling place.

No one understands this boy
Except for us
and especially me.

And then
Seeing his smile as his heart swells with pride
upon
Meeting his new baby niece
He’s
Noticing how much the kids have grown
Realizing it happened…
without him.

That yellow word on his pants should read instead,
“Uncle, Brother and Son”
Please,
Even just “Someone”

We are
Visiting under their rules
Playing their game
Realizing his dignity is a luxury
that gets taken away,
Even in front of us.

Hating the clock; it bears the news
Screaming all day long at me
Waiting to shatter our lives
at the end of this day

And then
Hearing the words
We have to go
Forcing us to leave
Abandoning him
Saying good bye
is
Ripping my heart to shreds

Seeing his face behind the bars
Hearing my daughter’s cries for him
but
Stifling my own
Unsuccessfully

Unable to survive this walk of shame
Down the steps
Away from him
On the Path to the Outside
Aching,
Because it’s where he wants to be.

Trying to grasp that he can’t come home
I am
Remembering when we were kids
Loving these memories
Because it’s all we have…for now
Visits like this will be erased
Only when he is free.

Watching my own little boy
Knowing my parents watched theirs
Hurting because they cannot hold this one
Or make it all better
This time

Aching because I cannot remove the pain
From anyone

Understanding there is nothing we can do
Except pray
And wait.

Blogging Can Be a Bio Hazard

2008-10-31T00:00:00.000-07:00

I wasn't actually blogging when this all went down. I was reading blogs. I was sitting on the lid of the toilet while The Two Year Old was in the bathtub. I pulled the see thru-ish shower curtain closed so she couldn't wet the laptop with one of her crazy splashing episodes. In fact, she was being quite calm this time (which is always a bad sign). I was so mesmerized by the blog I was reading, that I didn't notice the scratchy/prickly feeling on my right arm. I did notice the Spazzy Two Year Old laughing hysterically, and I thought she was laughing because she was poking my arm with her toy shark.
As moms are talented at ignoring children, I ignored the scratchy poke for about a minute. When I finished reading the particular post, I looked to the right to see what the baby was poking me with.

To my horror, it was this which made contact with my arm:

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek! I screamed and leaped off the toilet, almost threw down the laptop, and grabbed that bio hazard away from her. She was laughing hysterically like a goon. I was saying words loudly like, "Nasty! Icky! Blechy! Poopy! Disgusting!" as I was looking for the holder to put it back. Where was the holder?!

I looked to the left of the toilet where I used to keep it (not now that I know it's within her reach when she's bathing.) It was nowhere to be found. She was shrieking with delight and splashing up a storm behind the shower curtain.
Noooooo, she couldn't have! I ripped back the curtain, only to see Spazzy bathing with the toilet brush holder, in bluish chunky-looking water.

Now in full fledged screaming mode, I yanked her out of the tub, pulled the plug and told her she was now the Bio hazard. I had to sterilize and sanitize myself, the baby and the tub.

But before you think that is the grossest thing you've ever heard, let me relate a story to you that my friend in France told me.

My friend babysat this girl who was at the time of the incident, 3 years old. Anyone who has been to France knows that each and every toilet in that country, in private homes or public toilets, has a toilet brush next to it in its holder and some cleaning agent.

My friend was at a restaurant with the child (who, as a side point, had to be the ugliest child I ever did see, and ugly attitude to match), who had to faire pipi. She took her potty, then as she was washing her own hands, turned to tell the child to "come on", only to see, quel horreur! that she had picked up the toilet brush holder and was gulping the last of the liquid it contained.

As this horror story has never left the forefront of my mind after all these years, I have told it so many times that I just knew something nasty was going to make its way back to me in the form of a payback. (Probably a payback for saying what an ugly child she was).

So the moral of this story? When my child is in the tub, I shall refrain from bringing the laptop in. Blogging can be fun, but also can have some nasty consequences.

I guess I shouldn't complain, after seeing this:

Does He Realize I Just Spent 100 Clams to Save His Life?

2008-10-30T09:28:00.000-07:00

Hey! What the? As I'm sitting here in bed with the laptop trying to read morning blogs, Skeeter the Cat just hopped up on me and started kneading my stomach! I may be mistaken, but I have only ever seen him knead big fluffy things; my down comforter and the squishy couch pillows.
Cats are evil.

French Toast

2008-10-29T00:01:00.000-07:00

It's funny how things remind you of other things. Yesterday, I went through the Jack In The Box drive-thru on my way to work. Nothing sounded good except for the French Toast sticks. As I drove, I grabbed one and took a bite. I suddenly felt my stomach do a flop, and I got overwhelmingly sad.

I turned on the stereo and put on song #2, "Hey Oh" by Red Hot Chili Peppers. My sadness grew and the French Toast Sticks swelled in my stomach. My throat felt tight. Why were they making me so sad?

Suddenly, it hit me. April 2006. Road trip to San Luis Obispo. I assume most people who go to SLO have college students to visit, or to be tourists of this part of the California coast, or have relatives or friends living here to visit. It is a gorgeous, trendy little community that I would actually consider living in, if it weren't situated in California (I can say that, I'm an ex-Californian). We do have friends in SLO, and we do have a family member there; the reason for this trip. We were going to visit my youngest brother, who is 5 1/2 years younger than me.

Before we went to see him, we had to kill some time until 9am. Jack in the Box was close by, we were hungry and knew it would be a long day, so we ate breakfast there. I got the French Toast Sticks. I tried to eat them, and I managed to choke down a few bites. They made me sad, even double dipping into the maple syrup didn't help me get them down. For I knew that these were the very last things I would eat before my life changed forever.

You see, just up the road from that Jack in the Box is where my brother lives. No, he's not enrolled at Cal Poly. You have to drive a couple more miles north on Hwy 1 to get to his residence. As we we left Jack in the Box and drove north, the French Toast was feeling like it never made it down my throat and I did what I always did when my mom was driving me (terrified) to a doctor's appointment. My whole body tensed, and I pushed an imaginary brake pedal on the passenger side of the car. It's something I've always done when I'm out of control in a situation where I am being taken to a place I don't want to go.

California Men's Colony is one such place. That is where my baby brother lives at the moment. He is property of the California Department of Corrections. I'm shaking as I type this...Before prison touched our family, I would never considered going near a prison. In fact, it took everything in the deepest part of my soul to go there to visit him. But I knew what I had to do.

It may have been the hardest thing I've ever had to do thus far in my life. And I've done it several times now, and the time has come to do it again. Hence, this post. As I usually use humor to get me through a situation, I cannot find humor in this one. I try and try, but it's a different world there, where humor seems to have no place.

I do not know how I got through that first visiting day. When I saw my brother for the first time since being locked up, it was a mixture of raw emotions. It was joy and sadness, happiness and grief, loss of control and yet having to keep everything under control, if that makes sense. The second day of visiting was our last day. And it was much easier that the day before, knowing what to expect. But the last two hours proved to test my sanity and strength. These became some of the hardest hours I ever remember.

Tears began to trickle at first. I put my sunglasses on to hide them from my brother, my kids, my husband, and especially the guards. But soon my entire face was wet and my brother looked over at me. The look in his eyes made it happen. I let out the hideous sob that was coming from the pit of my stomach, and I could not regain my composure. My brother reached out his arm to try to console me, but touching is not allowed during a visit. The guards sitting closest to us watched. I felt violated. It was the most unnatural feeling, to be together as a family, but have strangers imposing boundaries on us like that. I tried with all my strength to stop crying, but I could not. I was in fact pregnant with my third child, and something about knowing she would be almost 4 when he gets out made me want to vomit, and it would have been so easy, as the French Toast and vending machine food that was our lunch seemed to have refused to be digesting.

As my brother sat there, unable to console me, yet knowing his actions were the reason for my unbearable grief, a look crossed over his face. And at that moment I knew he would be ok. I knew he would make it out. I knew he wouldn't resort to violence, gangs, weakness or corruption. I knew I had given him enough reason to make it through his punishment. I have three of his greatest loves in my possession; my kids, his nieces and nephew. It's enough to keep him on the straight and narrow. And it has. We made promises. He's kept all of his during these 3 1/2 years of incarceration. I am proud of that boy. He is different than most in that vile place. He will make it with the help of all his family. We are his lifeline.

How could I deny him that? And so, even though normal things that I used to enjoy get tainted with memories and emotion linked to my brother's lock down, I have to keep going. I have to fulfill my promise not to let the kids forget him. I have to give him hope. Sometimes hope is the only thing that one has, but it can be enough.

------------------------------------------------------

Info: My brother was sentenced to 6 years in prison in 2005 for having 2 Strikes that resulted from 2 bar fights. Though I do not condone fighting, no weapons were involved, no one pressed charges, but California's laws are different. He has stayed sober in prison, not gotten into any trouble, not affiliated with any gang, keeps to himself and now he's being transferred this week to a lower level prison (Level 2) for good behavior.....

....so why is it that good behavior is rewarded with having to go to a much more horrendous prison....San Quentin?!
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Oil on canvas painting by my brother, copyright 2008, from his prison cell.

My First Greek Lesson: Of Mice and Men

2008-10-28T00:17:00.000-07:00

My non-Greek mother is learning Greek, and I was at her house today thumbing through her Learn Greek books. I have every intention of starting, but each time I sit down and look at the book, I just see a bunch of jumbled up things like this word I saw today: ποντικός

Oh sure, it looks pretty, but the meaning of this particular word is not pretty to many people with certain phobias. ποντικός is Greek for MOUSE. And as you know, The Mouse of this house had escaped her cage and was running free in the garage. I don't have a phobia of Purchased-at-Petco Mice, but I do of Petco Mice Gone Wild In the garage making babies that will overrun my new house with nasty mice turds and ποντικός germs.

As I mentioned, I was about to "ask myself what a maverick* would do", and then that is what I did. Yes, I let Skeeter and Blueberry (the cats) in the garage to find Licorice the escaped inmate. I let them in, closed the door.... and waited. I kept checking on them every so often. They were definitely hunting. They found the fresh mouse pellets next to the cage (evidence that she was still in there, not taking her freedom out the door when she had the chance). Each time I checked on the cats, I cringed as I opened the door wondering if there would be a dead mouse flung at me the next time I peeked in.

No, they didn't succeed in assasinating Licorice, and I'm glad. I couldn't stomach the fact that I'd hired two hit men, uh, cats, to do a sweet little mouse in. I abandoned my maverick-y* side.

As we were getting in bed two nights ago, Hubby asked if I'd locked the garage door. No. So he got up and went out there. He was taking a long time. He came back and said, "I just saw Licorice! She was standing on the red carpet!" Well she thinks she's important enough not to be murdered, sigh....and so do I. Hubby tried to catch her, but she ran....under the car. I didn't say she was the smartest mouse, having already witnessed the cat/tire incident.

And so yesterday when Hubby was out cleaning the car, he saw Licorice dash past him. He actually caught her this time and put re-incarcerated her. She is officially on lockdown; in the hole. He came running in to tell me the good news. I went out to say hello to Licorice. Um... That was not Licorice!

To be continued...

*SNL reference :)

I Didn't Want to Be a Pet Drama Blogger!

2008-10-24T11:01:00.000-07:00

Is anyone sick of the Pet Drama yet, here at Cassoulet Cafe? Well, I certainly am! And it just doesn't quit. So, after the deaths and the vet escapade, there are two new story lines that merit attention.
Blueberry not only gave Skeeter a cold that turned into life threatening pneumonia, but he has now shared the love of what I thought was a facial injury...it's in fact, ringworm.

As I type that word, I have chills going up my spine. No, ringworm isn't an actual worm it is a nasty little fungus....I detest fungus.

Flashback of beauty school, old lady, toenails deformed by fungus so bad that her toenails actually looked like a small tree branches. I was retching and vowing never to do another pedicure the rest of my life, and it did not look dissimilar to this awful mess.
I hope you had your lunch already. Sorry for the visual, but I am one who cannot suffer alone.

So, The Twelve Year Old now has three ringworms on her legs. We're putting clear nail polish on them, as per Yahoo Answers. We'll see. My entire body is itching, convinced I'm covered in ringworms, but I have yet to find one. (And don't even mention the word "lice" to me, or my head will start spontaneously itching and I'll run to the mirror ten thousand times today to check my hair).

When we got the cats, we put the only surviving rodent pet into the garage. Secretly hoping she'd kick the bucket too, but she kept on keepin' on. Two nights ago, as I drove into the garage, I saw a mouse in the bag of trash that I had set out there (not making it to the can yet) I started screaming for Husband to come help! When he came out he started lecturing me, "That's what happens when you just toss the trash bag out here!" I was ticked, since taking the trash out is his job, but horrified that it had actually brought about a mouse! When he walked closer he said, "Hey, that's Licorice! How did she get out of her cage?!" Hmmphh...see, I didn't bring wild mice in with my procrastination!

He put her back in the cage, but yesterday morning when I went out to the garage to load the kids in the car to go to school, The Six Year Old started laughing hysterically and said, "Licorice is out of her cage and sitting behind the tire of the car!" Was she trying to commit suicide, because I'm sure she saw the whole thing go down with Suki last month. She knows I can rid the house of pets with the press of the gas pedal. We tried catching her, but she ran. When I got home, there she was, near the cage, but not in it. Being that the kids were gone....and being that they do not read my blog...I will admit what I did: I opened the garage door, went inside the house, locked the door, and waited.

The official story is that Licorice either escaped (true) or just has a new nest inside the garage (OH. MY......what for Pete's Sake was I thinkingggggggggg?) I left the cage door open in case she wanted to turn herself in. It still sits empty. Duh. And as I am The Great Procrastinator and talented in denial when I don't want to face an ugly truth, I stopped thinking about Licorice breeding in the garage.....

....that is, until I read this post this morning: The Creature From the Garage Loft.

So, I will be sitting here on my bed, trying to come up with a plan, and I think it may involve a mouse trap or letting, gulp, the cats in the garage. Licorice was a good mouse, but let's face it, when Mice Go Wild we need not fear getting all maverick-y to protect our turf.

Who's with me?

How To Remove Stubborn Greek Hair

2008-10-23T12:25:00.000-07:00

I hate waxing. Each time I do it, it breaks me out. But I hate my unwanted hairs too. I was saying this to my friend from Iran (who has perfect eyebrows) and she said, "Why don't you do it the way we do in my country?" The way they do it is called in English, threading. She didn't have any string with her, and wasn't explaining it well enough for me to understand what in the world a piece of string could do for my moustache and eyebrows. (Oh yeah, let's not forget the one, thick, black chin hair that pops out overnight).
So I went to YouTube and found this video:

I was ecstatic! After playing around with some thread, and then finally having my dear friend show me how she does it, I think I have mastered the Art of Threading. This Greek Girl now is facial-hair-free at all times, and no pesky after-waxing zits replacing the mustache.

I urge everyone to try threading themselves, and let me know how it turns out!

My Big Fat Greek Story, Part Two

2008-10-20T10:18:00.000-07:00

Continued from Part One.

G hangs the phone up. Looks up at my parents, and said, "You have a cousin. I know her. She lives here on the island. She is on her way over right now."

My parents, especially my dad, are stunned. They are sitting there, on a little island in the middle of the Aegean Sea, at a virtual stranger's house who claims that my dad, let alone has a cousin he never knew about, but that he knows her and she's on her way over!

My mother is crying, my dad is trying to calm her down saying, "Listen, let's not lose our heads. The chances of this being a real family member aren't good, so let's not get our hopes up, ok?" A car pulls in the drive, but no one gets out. G goes out and sees them and tries to get M, said cousin, to stop crying hysterically and come in. He says, "M, these are good people. It's ok. Let's get you in to meet them, and we'll sort everything out, ok?" You'll understand why she's crying a little later in this post.

So, when she finally gets the courage to walk in the house, she sees my dad, and it wouldn't be an understatement to say that hysteria got the better of everyone. She actually looks like my dad. After big Greek hugs, wailing, squirting tears, more hugs, they all sit down to try to sort things out. Again, my dad isn't 100% convinced. He pulls out the official family paper he'd gotten earlier at the town hall. M looks at it, and almost faints. It is true. They are related.

Not only are they related, but they are first cousins. My dad's father and M's father were brothers! We've always known about M's father, Uncle N, we even have pictures. But we never knew he had a daughter or whatever happened to Uncle N. All family contact was lost.

After everyone composes themselves, M says, "For my whole life, I knew I had an uncle and cousins in America. My father would receive letters and photos, but suddenly they stopped. We've tried for 30 years to find you. The Red Cross even helped us. I even prayed, since I was 8 years old, that maybe one of my cousins would be the same religion as us, and it might make it easier to find each other."

My father, in tears (which is not a common occurrence), asks what religion she is. When she says the same one as my father, the wailing begins again. (We are in a Christian religion that has just 7 million people worldwide and was persecuted by Greek Orthodox in Greece.) For 35 years, my father was disowned by his mother for his religion. M was disowned by her own country for her religion. They never knew they had cousins. And here, on this unassuming random day, she receives a phone call and their lives are forever changed. But wait, it gets even better.

She invites them to her home to look at the old photos of her father's that she kept. They go to her home, and she pulls the photo album out and says, "I do not know who many of the people are in the photos, except I know which one is your father." When she opens the photo album, there are some of the same photos we have in our old photo albums! There are photos of my dad's father, and...my dad's two older sisters! My dad is overcome with emotion, as this is a very familiar photo of his dad and sisters. He turns the photo over, and there is his dad's writing. He cannot believe that here in this little house, on this little island, in this stranger's home, there are photos of his father and sisters (who live in California and we are very close to).

Then M says, "Do you want to see the house where your father was born?....We are standing in it!" Her house. This is all too much, and they hug and sob and promise to never lose each other again.

It is at this point that I receive a phone call on my mobile. We were driving to Spain that day. My mom calls, and I thought someone was dead, because she was sobbing. When she explained they found a cousin, I was in shock. When she explained briefly the other important details, I almost fainted in the car. Then she said, "M doesn't speak English very well, but she's fluent in French. Here she is now..." So she put M on the phone. We were both sobbing and she kept saying "Je t'aime, je t'aime!" (I love you!) and she begged us to come.

When my parents flew back into Toulouse a few days later, at midnight, they were too excited to sleep. My dad unpacked the ouzo that he'd brought from Grandfather's Island, poured us all glasses of it, and proceeded to tell every scrumptious detail of the miraculous visit. The next day, he called his sisters and one of my aunt's got out her photo album. She had had this photo of a little girl that she knew was a cousin, but didn't know how or who. She scanned it, and then emailed it to us and M. M called and said, "That is me!" So, all these years, M has had photos of our family, and my aunt had a photo of M.

We found out the reason why we were never productive in our search for M. When a Greek woman marries, the spelling of her last name gets altered. In M's case, the S was dropped. And of course, she couldn't find us, because my father was using his stepdad's last name. Something he'll always regret.

You might want to know what my grandmother, the Dragon Lady, had to say about all this when she heard through the grapevine. Well, she promptly made a nasty phone call to my dad and said that it was impossible and this woman was not a family member. My dad said, "Mom, I'm the one who went thousands of miles to Dad's island, I'm the one who met her, and I'm the one who has the proof from the town hall! You've lied to me my whole life about who died, and no one died when and where you said they did."

My parents, M and her husband, all speak twice a day on Skype. I talk to her too as much as I can. She is a lovely person, who cries every time we speak because she can't believe what a miracle this is. Her English has vastly improved, and we are all beginning to learn Greek. My parents just bought their tickets to go back for an entire month. And then M and her husband will come here in July! All my aunts will come, and we'll have a very emotional, aka very Greek, family reunion.

PS. I showed her my hairy arms on the webcam and asked her if this was typical Greek Girl stuff. She laughed so hard she almost fell out of her chair. Then assured me..."yes, you are a true Greek woman!"

Who the Heck Gives Their Cat a Fake Last Name?

2008-10-16T13:56:00.000-07:00

My Big Fat Greek Story Part Two is coming, I promise! It'll be worth the wait.

But what I wanted to talk about today is really important...

Has anyone else here given their pet a last name? Seriously, I am not a weirdo, but calling my cat a last name that I made up sorta makes me feel like one.

When my brothers and I were growing up, we loved to make each other laugh when we weren't making each other cry. One of the "games" we played over the years, was to come up with the funniest sounding name. Each of us taking turns trying to outdo the others' creation. Many names were created over the years, but none sticks out in my head more than the one I now call my new little cat.

My son picked the name Skeeter, because my brother (now grown, of course!) just wrote him and letter and said he got a pet mouse and named him Skeeter. I had actually forgotten that Skeeter was part of the funniest-name-ever-created-by-us, until one day, I wanted Skeeter to come in the room, and I yelled, "Skeeter! Skeeter Magillicutti!"

My husband looked at me, and said, "What was that?!" I was actually embarrassed, for I am not one of those people who usually gush all over their pets and make up names for them. (Not that there's anything wrong with that!) I burst into laughter when I realized I had been calling him that for several days...it had seemed so natural, because whenever we wanted to make each other laugh, my brothers and I would say, Skeeter Magillicutti.

Maybe this is only funny in my head, but it's worth it to ask, am I the only one who has given their cat a last name other than your own?

So, because Skeeter has a surname, our cat Blueberry needs one too. We've come up with some funny ones, but they just don't flow as well as Skeeter Magillicutti. I would love some ideas, and the funnier the better, as long as it can flow off my tongue easily. Here are some things about Blueberry to consider: He is a Russian blue (so we were told/hence the name Blueberry), he pees on things, he literally hugs people, he likes shoulders, he is crazy and can be skittish.

Here are some of our creations:

Blueberry Juarez
Blueberry's Berries (get it? lol)
Blueberry Rodriguez
Blueberry Vodka
Blueberry Babushkin
Blueberry Gorbechev
Blueberry Bagel

My Big Fat Greek Story, Part One

2008-10-15T09:45:00.000-07:00

It took years for me to convince my father to go to France for a visit. He didn't even go with my mother to see us when we were living there. He is a homebody, he likes his recliner when he's not working, and now that he owns a laptop, that sweetened the deal. Finally, he succumbed and agreed that he would go with us in March/April '08. But there was a stipulation: If he was going all that way, he wanted to go to Greece, to the island where his father was born and grew up.

That was fine with me, however, being that the dollar was down, and we are five, we just couldn't swing it for ourselves. Besides, we knew we'd need a break from each other by then! My dad's father died when my dad was 15. My dad's mother, who I refuse to call Grandma, is not a nice person. She disowned my dad when he started studying the Bible with the religion he became. When Dad was little, she kicked my his father out for another guy. My grandmother, who refused to allow my dad to call his own father "Dad", but instead by his first name, also refused to let my dad use his real last name; a very Greek, but unique last name. When my Dad started studying the Bible, his mother told him to stop using the stepdad's last name that she had all his life forced on Dad, and told him to now start using his father's last name, because he was "dragging the stepdad's family name through the mud." Nevermind that the step dragged his own name through the mud, in ways I won't even elaborate on here. This man, I have only seen once, because he was a disgusting human being who every decent person in our family called The Nazi. The Nazi and The Dragon Lady, is what they were called.

So, because Dad can tend to be stubborn, he refused to stop using The Nazi's last name (after all, he was only 20, newly married, rebelling against his mom and stepdad's abuse). He regrets this decision today not to take back his rightful Greek name.

Dragon Lady assured Dad that there were no family members left on the island that my grandfather was born on. They all fled to Egypt, or were killed, she said. We did internet searches on the last name, but to no avail. There was not one good lead. As I said before, all we had were family legends and some photos.

We have family photos of Dad's aunts and uncles, siblings of his father. We know the names, we know what happened to some of them. Still, no leads to any family left on the island. This is why I felt like my parents' time and money to go to this island was going to be somewhat wasted. Don't get me wrong, I thought it would be very neat for my dad to see what his father saw as a young boy. But I didn't want Dad to get his hopes up in finding family.

First they spent 4 days in Athens, and Mom said that Dad kept talking to everyone they met about his father and his real last name, and did they ever hear of anyone with that last name? Nevermind that it was like finding a needle in a haystack, he persevered. (I am told by a guy from Greece that this is most definitely a Greek thing, and that Dad didn't embarrass himself.) :)

In Athens, he got the number of a friend of a friend that lives on the island of my grandfather. So when my parents arrived for their 3 day stay on the island, they immediately called this person, who happens to be the same religion as us. Happy, this man who I'll call G. told my parents to meet him in the center of the village at 6pm, he would come meet them.

Meanwhile, my parents explored and visited with local townspeople, who were very willing to listen to my father's story of island heritage. Each person said they hoped he would find family, or even land! (Is that Greek or what?) As they were telling the hotel owner, who spoke perfect English, he got all excited and shouted that they must follow him to the Town Hall to tell them the story and find some records of family members. It was just next door. When they left, they had in possession a an officially stamped and sealed family document!

Yes, it's true, Grandfather was born here! Here was the date of his birth, all the siblings, the parents, and others. Everything was just as we thought. Including the confirmation that all the family left the island and there were none left.

Very satisfied that they at least accomplished something, even if it didn't lead to actual family members, my parents left the building to go meet G. This was more than they really hoped for.

So at 6pm, they waiting at the meeting point. G. came driving up and introduced himself and his kids to my parents, and then said, "Get in the car, we take you to our house for coffee and visiting." Stunned, a little worried, but taken by the friendliness and sincerity of G., they got in the car. (Mind you, this is not a city, and he was a friend of a friend.)

G. took them to his house, and they started visiting over some Greek coffee. Dad explained that he was the first family member to come to Grandfather's Island, they just got a document with a family tree, and they were happy. G. said, "Tell me the family name of your father." So, Dad told him. Stunned silence.

G said, "Excuse me for a moment, I have a phone call to make." My Dad does not understand Greek anymore, but it was very evident there was excitement going on this end of the phone call. There were intermittent questions asked of my dad by G. about family history, places, dates, names. My dad answered all of them. G was getting louder and louder on the phone, smiles, big, excited Greek gestures...my parents were sitting there wondering what in the world was going on or about to happen.

G hangs the phone up. Looks up at my parents, and said, "You have a cousin. I know her. She lives here on the island. She is on her way over right now."

To be continued......

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Vet...

2008-10-14T13:51:00.000-07:00

Did I happen to mention my cat drama yet? Oh yes, I know I have, but it's worth mentioning again and again. Because it doesn't stop in this household, for some unknown reason. Skeeter, our kitty that survived the wheel of my minivan last month, seemed to be practically dying this morning when I got up. He didn't come running out of the laundry room with Blueberry, the new cat. When I looked at him, his mouth was open and he was wheezing. His eyes were drippy, and he was lethargic.
So, I went to pack him up in his box, and found out that my husband, who always throws away the wrong things and keeps the things I want to be rid of, hit again. He threw away the two cat boxes last week that I have been saving since July.
Skeeter is really docile and cuddly, never scratches or wriggles. So I put him in a topless box, and headed down the road about 2 hours ago. He jumped out and ran under my foot. I pulled over, picked him up, and tried to hold him while I was driving....something I yell at other people for within my own soundproof vehicle. I could have kept hold of him if his breath didn't have the kind of green fumes you only see on cartoons. I gasped and let him go. He ran under the back seat.
I arrived at the vet, got out of the car, called Skeeter, and realized there was no way he was coming out. I just started unbuckling The Toddler when Skeeter made a mad dash out the door. Lickety split, I was down on him like a rat on a Cheeto, as hubby likes to say when he needs to make me laugh.
Only, Skeeter was determined to get away. Five feet away from where we were was the main road through town with non-stop traffic careening by. I was determined I was not going to have to tell my kids I was responsible for another feline flattening. So, the only thing I could grab was Skeeter's tail. As I was grabbing for it desperately, I flew head first onto the pavement, to the horror of many passersby and the entire waiting room at the vet's office. I was on the ground, screaming Toddler strapped in the car seat, and holding onto my cat's tail for dear life, completely mortified at my position. I hid in the car for a few minutes, mustered up enough pride to get up and into the waiting room.
Hearing that the cat was open-mouth breathing, they rushed out to the car and got him, and brought him immediately into an exam room. The doctor said he has a severe case of pneumonia, and that I should get a feline AIDS/Leukemia test as well. I asked him if Skeeter has either, would he have to be put down? He said yes, or make him live in a bubble. I said, "Let's just treat the pneumonia, my kids cannot handle another cat death."
Meanwhile, I averted another death in the exam room. As we were waiting for the doctor to come back, The Lightening Fast Toddler (and I do not exaggerate), grabbed my keys out of my purse, found an outlet, and was 1 centimeter away from plunging a key into it.

Shocked that my bill was $105, I paid and started to walk outside. Skeeter went kuh-razeeeee, and pulled out every claw that he'd managed to get the Soft Paws off of, and dig them wildly into my neck flesh and arms, while the back leg claws ripped to shreds the plastic sack I was carrying full of his expensive meds. I dropped The Toddler's hand out of sheer pain, and then screamed because a truck was backing up and she is FAST. It seemed like minutes, but really only micro seconds, that I realized that I had to let Skeeter go (which meant certain death) so I could hang on to The Toddler.

Right then, a very caring young couple sprang out of their car and rushed to my aid. I never, ever ask for help with my kids from a stranger, but I was almost in tears and asked the girl to hold my toddler's hand. The guy got Skeeter and held his paws in a way that calmed him right down, and helped me get my crew loaded.

I flipped the box upside down on top of Skeeter, angry at him for making a potential situation a hazard to my child. No, it's not his fault, it's mine for not going and purchasing a cat carrier before I took him to the vet. But I just wanted to get him there before he got any sicker.

I'm home now, still shaking, and unable to do any of my errands I've already put off way past due.

Maybe I'm not cut out to be a pet owner.

What I Did During Summer Vaction (aka, Why I Didn't Have Time to Blog)

2008-10-10T00:01:00.000-07:00

Got 3 rodents for the kids. 2 died.

Got a kitten. It had to be put to sleep after a week.

Got two more kittens.

Celebrated 15th wedding anniversary

Had friends from France come stay for 4 nights.

Took them to do lots of American stuff (upcoming story)

Back to school! One First Grader. One started Middle School.

The First Grader refused to go to school without morning drama of hanging on to door frames, sobbing, screaming and flopping around on floor.

During this AM drama, resorted to draggin the child out the door and not noticing the new kittens ran out.

I backed over the white one and killed it.

Hysteria. Guilt. Accusations.
Cat funeral that night.
Skeeter, the one left behind, in depression. Lots of cuddling for him.

Got another cat to ease Skeeter and Middler Schoolers lonliness.
New cat (Blueberry) peed on me while in my bed. Twice. On my new down alternative comforter. Peed on daughter's bed once, with the added bonus of poop.

Cat excommunicated to the outdoors.

Can we say the word "DRAMA"?

In memory of Suki, the funniest, bestest hunting I cat I ever knew. I'm sorry. :(

The Price of French Essence

2008-06-09T07:04:00.000-07:00

I spent an insane amount for Essence in France on our trip. No, I'm not talking about the newest fragrance at Sephora, or the hottest brand of hair product. Essence does sound chic, especially in French, doesn't it? But for those who don't speak French or who haven't been to France, the price of Essence is the The Hot Topic today in America. Essence is the French word for something very exotic...uh....gasoline or petrol would be the appropriate words in English.

Yesterday I got a real bargain, I paid $4.21 for a gallon. Asking for $30 worth used to fill my tank "back in the day". Not yesterday. It took about 12.5 seconds to get that much petrol. The good news is my wait in the gas line has been cut down drastically.

But seriously, Hubby and I decided a long time ago that we will not complain about our gas prices, because they could be worse. They could be FRENCH. When we were in the Toulouse area in March/April of this year, it was $7.50 a gallon. The very best deal we got in France was 1.19 Euros/liter for gazole (diesel--unlike here, diesel is cheaper in Europe). It is now 1.49 euros/liter at the same pump as of a week ago (my friend gives me updates). That works out to about NINE DOLLARS A GALLON!

So I will not complain about the price of our gas for another four dollars per gallon increase. If I do forget my vow and I start to curse the final answer on the pump at my next fill-er-up, I will leave and promptly drive home and find my credit card statements for March/April '08, and I will look at all the $12o-ish charges that filled up our tiny Ford tank.

At least the bread and wine were cheap.

Evidence That French Women Do Get Fat...

2008-06-04T08:56:00.000-07:00

...or else why did I see this?

Do you see what that sign says? CURVES. Yep, the very same sign that hangs in my little hometown hangs all over France. This photo was taken of a Curves in a tiny village about 20 minutes outside Toulouse. I assure you, these things are springing up everywhere over there!

Why is this touching a nerve? Well, first of all, let me preface this by saying I have not read all of Mireille Guiliano's book French Women Don't Get Fat. But I did see an interview of her on Oprah and something she said to Oprah has stuck in my head, waiting for my next trip to France to prove she was fabricating the lives of typical French women. She said that women in France do not go to gyms...and I am pretty darn positive she implied gyms don't even exist in France.

But I am here to reassure y'all that this is just not true. While I completely agree that there are many more fat people in America than in France, women in France are not as skinny as they used to be, in general. My French Friends also talk about weight and diet as much as my American friends. And can I just admit that at one dinner, I was the only person at the entire table to partake of the glorious cheese platter? Stunned, as the platter was passed to me last with a clean knife and un-cut cheeses, I asked why in the world was I the only one?! The women laughed and said, "Oh, we bought the cheese for you, ma cherie. We don't eat cheese anymore, because it is much too fattening!" Shocked, appalled and horrified, I took a slab of each of the 5 fromages. So impressed were my lovely dieting Frenchie friends, one of them sweetly said, "You are a real French girl, CC! Ok, I will have some cheese with you! You are so brave!"

Here is a quote from French Women Don't Get Fat that directly conflicts with all the real French women I know:

At the outset, let's state that French women simply do not suffer the terror of
kilos that afflicts so many of their American sisters. All the chatter about
diets I hear at cocktail parties in America would make any French woman cringe.
In France, we don't talk about "diets," certainly not with strangers. We may
eventually share a trick or two we've learned with a very close friend -- some
cunning refinement of an old French principle. But mainly we spend our social
time talking about what we enjoy: feelings, family, hobbies, philosophy,
politics, culture, and, yes, food, especially food (but never diets).
French
women take pleasure in staying thin by eating well, while Americans typically
see it as a conflict and obsess over it. French women don't skip meals or
substitute slimming shakes for them. They have two or three courses at lunch and
then another three (sometimes four) at dinner. And with wine, bien sûr. How do
they do it? Well, that's a story. That's the story. One hint: They eat with
their heads, and they do not leave the table feeling stuffed or guilty.

I asked my French Friends about their eating habits. The typical modern French family has either a heavy lunch or a heavy dinner. NOT BOTH. They call it "their main meal." I was asked several times by people when being invited for dinner, "Oh, will you have had your main meal at lunch? Or will dinner be your main meal?" so that they could decide if they should prepare something light or heavy.

I saw many more overweight people on this month in France, than I ever have. I such much more prepackaged and processed foods as well. And I also saw lots of dieting campaigns, calorie totals on packaging and diet food and drink.

In our town, Wal-Mart has a certain genre of customers. Pajama-wear is in at our Wal-Mart. Bras are not usually worn under PJs at home, so why would one put one on to go out? And you can't go out in PJ's without yer slippers. When we were in France, my dad kept saying "I don't see any Wal-Mart shoppers here!" Finally, I saw one at the Casino Marche' in Revel. In France, it's true that normally people dress up to faire les courses, or go grocery shopping. So this was a shock to see someone in giant sweats. But it's just another testament to me that French women can and do get fat, Mme Guiliano! And they also like their Curves!

Being someone who has struggled since I was a teen with "food issues", to put it in a nutshell, I really am disgusted by the notion from someone who has lived longer in America than in France (Ms. Guilliano said it herself) that there is a nation of women who just somehow "get it" and are perfect in form and mentally do not have the need or capacity to worry about their figures, nor what they put into their mouths. Though I don't wish anyone to have the relationship with food that I've had, I also am glad to see that women are women, no matter where they live.

We all worry about how we look, we worry about what we put in our mouths, and then there are times when we don't give a rip and we eat what we want and we just worry about it later.

French women aren't perfect and they come in all shapes and sizes. There, that makes me feel better. Ms. Guiliano needs to quit contributing to American women's complexes that are already there because of the media.

Now...anyone want to send me a box of macarons? I've got a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to wash them down with. :)

*Photo taken by moi, Cassoulet Cafe.

My Greek Hair-itage

2008-05-06T07:13:00.000-07:00

If you follow La Belette Rouge's blog, you'll have read yesterday about her Greek friend Nicky, who made her feel inferior because, and let me quote here,

I was mesmerized by her "otherness" as she seemed to be everything I was not. Where I was painfully pale and could not lay out for more than five minutes without risking red hot pain and burning blisters, Helios seemed to worship Nicky by amplifying her already bronzed beauty with an Aphrodite like glow. I had strawberry red hair that was cut into a short and snappy 80's hair do that accented my collection of colourful earrings---while Nicky had extremely long black hair that was longer, blacker and thicker than any hair I have ever seen. Her shiny eyes flashed like day-glow Kalamata olives, while mine were light and blue, much like an anemic body of water in the Ionic of which no fisherman fished and no tourists toured.

I wrote a comment to help LBR feel better about her pale skin by telling her the Greek Girl's side of things, which started to get so long winded that I decided to turn it into a post. So, where I may have felt proud of my fast and dark tanning ability, it was only to counteract the hidden torment of my Greek "otherness". In a word...hair. While most of us Greeks have thick, dark shiny hair (and true, it's nice) it doesn't limit itself to the scalp. It seems to think if it's pretty up there, it'll be pretty everywhere.

Let's start with the leg hair. From the age of, oh say three, Greek girls start sprouting long black hair that is longer and blacker than any hair I've ever seen. Ok, so maybe you can't braid it, but you sure can see it from across the classroom if you've not put on ankle length pants and knee high socks! And it's not really acceptable for a 4 year old to start shaving her legs, she's got a few years before she can achieve that milestone. In the meantime, while all the non-olive skinned girls with blonde locks and smoothe hairless arms and legs looked forward to Shorts Day in elementary school, this hairy Greek would have flashbacks of the previous Shorts Day disaster, when her blonde non-Greek mother convinced her no one would notice her hairy legs. She was wrong. Images of 10 year old boys jumping around like apes and making monkey noises still haunt my 5th grade memories.

Which prompted me to secretly start shaving in time for the next Shorts Day. And the results were astounding! I had the smoothest, hairless (and don't forget tannest!) legs in the 6th grade! But my newly bald legs didn't make "happily ever after". There was another problem...arm hair. Now, I had threatened my poor mother with shaving my arms for years. I always got the same shrieking response, "You'll get whiskers on your arms!!!!!" My dad's whiskers were enough to keep me from actually carrying out the act. Being full Greek, he must shave a minimum of twice a day to keep it tame.

And speaking of facial hair, this brings up The Mustache. Should I even delve into this topic? I'll just give you a clue: dumb boys and catty girls. There. 'Nuff said.

Less embarrassing than being envied by pre-pubescant boys, but equally important to tame down, The Unibrow. Do you see where this is all going? A good Greek girl should buy stock in wax. Because, as I told LBR, we Greeks may make you jealous of our tans, but being Greek takes a lot of waxing!

No Rain in Spain

2008-05-01T15:27:00.000-07:00

The weather in the south of France was so bad for so long, we had to flee to Spain. As soon as we crossed the border...

...sunshine! We stayed in Lloret de Mar, not so nice, but our day in Tossa de Mar was fabuloso! (Is that Spanish?) We spent several hours on the beach and then walked up to the castle and village that made it one of the most beautiful beaches I personally have been to.

After the walk, we ate at a restaurant next to the beach. It was a hotel restaurant and we were sure we'd get mediocre food, but we were starving and it looked to be the best option. We started with a mandatory pitcher of homemade sangria.

It was excellent! We had one of the best salads I've ever had, and it was beautiful (no photo) and we also had the seafood paella, which was incredible.

Apparently there was a little old "mommy" in the kitchen who made the paella from scratch, and she was from Valencia. (So said the manager.) It was great, and happily there were two langoustines, so we could each have one. YUM!
(Did I mention that it was almost half the price for food in Spain? The groceries were awesome! I bought a big jug of Sangria that was better than the one we had in the restaurant and it only cost 80 euro cents. Gas was cheaper too, only about $7.00 a gallon when converted. Can you hear my sarcastic tone? So, I will refrain from complaining about paying the $3.79 a gallon yesterday.)

Ahhhhh, Spain. It was so nice. And it was so kind as to give me some sun to bring back to Auriac, which lasted the rest of the trip!

Honey, I Shrunk My Pants!

2008-04-21T15:03:00.000-07:00

Did my pants shrink when we got home? Did my dryer dry them too tight? Why, oh, why do I look a bit different in my once-perfect fitting Loft jeans now that I'm home?
Oh yeah...it might have been all the cheese consuming that took place every day for 4 weeks in a row.
Could it have been the two raclette dinners in one week? Maybe it was the 70% fat Boursault that I was warned against, yet bought and ate anyway (think whipped-butter!). La Brique was my next favorite. Then there was the goat cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves and tied with a pretty little ribbon that made me splurge. The fig and walnut Boursin was also quite addicting. Perac, my long time fave, was consumed more times that I can count. And my parents brought back loads of cheese from Greece that we dregged in flour and then fried.
Then there were all the Petits Filous for breakfast, too many flavors that needed tasting. Chocolatines, brioche and homemade jams from my aunt also needed testing.
Then there were the rillettes de canard that became a new favorite food during this trip. Rillettes are basically meat and fat. Normally, I don't like rillettes, but the duck one was too die for.
I did try to counteract all that fat with red wine, naturally. And when we spent a few days in Spain, I could not pass up homemade Sangria, could I?
But I am sure my washer was accidentally set to "Hot" and it shrunk my pants. As well as my belt.

Wine in scrambled eggs? Why not?! We're in France! (Don't worry, we didn't!)

Days 1 and 2---Getting Out of the USA

2008-04-18T13:53:00.000-07:00

We were supposed to leave at 8pm. Getting the-heck-outta-Dodge proved harder than just hopping the plane and flying away. Our group was 7 people and our checked luggage was 14. We arrived in the airport huffing and puffing and glad to finally get under way. Much to our dismay, the counter agents were waiting for us, already apologizing profusely before we could even hear what was about to happen. Apparently fog in SFO delayed the flight down there, which meant we would not make the SFO to Munich portion. And guess what? There was not another flight until 24 hours later. Irritated, upset and tired, I explained that we payed EXTRA to have this night flight and minimal layovers. They said they'd do anything, even reroute us. I insisted that we get rerounted through a more reliable airport, PDX. We still couldn't leave until the next day, so I said they should upgrade us to Business Class. She said she'd try.

Long story short, the reroute worked in the way that we didn't have fog to contend with. However, it added a seven hour layover in Frankfurt! Not to mention having to reload our luggage into vehicles, drive to a hotel, check in with our luggage, check out again, with our luggage and drag it into the airport a second time. UGH. We asked if we could atleast get a one day pass for the business lounge. Nothin' doin'. I really think we deserved the Business Upgrade.

So, after a tiring night in a hotel (paid for by United at least), we returned to the airport to get our boarding passes to find that some of us did indeed get upgraded to Business.

However, the rest of us got this end of the plane.

How did that happen? Maybe because my mom was a lot more patient with the counter lady than I was. Or because we were traveling with kids. At any rate, I'm glad my parents got to enjoy the completely horizontal seats with full body massagers and first class cuisine. How do I know how good it was? The wonderful flight attendants on Lufthansa allowed us to switch seats and hang out with the upper crust ;) I love Lufthansa. I hate United (but that will be the last day of this trip).

So, we were arriving 24 hours after we were supposed to, but at least we were getting there. The gite owner was informed and she had a cake, bread, and coffee waiting for us. The gite was more than we expected and the owners were the ultimate nice people. We were about 1 hour outside of Toulouse, among the vibrant yellow fields of canola and bright green wheat grass. If you ever had a vision of the South of France, this was it!

Back in Civilization

2008-04-11T12:52:00.000-07:00

We just arrived home at 2am this morning. I can't believe I can turn my laptop on and get an actual internet connection! We did not know, but the gite did not have internet or phone service. We were in the boonies. Not even dial up. Oh yes, France Telecom was phoned and promised to have it up and running in two days...I knew better. They arrived 1 week before we left, hooked up the line, but didn't bring the ADSL stuff, and blamed it on a bad filter. I guess in France, the filter is always to blame, from what everyone told us.

So, hello! It's so strange to be posting, and I don't even know where to begin. We had a great time, with frustrating times, and fun times, and sad times and joyful times. It was a success! And I seriously ate my way through our trip. Thanks to the long, steep staircase in the gite, I burned off the fat as fast as it was shoved into my mouth. :) Speaking of the gite, it was not what I expected. It was SO. MUCH. BETTER. The owners were wonderful, and the gite was beautiful, and the setting was breathtaking.

So, as I have jet lag and am a bit out of it at the moment, why not post some questions you are dying to have answered, and we'll start off that way, shall we?

Oh, first things first, I had several macarons, some were good, some were disgusting. But they are spendy and there are millions of other pastries in France that are 100 times better. As well, I got nauseated each time after eating one, even the minis. But I think my favorite was a big pistachio one from Paul. It was like eating a pistachio flavoried brownie. Yum!

Ok, ask away!!!!

Bon Voyage!

2008-03-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

I'm sending myself off to France today...

....but I know y'all* are wishing me a bon voyage too. :)

See you on the other side of the pond!

*That's for you, LBR! ;)

More Flowers from France

2008-03-11T09:36:00.000-07:00

I struggled to get up this morning, the time change seems to be killing me this time. But as I sipped my coffee and opened my inbox, I was happily greeted with another flowery letter from Mme Gite-Owner.

Here is the direct translation:

Before your departure, before your takeoff to France, I'm coming to wish you a very good trip. I know that the trip is a little long, especially for the children. But in general, children suprise us by their adaptation. We have often been astonished by their patience in airplanes, and their ability to play and sleep....it will be fine.

If you have need of anything, any service at all, don't hesitate to let me know.

We send you, from France, our warmest thoughts. It is with joy that we say to you now, "see you Saturday!"

Beautiful trip to the family,

Mme Gite Owner

Cassoulet's First Book Review!

2008-03-04T13:19:00.000-08:00

On a gloomy day, last Thursday, with nothing special having happened all day, I was complaining of boredom when I heard the familiar screech of a brown delivery truck coming to a halt in front of my house. We all ran for the door, each hoping it was something for us personally. It was my turn, though. My name was on the package! I opened up the well-travelled cardboard box and this is what it contained:

I love books, especially of places I've been. I was excited to view the photos in this one, but honestly I didn't have high expectations for it. I like coffee table books, but most of them never have enough information to satisfy my "who-what-when-where-how" inquisitive mind. And let's face it, books on Paris are becoming a dime-a-dozen thing, what with Ross single-handedly curbing the appetite for Parisian paraphernalia.

I wasn't feeling so well, so I changed into my pj's right away and settled into my red papasan chair with the book, thinking I'd get through it in about 15 minutes at the most. I was wrong.

Historic Photos of Paris, by Rebecca Schall, is a visual timeline of Paris dating back to the mid-1800's. Each photograph is clearly explained, with dates, events and background. Each chapter (time period) begins with a rundown of the historical happenings and photos to back it up. There is sufficient reading to be done, fortunately. One of my favorite photos is this one:

It is Paris as it was before it became the epitome of chic-ness we now associate it with. It was the slums. It was a disease ridden, rodent infested, City of Filth. Trash, raw sewage and who-knows-what freely flowed into the water supply, resulting in countless deaths. Aren't we glad that changed! This book shows us the changes as they took place through intriguing photography that gives us a crystal clear picture that is most definitely worth a thousand words.

Another favorite photo is this one, documenting the historic flood of Paris in the early 20th century.

Only in Paris can walking across a plank look so glamorous!

This book kept my interest and I found myself sad when I reached the end. I love history when I've been to a place. I was able to recognize places in the photos that my own two feet have tread, but decades and even a century later.

This is a must have book for any Paris lover. If you wish to see more pages, click here to see a short video. Enjoy!

Getting A Good Deal in France

2008-03-02T21:54:00.000-08:00

What can you get right now for four hundred and eighty-five dollars? Three hundred euros, for one thing. The exchange rate at my bank last Friday was a whopping $1.59 per Euro.

Dining out is expensive in France, and many times the food is just mediocre, so we'll be eating chez nous often, and chez nos amis. Of course, when in villages or centre ville, we'll not skimp on sitting down for a break at a cafe' for some boissons.

Speaking of mediocre food, we were invited to a certain restaurant twice by friends. Each time we got the invitation, it was accompanied by phrases like, "It's so cheap! It's so good! It's all-you-can-eat, just like in America!" We went to lunch at Flunch. It was not cheap. It was not good. It was only the over-cooked, limp, sans flavor vegetables that were all-you-can-eat. It made Hometown Buffet look like a foodie hang out. We had a Flunchy Lunch. Don't be tempted, don't be fooled. You won't save any euros here!

So where else can I get some bang for my buck? I suppose if we have the need to go to a doctor or hospital, it'll be dirt cheap compared to here. Which reminds me of my trip to the opthalmologist in Toulouse.

One day we had a picnic with friends outdoors in the sunshine. As we were leaving to go home, my eyes starting tearing up and turning red. By the time we got back to our flat, water was pouring out of them and I could barely keep my eyes open. Later that night, the pain was so severe, I had to keep a cold wet washcloth on them and moan in agony. This was pre-Lasik, so I had to take my contacts out, rendering me as good as blind. I managed to get a couple hours sleep, but woke to crusty eyes, painfully red, and itchy. Classic pink eye symptoms.

A friend made an appointment for me with an opthalmologist. She warned me that it was very expensive without health insurance. We knew this was a risk we were taking living over there without employment or benefits. But I had to go. I needed a prescription for eye drops asap.

She told us which bus to take to get there and as she is a very sweet person, she even met us there to make sure everything went smoothly. I entered the office, which strangely resembled an apartment living room. The doctor invited me into the exam room, which was also her personal office. Wearing corrective lenses since I was twelve, I was no stranger to eye exams or pink eye. The exam started off familiar enough, but then came the confused exclamations from the doctor. She seemed seriously unable to understand why my eyes were red and burning. She kept mumbling and sighing as if I had the first case of pink eye she'd ever seen.

She asked me what I did the day before. I told her we had a picnic with friends. She asked me if I got anything in my eyes. No, I did not (Wouldn't I have already put two and two together on my own?) But then my friend, who was in the exam room with me, piped up in an effort to help and said, "But wait, you made salsa for the picnic. Maybe you got some in your eyes!" No, I did not, I exclaimed and rolled my eyes, mentally.) Then the doctor says, "Hmmm....I think that indeed you burned your eyes when you made salsa. It was from the poivrons. Yes, that explains it now."

No, that doesn't explain it, I was screaming in my head. But I calmly explained that I did not put poivrons in my salsa. Nor would I ever put bell peppers in my salsa because what you put in salsa is chilis. What I normally put in my salsa is jalapenos. And yes, I did have a terrible jalapenos vs. eyes experience. But as I could never find them in France, it was impossible that they were the cause of this pain and suffering!

The doctor looked genuinely flabbergasted that I was not accepting her explanation. So then she said, "You said you were at a picnic. It was sunny, non? Did you wear sun glasses?" Yes I did. "Did you look at the sun?" she asked. Um, no. But as I also apparently put bell peppers in my salsa and flung it into my eyes without memory of it all, maybe I did look at the sun?!

"That's the explanation", she said again. "The sun burned your eyes because I'm sure your sun glasses are not good enough, and you must have been looking at it. I will give you a prescription for drops"....blah blah blah.

She got up and walked over to her desk to fill out the paperwork. She gasped when I told her I did not have insurance and I would be paying for it with cash. She said, "But, you will have to pay 100%!!!", horrified at what that would mean for me. She scared me. She scribbled on her papers and then stated the amount with reluctance. I had to ask my friend to make sure I had understood correctly.

It amounted to 21 dollars.

I gleefully paid the money, left, and told my friend that would have cost $120 minimum at my opthalmologist back home.

I got the same treatment from the pharmacist when I told him I didn't have insurance. The drops that cost me $40 here, cost $3 that day in the Toulouse pharmacy. The Gucci sunglasses I purchased later, to replace my inferior ones that caused my eye trauma, did cost me, however. Still, it amounted to the price of the American eye doc, no Guccis included.

I really don't want any of us to have to see a doctor during our month in France, but if we do, we shall receive a bargain...even at full price.

Changing Our Image Overseas

2008-02-28T23:26:00.000-08:00

Looking into the future two weeks, you've just caught a glimpse of us.

Yes, we are changing our image a bit. Here in the USA, we have the "Soccer Mom" look goin' on in our Honda Odyssey. When we land across the pond, we'll be having our chariot waiting for us at the airport. No, we won't be getting a cute little Smart Car, or even a Mini Cooper. We will need even more elbow-traveling-room with extended family along, and we'll get it (and then some) in this Renault Trafic Passenger Bus.

Just look at all the room we'll be havin'! It's like the Odyssey on steroids. No one can yell, "Stop touching me!" and be believed that their seat mate has been making contact. They'll have to resort to "Stop looking at me!" during the month abroad. To me, this looks more like an Airbus than a Renault.

Which brings us to the issues: How in the world do I think we will ever find a parking space now? Toulouse, as most big cities, has parking issues. And not just parking, but narrow streets that may or may not be wide enough to accommodate anything larger than an early 80's Peugot 206. Some streets are only wide enough for a bike and a baguette. Finding spots the length of a Smart Car is even hard. We have no hope in centre ville. This baby will have to be strictly for road trips.

And how will we react when we go to fill this baby up at the pump the first of many times? At around $7/gallon, it's gonna hurt. Bad.

And does this mean that we officially will have the "Rugby Mom" look goin' on? I wonder if Soccer Mom Van translates in French culture.

I think not.

Three Weeks!

2008-02-21T23:32:00.000-08:00

Three weeks! That is all I have left to get my act together! I have been shopping non-stop (mostly without progress). I am trying to find gifts for everyone, plus get some much needed things for the trip. I am also working on two memes that I got tagged for, and hopefully I'll have them up tomorrow.

As I mentioned before, I got some great jeans. Well, then I went to Loft later and found the perfect pair of jeans! Why didn't I just start there first? I can't return the other pairs, as I have already washed them. Anyone want some DKNY cute jeans for cheap? ;) Much too long on my short legs. As usual. So the Loft jeans I got in Petite, and they are the perfect length for me, and are a nice dark blue, with flap pockets. But, I need some shoes to go with. I have boots, but can't wear boots every day on cobblestones. What would you suggest? Cute, but comfy, please.

So I bought some Burt's Bees gift packs, Tips and Toes; one for my aunt and one for a friend. It has cute travel sized tins of the good smelling stuff, everything to give yourself a yummy smelling mani/pedi cures. I was so overly curious about all the products that I opened one of them to test them all out. They passed. Now it's mine! :)

I was reading Les Masson's blog today about Carmex being a wonder-product in France, so I'm wondering if I should get several and give them to friends over there? Can they not get tingling lip stuff there? Speaking of, I also got some Soap and Glory brand limp plumper for myself for the trip. This was no small feat, as certain Targets have ripped them off the shelves because of the name. Check out the link to see the name, if you are unfamiliar. Anyhow, it is addicting stuff! It is the feeling of touching your tongue to 9-volt battery, except all over your lips. It doesn't tingle, it zings! Oh la la....

I'm also in search of a new HG foundation, ditching my mineral makeup because I'm so dry this winter that it hasn't been flattering at all. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a mineral makeup gal, but it just does much better on my olive skin in summer, than my pale-olive-dry-30-something-winter canvas. I have a friend at the Clinique counter, so I paid her a visit. After reading MakeupAlley reviews, I was convinced StayFit was the HG in Clinique. She protested, advising me to go with the Repairwear. I bucked and stuck to my guns. She made a perfect match in Stayfit, applied with a Lancome foundation brush. I bought brush and fond de teint, went home on a high, went into the bathroom mirror to admire....and saw a dark orange face, with a bonus makeup line (one of my most gigantic pet peeves!)

I reapplied the next day, perfect match and 30 minutes later I was as orange as a tween-girl trying Cover Girl for the first time.

I went back and returned the Stayfit, and got samples of the Repairwear. I must admit, it wears great, looks good and doesn't turn colors. But it just isn't my HG. (Why can't I look like the MAC girls? Each time I go to the MAC counter, those girls have the ultimate faces. THE look I have always wanted to achieve with my foundation. I bought a MAC foundation last year, and after a month of using it, I was broken out worse than ever.) I also bought some Smashbox Photo Finish (Light) to try with the Repairwear and it made me look like I dipped my face in oil, about 20 minutes after application. Thank goodness I only bought the sample size.

Maybe I'll go back to the Clinique counter in Toulouse at Galleries Lafayette and buy the line of Clinque foundation I fell in love with over there, unavailable in the USA.

Until then, I'll keep shopping. Could y'all please give me some gift ideas for my women French Friends? Something small, something typical American, and something they can't get there.

I'm off to MakeupAlley...and then to bed.

Bonne nuit mes amis....a demain!

Flowery French to My American Ears

2008-02-14T15:50:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I received an email from Madame Gite-Owner regarding our stay. As I had dealt with a lot of gite owners before we finally chose this one, I was always impressed with this particular lady. Madame Gite-Owner was always so pleasant and....flowery.

Other gite owners answered me matter-of-factly, some even rudely! Others tried to persuade me to change our travel dates and chose their gite (because it wasn't open yet for the season when we needed one.) But Madame Gite-Owner always asked me how we were doing, told me my French was wonderful, and even wanted to meet my relatives who live in a village nearby.

Interestingly, this gite was the very first one I pulled up last year when I was trying to convince my parents that we should all do this thing. It was the gite that made changed my dad's mind about going to France (he didn't even come visit us when we lived there, if that tells you anything.) I looked at hundreds more gites after it, but we always came back to this one.

My uncle called and talked to Madame Gite-Owner and reported back that she indeed seemed very lovely and legitimate.

So the email I received yesterday was really no suprise, and it made me smile everytime I thought about the last paragraph. So I want to share it with you. Now, I'm going to translate this a bit differently. Instead of the idea being translated into how we would speak English, I want to translate what my American English ear "hears" when reading French. A literal translation, if you will.

"....You really need to think of your trip now. You must to count on 10-12 hours on the aircraft...so we are offering you the calm and tranquility of our home and the countryside, and I am hoping that the sun will accompany your stay here, so that you can rapidly recover from the due fatigue that you will have because of the jet lag; and get the maximum benefit from your vacation in France......" --Mme Gite Owner

I suppose if I were doing a translating job, I would say she meant: "I'm sure you have a 10-12 hour flight ahead of you. Don't worry, you'll have peace and quiet when you get out here in the country and hopefully we'll have some sun while you're here, so you can rest up from jet lag and have a great vacation." ---Mme French-to-American English Translator

I prefer flowers.

Good Health To You! (French Style)

2008-02-11T16:04:00.000-08:00

I've been doing more blog reading than blog posting lately. As I was reading Chitlins & Camembert's recent post, it got me thinking about some really irrational things I've heard French people say. Now, mind you, these are mostly coming from dear friends of mine, but that still doesn't make them any less ludicrous.

Chitlins lives in France and was looking for a new doctor for her child. She tried one that was highly recommended, and brought her child in with a fever. She reported that her doctor scolded her for dressing her child in red when she had a fever. This makes sense since it is a known fact * that red fabric will increase your core temperature by 3 degrees. *In the United States, we refer to these "known facts" as Urban Legends and promptly disregard them or forward them in emails to induce mass inbox hysteria.

And I certainly wish I had a Euro for every time I was scolded for not having a hat on my daughter in all the times we visited and lived in France. I could afford to go back there more often! It was always shock and disbelief that Ma Fille did not have headcovering, be it in sun, wind, rain, or clouds. (I finally bought her one at dpam to stop the constant nagging by complete strangers and loved ones alike.) And if you notice on your next trip to France, you won't find many children outdoors without a hat.

So back to my story: One of our friends has come to stay with us quite often in the last 4 years because he was dating our friend (now married to each other). We asked him if there was anything he didn't like or couldn't eat. He emphatically told us his doctor strictly prohibited him from eating dairy products or pork. So, we made lots of special efforts to make meals without either of these common ingredients. I assumed that it had to do with lactose intolerance or iffy bowels. I can appreciate that, being a victim of IBS myself. One day, I couldn't tolerate the no cheese or meat any longer, so I splurged and bought some expensive havarti and some nice ham slices from the overpriced deli. I was quite sure they would be safe within my frigo waiting for my personal consumption, since our "friend" could not eat these without having ill effects.

After being gone all day, leaving Frenchie Friend at the house alone, I opened the refrigerator to retrieve my treats and make my family some sandwiches. As I reached in to pick up the once-robust package of cheese, it felt much lighter....24 slices lighter to be exact. I yelled at my family, "Who horked down all the havarti??? I just bought this last night!" Everyone in my family shouted "not me!"

The only one silent, who strangely was not in dire straights in the bathroom, finally said quietly, "oh...zat would be moi." Hubby and I gasped and said, "But I thought you were allergic to cheese?" FF said, "Yes well, I will probably pay for it tonight when my sciatic nerve becomes inflamed." Not understanding what the cheese had to do with a pinched sciatic nerve, we interrogated him. He explained that his doctor told him dairy and pork inflames the sciatic nerve, causing massive pain and sleepless nights, often resulting in a 2 week hospital stay. (No joke).

This belongs in the "don't wear red fabric when you have a fever" category. Don't eat pork or cheese if your back hurts. I have yet to see a warning label on a package of Cheddar here in the US that says, "MAY RESULT IN PINCHED NERVE IF CONSUMED WITH BACON". That rules out the quiche.

On the other hand, when there is reason to worry about food or beverages having an ill-effect on someone, the Frenchies we know just don't get it. Case in point: Hot summer day in Toulouse, 104 degrees, 100% humidity, no car, finishing up a long hot walk around the city. As we walked past the neighborhood alimentation on our way home (one we always passed up shopping at for a more aesthically pleasing marche' down the road), we decided we would die if we didn't get a cold one.

We walked inside and the young man at the counter seemed overjoyed to have customers. Not just any customers, but a group of five thirsty Americans. (We had visitors). Hubby and I decided on Heinekens in a bottle so we could drink them on the walk home. When went to pay for our beers, I asked him if he had a "truc" to pop the tops. The young man seemed very disappointed that he did not have a bottle opener. We said our 'au revoirs' and started to leave when suddenly, his eyes lit up and his finger pointed sharply skyward and he said, "WAIT! I have an idea!" We should have grabbed our Heinies and ran.

He opened his mouth wide, and inserted one of the bottle necks between the upper and lower left bicuspids, which happen to have several fillings as I remember. After much biting, wincing and salivating, our bottle came back out of the orfice of a perfect stranger--without its top. Proud of his ingenuity, he presented the green glass biohazard to us with a smile of accomplishment and servitude. Without a second's hesitation, my germaphobe Hubby said, "That's yours!" grabbed the undefiled Heiny and walked out the door.

My beer ended up in the poubelle as soon as Bottle Opener could no longer see us down the street. In disbelief, we told all our French friends this amazingly gross story. But each time the story was told and the climax was reached, everyone sat there as if there was a punchline they'd missed. No one, I repeat, no one thought this was weird or unhygenic. The only comment even close to siding with us was from a friend who had lived in the US as a child. She said, "Oh yeah, you Americans have issues with eating after other people." Another said, "Oh we French survived the World Wars, so germs can't do anything to us now!"

Oh, I don't know, maybe it's just me but I just keep thinking of words like "herpes", "hepatitis", or even "common cold".

I guess I should have been more concerned about the fan we were using during the heat wave and all the ice we added to our drinks that summer. And as I ponder this, I wonder now if the red hat I bought my daughter was the cause of her vomiting on that hot-hot day in a car with no AC on a windy road. Well, in any case, she did take it off....when she needed a barf bag. Maybe I should have bought a green one.

How Will I Eat My First Macaron?

2008-02-05T15:00:00.000-08:00

I have seen lots of gratuitous macaron coverage in the blog world in the last year. However, I have never seen anything about how to eat one. Thankfully, Veronica's Test Kitchen has posted a nifty little guide on how to eat a macaron. Because I will be eating my first one in about 5 weeks!

I need to know not only how to eat one, but which ones to eat?

So, for all you macaron lovers out there: What flavors should I request from Parisienne Friend, who will be bringing me a whole box of Laduree macarons?

List #2

2008-02-01T09:53:00.000-08:00

Here are some things from my previous list that I have gotten DONE:

Bought two pairs of jeans (huge accomplishment!)
Got some shades. Ok, so they aren't Gucci (like the ones I bought in France and then destroyed by stepping on after they fell into gravel! ) but maybe I'll find some over there!
I always need new makeup before a trip it seems. So I got some fabulous eyeliner (Bobbi Brown Gel Liner) thanks to LBR's perfect suggestion!
Made peace with the fact that The Shrinking Dollar is not going to cooperate. Cheese, bread, wine by the refill jug and a slab of saucisson won't be too expensive and make great meals!
Bought two unlocked, quad band cell phones on Ebay at a great price.

Now, things I NEED to do:

Plan out and buy needed items for two dinner parties we're having for French Friends; Mexican dinner and then an American BBQ. (Uncooked tortillas from Costco, corn tortillas, Taco seasoning, Ortega chilies...more things I'm sure!)
Get everything for a Baby Shower I'm throwing for a friend over there. (Baby showers are typically an American tradition and not done by the French. I've got my work cut out for me! Games, prizes, decorations...buying it all and packing it!)
Make DVD to show friends and family over there, of over here.
Get some comfortable-enough-for-walking-on-cobblestones-yet-fashionable shoes.
Choose and buy the right SIM cards for our phones. HELP!!!
Make my handwritten list of things to pack.
Get my HP notebook back from HP.
Work on French.

I especially need some experienced help for my SIM cards purchase. I want one with free incoming in France, and lots of textos to save us money on phone calls. It seems very expensive to use mobile phones in France, unlike here where I have 800 anytime minutes, free after 7 and weekend minutes, and free incoming.

What's Wrong With France?

2008-01-31T15:54:00.000-08:00

As you know, I am having technical difficulties, but I can still read and Google just fine. I just got done reading and celebrating the newly famous (but with-me-from-the-beginning) My Inner French Girl's latest post. She has been happily outed by New York Times!

It got me wondering how one would find out that their blog was mentioned in the media. Well, I decided to Google "cassoulet cafe blog" to see if anyone besides my blogging buddies have ever heard of my blog. The only thing that came up was my blog and one other mention. It is a button on the side bar of La French Page website. That in itself is not interesting. What is interesting is the description of my blog. It goes like this:
Cassoulet Cafe Blog: An American's View of What is Wrong With France.

While I appreciate the link, I'm sort of shocked with the description. To set the record straight, I think that I show what's wrong and right with France.

Now after reading the NYTimes article on freebies thrown at beauty bloggers, should I expect some free cassoulet thrown my way? All in the name of reviewing, bien sur! Or better yet, maybe a cassoulet meal at a renowned cassoulet restaurant in Toulouse or Castlenaudary during our stay?

Something tells me the people at Spanghero or La Cave au Cassoulet don't read Cassoulet Café Blog. ;) I'm glad you do!

Raclette

2008-01-25T00:36:00.000-08:00

Because it's snowing outside, I've been thinking about hot comfort foods. No, not the batch of warm, gooey oatmeal chocolate chip cookies I made this afternoon...wait, I guess I am still thinking of those. They are calling me from the kitchen! But I'm also thinking about what I'll be eating when we get to Toulouse. March and April will probably be a mixed bag of weather, as last time we were there. We had sun, snow and rain. Though I prefer Toulouse in the summer when I can sit outside and breathe in La France in the midst of sunflower fields, cold weather has it's benefits as well.

Namely, cassoulet and raclette. We've already discussed cassoulet, and you know I'll be consuming more than my fair share of it! But we haven't discussed raclette. Let me show you a picture of our last raclette meal:

So what is raclette, you ask. The cheese or the meal? According to Wikipedia (and I confirm) Raclette is both a type of cheese and, informally, a dish featuring the cheese.

So, Raclette The Dish is a meal originating from Switzerland (but common in France) where you place a nifty little apparatus center stage on the table, and cold, hungry people sit around as if it were a campfire, and melt their raclette cheese on personal-size pans under a broiler. When the cheese is good and bubbly, you pour it on assorted foods you've chosen from the buffet of offerings. Typically you have boiled potatoes, charcuterie, cornichons, and vegetables.

My favorite combo is the raclette over potatoes. I'm not a fan of cheese on pickles, but the meat and starches do me just fine.

Our friends tell us they often bring the raclette grill on skiing trips and have raclette for lunch in the ski lodge. What a wonderful idea! I can't imagine the looks we'd get if we brought one to, say, Mt. Bachelor. Who cares?! It would be fun, if we could find an outlet.

So the other night on Skype, our wonderful friends have confirmed that they will be giving us another raclette soiree to feast upon. Laughing, they reminded us of our very first raclette meal..... in the middle of August.

I'm glad we're going in Spring.

Preview of Toulouse--Doorways and Courtyards

2008-01-24T01:11:00.000-08:00

Hôtel d'Assézat was built in the second half of the XVIth century for Pierre Assézat, a prosperous merchant in the pastel trade that flourished at the time.

When you walk in the courtyard door, this is what you see:

When you turn to leave, walking back out of the door, this is your view. I thought La Belette Rouge would especially love my timing of this photo op! Can you guess why?

Here is a photo of a courtyard and building that I unknowingly stole:

We entered the courtyard, snapped photos, and then the police yelled at us to leave. I can't remember what exactly this government building is. Maybe someone can help me remember?

I love the Toulouse style! Here are some good examples of the famous Toulouse brickwork in Place de la Trinite and St. Etienne.

Preview of Toulouse--Pont des Catalans (or Our Bridge)

2008-01-23T00:08:00.000-08:00

I'm going to give you a tour of Toulouse each day before we go back to Toulouse (in about 7 weeks). The first place I want to take you is over the Pont des Catalans (Catalans Bridge). This is our bridge, because when we lived in Toulouse, this was the bridge we crossed on foot about a million times. I love this bridge because it took us to our dear friends' home, past the ever-present men playing petanque, just next to the Canal de Brienne. I love this bridge because it led us once a week to our laundry mat, where the owners, a couple, faithfully worked hard each day, ironing other people's pants and manning the quirky machines in the un-airconditioned, cramped quarters. Since we didn't have a car, we loaded our dirty laundry for the week into our suitcases...and pulled. I knew every pothole, every bump, even each dog-pile (until it disintegrated and a new one replaced it), because we made the trip so many times.

The bridge goes over the beloved Garonne River, my son's middle name-sake. When I was in labor and they told me to focus on something, it was our bridge that I walked back and forth on in my mind, trying to make myself go to a Happy Place. It worked.

The bridge was the low-tech "GPS" for finding our neighborhood. We could find home easily, in those first confusing weeks of being in a new city, using the bridge as our reference point.

Walking across the bridge on warm summer mornings, looking to the right and seeing the silhouette of Les Jacobins is etched in my brain forever. Watching sunsets from the bridge is something I never got tired of. Seeing it lit up at night gave me a great feeling; knowing I lived just beyond The Bridge, Our Bridge.

Stay tuned for more Toulouse photos, A Preview of our upcoming trip in March/April 2008

Dangerous Liaisons

2008-01-17T23:55:00.000-08:00

I need some help out there from some French speakers in France. Yesterday in my mom's car she was playing her new Pimsleur French CD's, preparing for our trip. As the man was speaking, I noticed he was not making the liaisons. At first, I thought it was a mistake. Then he continued on and on. For example, for we went, phonetically it was this: noo-sohm-allay. For I am here it was zhu-swee ee-see. No "z" sounds linking the words together. Completely contrary to what I have been taught.

Then in English he explained it. He said that more and more people in France are dropping the liaisons and so they are now teaching it that way. Well, I asked my relative in France about it today, and he said he had no clue what I was talking about.

Question #1: Is it true that liaisons are being dropped more and more?

Question #2: Is this just the equivalent of teaching "I dunno" and "D'ya wanna?"

Moi, chais pas.

Pizza Cap

2008-01-15T12:19:00.000-08:00

"What is a Pizza Cap?" you ask. Well, I'll give you a hint. It's not a hat. It's just a silly name for a pizza joint that we used quite often in Toulouse, as we lived nearby and it was cheap! It was also very good.

And it was also very weird. The toppings can be bizarre, and good ol' American pepperoni n'existe pas. Would you have ever thought to have honey drizzled on your pizza, over the creme fraiche? We actually ordered that one more than once, The Daisy Age.

The prices are great, the pizza is good and the name is the best! Have a look yourself!

The Countdown Begins/ List #1

2008-01-14T13:18:00.000-08:00

Two months from today we will arrive in France! The serious preparations need now begin. Where shall I start? And will you help me???

Let's start off with what I have done already:

Bought airline tickets

Reserved and paid for gite

Told all family and friends of our arrival/departure dates

Freaked out about the flight (hate flying...well I love flying, hate idea of crashing)

Freaked out about the rising Euro and falling Dollar

Repeated 4 and 5 about 200 times.

Plan to repeat 4 and 5 about 200 more times.

Reserved a minivan (9 passenger) for an astronomical amount of moolah.

Cried about number 8

Bought Red Coat

What I need to do:

Keep trying to find cheaper transportation (must have van to accommodate all travelers in party)

Buy more clothes (a great pair of jeans and more nice tops, more shoes. Jean shopping was affreux today. Wahh wahh.)

Buy some shades since my Gucci's purchased in France last trip were stepped on and crushed (par moi), and besides, I think Gucci shades are passé now, non? ;)

Find a way to make the dollar get stronger

Get a great hair cut at the exact right time before trip (nothing new, just a great trim)

J'ai besoin de pratiquer le francais..... :(

More French lessons for Hubby as well

Make a packing list

Make more lists of things that need to get done

This is the first of many lists to be, as I realize how many things I just left out. I am such a procrastinator about packing, I prefer to have a thorough list made out, and start packing the night before we leave.

Advanced French Lesson Numero Une...or is it Un?

2008-01-10T22:57:00.000-08:00

So, did anyone catch my mistake yesterday? I believe I should have said "un" when I said "une".

This leads up to my next topic: Mistakes in French. Fellow Francofiles, we all have them, right? Please tell me I'm not the only one who has told the entire table during a dinner party that I was drunk, when I in fact meant "I'm full"!
I've also repeatedly said I was "aroused" when I meant excited,as in, "I'm excited to go shopping today! Are you excited for your wedding next month?" Another faux pas was several times of the usage of a word I thought to mean "breast" when I was discussing breastfeeding. What I said was actually a vulgar word that a woman would never use when discussing her own.

Nothing compares to the mistakes that Hubby made, though. My dear, sweet husband said such a vulgar word in church that no one would translate. When he was trying to say dog in French, it came out all wrong. (Can anyone guess what word came out?) Or howabout the time he used "con" instead of "quand"...wait, did I say time? I meant timesssss (plural). He still struggles with this one.
It's not hard to say conard instead of canard, and who can tell if baisser has one "s" or two? No American I know!

I remember my uncle's stories about his first months in France. He was terrified to leave the apartment. But one day when he thought he finally had enough French down to venture out onto the streets of Toulouse and try some out, he got cocky. He thought he was past the old fashioned "bonjour"...he wanted to be cool and say "Salut!" (pronounced sal-ew) So as he walked down the rue he greeted all the shopkeepers with a super cool "Salop!" instead (sal-oh). This means bastard.

As I prepare for our upcoming trip, I might want to rethink my procrastination in brushing up on my French. I'm sure that I will have some real doozies to post about on Cassoulet Cafe. Let me serve as a warning to others.

Une Autre Point de Vue

2008-01-10T00:39:00.000-08:00

Another point of view.

I just received an email from a dear friend of mine. She's French and grew up in the South of France, near Toulouse, but now lives in Paris.

She's lived there for nearly four years now, after marrying a native Parisien.

I think my friend fits in very well in Paris. She dresses like a true Parisienne, she lives like one, she appreciates the culture and everything Paris offers. She loved the idea of Paris....before she moved there. But an image in our mind is often much different than the one that comes to fruition later. As is the case with my dear friend.

No, she is not in a bad marriage. It's just that after a few months, the honeymoon phase of living in Paris wore off, and real life settled in quickly. Living in a minuscule apartment with sky-high rents in the suburbs of Paris was a start. Then the daily commute on public (often striking) transportation to an office job working too many hours under a chauvinist pig boss, making far too little money to indulge in a daily macaron and chocolat chaud at Laduree. Then the reality of having to make all new friends in a place where a "southern accent" is ridiculed, even though that seems to be where the sun hides itself from Paris. Enduring it all without family near by.

The Daily Grind can happen anywhere. Any place can become humdrum. This makes me think of the saying we all grew up with; the grass is always greener on the other side. Or the version I recently heard: the grass is always greener over the septic tank.

I'm not saying Paris should be compared with waste water treatment, but sometimes life gets in a rut as we go through the routine of work/sleep/play no matter where we live. Moving may help put some excitement into our lives and give us some much needed change, but at the end of the day, we still have to get the mundane things done and this is when the fantasy starts to fade.

*This was not intended to rain on any one's party, so to speak. I don't want to discourage any Paris dreams, I'm just reflecting on my friend's situation and trying to put myself in her shoes. It's also a moment for me to do a reality check and remember that picking up and moving my family far away didn't (and won't) make my life transform into a perfect fairy tale.

Quick In-N-Out Burger

2008-01-05T01:40:00.000-08:00

On our vacation last week, we had to hit the In-N-Out Burger as many times as possible to get our fix. It's been 9 months since I had one. For the non-Californians out there, this is only the best burger joint....um...ever! Never frozen meat, no gristle, fresh ingredients and only burgers, shakes and fries on the menu. There is even a secret menu that is no longer a secret, since it's now posted on their website. But if you don't know the not-so-secret lingo, you'll never be able to order a burger Animal Style, or a 4x4 burger or a have a Neopolitan. No matter, any burger you order will be delish and you'll be addicted like me and wonder why this wonderful chain hasn't spread into my neck of the woods yet.

Because I couldn't eat at In-N-Out for every meal, I made it my mission to view the drive-up line at every In-N-Out Burger we passed on our trip. Because I have never seen one that didn't have a line of cars out into the street. It's that good.

On the other side of the world, to where I will be going in a couple months, there is a place that looks similar to an In-N-Out, but is the worst burger joint...um...ever! Quick. Or "qweek" as the Frenchies say. My experience at Quick has never been good, and the photos of the burgers on their website is proof that I speak truth.

What is up with their burger names? Xtralong Giant? I don't want to eat a burger that is described as Extra Long, because long should not EVEN be a consideration when ordering a burger. There is also a Long Fish, Long Bacon and Long Chicken. I prefer In-N-Out's description, burgers that are "stacked high on a freshly baked bun". Doesn't that sound nicer and more appetizing?

Though, as much as I love In-N-Out, I won't be trying the 100x100 burger. And you definitely won't be getting any blog posts from Quick on our upcoming trip to France. Unless I decide to do a shock and awe post. Nahhhh....

"Rice-A-Roni....

2008-01-02T23:42:00.000-08:00

....the San Francisco Treat!" Funny, I've passed through it tons of times, going over the Golden Gate and Bay bridges, had layovers there more times than I want to count, but I had never actually spent any time down in the touristy Pier 39/Fisherman's Wharf. We had a great day with beautiful weather (as you can see) and had a nice little visit.
Boudin looked like it had great bread, but the name really put me off, since in France, boudin is blood sausage. Blech!
I didn't buy any crepes because they were spendy! And I have a great recipe from my French aunt and I have Nutella at home. But I loved the little creperie and had fun watching them make them.
The next time I'm in SF will be during a layover on our way to France!

"Where Am I?"

2008-01-02T09:43:00.000-08:00

Away from Home

2008-01-01T11:29:00.000-08:00

Any guesses as to where I went to take this photo last Thursday? :)

My Own Personal Seinfeld Moment

2007-12-20T09:23:00.000-08:00

The other day, La Belette Rouge posted about the probability of her getting to fly Business Class on her flight to Paris in July. In tribute to her post, I would like to tell you my experience of a trans-Atlantic flight on Business Class.

The year was 2005, the plane was an Airbus long haul craft operated by Lufthansa, the destination was Rome. The origin was somewhere on the West Coast. We were a family of four, traveling with a so-called Friend. :)

We invited Friend to come with us on this trip, as she usually traveled with us, and she happily discovered that she had enough miles to fly Business Class.

When we got to the airport, she tried to convince the gal at the counter to upgrade our family, so we could be with her in luxury. The lady said sure. But it would cost us dearly. $850. Per person! Each way.

As we boarded the flight, said our goodbye's to Friend and parted ways, she assured us she would come back and check on us. Incidentally, we were in the 2nd row behind The Curtain, which separated the classy people from the sardines (us). That meant that we were literally just a few steps away from Friend, with The Curtain being a one-way prison door to be used only by Biz Class who wanted to come see how bad it was back here and laugh at Family of Four having a nightmare flight. (No, she did not laugh, really).

But I was impressed with Lufthansa. They were efficient, clean and the seats weren't as bad as the hellish flight to Paris on Air Canada a few years before. (LBR described our flight exactly in her post). Lufthansa fed us well, we had good movies, and it was so far the best long haul flight we'd had.

Six hours into the flight, Friend decided to get out of her cocoon and come check on us. She made the 9 steps trek down into the belly of the beast (Coach) and with a smile asked how our dinner was. I raved about the Greek Pasta for dinner, we said the seats were not bad, and "by the way, I thought you were coming to check on us like 5 hours ago?" She smiled and said she had been busy with dinner. "So what did you have for dinner?" I asked.

She hesitated. Then she said, "Well.....um....Snow crab." Snow crab?! I said, disgusted, because I love snow crab!

Then she said, "Well, that was the starter. Then I had...." and she proceeded to tell me all the courses presented, and "did I mention they dressed my table with linens and china?" Thank you, dear Friend, for mentioning that as well. I really hated my arm-rest tray that had a coffee ring from the previous flight still on it. I could have used that linen table cloth.

Then she said, "I have a present for you." And she handed me a pair of long, blue, thick Lufthansa socks. I asked where they came from and she said, "Oh, in my goody-bag I got when I boarded. I thought you might need them back here." Goody bag??? I snatched them from her and promptly stuck my lower class feet into them and decided that I was definitely made for Biz Class.
I needed to take some meds and could not get the flight attendant's attention to ask for some water, to Friend said she'd go get me some from her section. She popped back through The Curtain with a glass of water for me. A GLASS, a real glass. I began to laugh and said, "We're gonna get busted for being caught with this!"

After I gulped it down, she took it and said, "Ok, I'll go back to my seat now, but I'll make sure and send you back some of the warm, fresh baked cookies when they're ready."

Well, we never got them (I think she passed out in her cocoon seat) and when we landed in Frankfurt we made our way through customs and to our gate to wait the 2 hours until the connecting flight to Rome was ready for boarding. We sat down on uncomfortable (efficient)German airport chairs, feeling like death because of the flight and the fact that our bodies were screaming out "It's 2am!", when Friend announces with a look of guilt upon her face, "Um, could you watch my stuff, I'm gonna go into The Lounge." What is THE LOUNGE? I knew nothing of a so-called Lounge, other than where we were supposed to lounge, and we were already there.

"Well, they have a Business Class lounge for those flying in Biz Class. Do you want me to get you some coffee in there?"

I think that at that point, I decided that we never should have invited Friend on the trip at all, and how could she ditch us for The Lounge, after just having 12 hours of pure luxury?!
She came back about an hour later bearing gifts for the kids. She brought gummy bears and cookies. Then she handed me her boarding pass and said, "They didn't check my ID at all. Take this and go inside! I left early so you could go!" She was so excited for me to go in, but I was terrified. What if they caught me? Would I get arrested by the Airport Police and be deported without my family?
I walked to the inconspicuous door that led to The Lounge. When I opened the door, there was a marble floor and seated at the desk was a lady with perfect makeup and a French Twist. I showed her the pass and she smiled and pointed the way. I opened the huge double doors and as I entered The Lounge, I swear I heard a choir singing "Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" It was fabulous! It was all leather! There was a cookie buffet and espresso machines and a bar! There was a sign pointing the way to the showers! Whaaaa?!

I got a cappuccino, and sat down in one of the leather chairs that instantly began to massage my poor, sore, Coach Class bum.

But I could not fully relax. I felt out of place. I was ragged from 12 hours of coach, and I couldn't help feeling completely guilty sitting in luxury while Hubby and kids were out in the torture chamber, heads bobbing violently because the body was on Pacific Standard Time.

I think I lasted all of 8 minutes. I walked out, cursing rich people and diligent Mileage Plus hoarders who didn't make the mistake of prematurely cashing in their miles for a coach class ticket to Cabo.
I got a taste of Business Class. It's something I can't forget now. It's something that I will dwell on the entire flight this coming spring, when we are squished in like sardines, with no warm cookies to console us and no eye-masks so we can at least try to go to a Happy Place in our minds and shut out the annoying seat-neighbors.

I will, however, accrue miles on this flight and then have enough to go to Hawaii. Coach Class.

European Weekend

2007-12-18T22:36:00.000-08:00

We had quite the European week! It started off with a trip to Redbox to rent Mr. Bean's Holiday. If you haven't seen this, it's about Mr. Bean going to France. I was intrigued by it when I saw the previews last summer. The line that stuck in my head was, "France is finally getting what it deserves!"

While we laughed at a few parts (oysters on the half shell...been there, almost vomited into a linen napkin), I was much more annoyed than anything. I guess I'm just more of a Clouseau fan.

Then my friend arrived from Toulouse and we made Mexican food, Chocolate Chip Cookies and had micro brew; things she cannot get over there. The kids gorged themselves on the Kinder Maxis she brought, and I was heureuse to receive a brand spanking new box of Poulain 1848--a gift sent from a mutual friend in Toulouse. Oh yes, I also got a box of Bonne Maman Framboise Tartelettes!

We went out of town to take her to the airport and spend the weekend in the city. We went to a new favorite restaurant of ours. No, it's not French, it's German! This is our third time there and I just have to get the same thing each time. It's a chicken schnitzel (I previously thought a schnitzel was a hot dog bought from triangular shaped building--you SoCal people know what I'm talkin' about!) with grilled sliced portobello mushrooms, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, all covered in a scrumptious garlicky sauce. Washed down with my new favorite beer in the world, Spaten Optimator on draft. We topped dinner off with a dozen Krispy Kremes. The things you do for friends abroad ;)

Sunday we passed by a new Ikea. Now, call me oblivious, but I never knew what this store was before 2 days ago. Yes, yes, I knew it was a Swedish furniture store, and I've been on http://www.ikea.com/ . But I did not know what the actual shopping experience was like. I think my life changed on Sunday!

We needed some bar stools, so we decided to pop in. Looking back, I guess "Popping in" Ikea is probably something that's never been done before. Our "popping in" lasted over 2 hours. As we passed through the portal (aka front doors), we saw we were to ascend to the upper floor via The Escalator, ushered in by arrows pointing the way, assuring us that upstairs was the only place to start.
When I got to the top, and looked around, at first glance it reminded me of a store we frequented in Toulouse, Midica. Ikea is like Midica on steroids. Ok, Midica is a low-budget rip off of Ikea.
To make a long story short, we had a blast looking at all the reasonably priced stuff, and we found our bar stools, a bargain at less than $20! We got a battery powered milk frother for $1.99, just because it was so cute. We bought the Ikea coffee, and as I spit it out in revolt this morning, realized why it was only $2.49. The frother works though.

But the most amazing part to me, (besides the shopping carts that look like walkers for the elderly, which is what prompted me to yell at the eldest child when I thought she stole a poor old lady's only means of standing upright) was that there was a restaurant that actually served good looking food at good prices! We had to try.

It was hilarious to be sitting in a furniture store eating a mozzarella/basil/tomato salad drizzled with balsamic vinegar and olive oil that were on the table as regular condiments. In a furniture store! Oh yes, and I chose a table that made me think of blogger friend My Inner French Girl. Our table was against the huge wall photo of Stockholm!

I think it was a nice weekend. :)

So are you a Chief Inspector Clouseau Fan, or a Mr. Bean Fan?

Tahiti

2007-12-17T10:50:00.000-08:00

With several family members and friends moving to/going to/coming back from Hawaii, and having nasty gray, rainy, cold days here....and talking to friends in France who are having the same weather as us......I said to Hubby yesterday, "Why the heck are we going to France for a month, and not Tahiti???????!!!!!!!" I'll take Hawaii for a month as well, since I've never actually been to Tahiti and I love Hawaii.

I feel out of love with France right now and am longing to go someplace warm and tropical. And someplace where the dollar actually has some value. I long to be back on the beach, soaking up that warm, healing Hawaiian sun. I long for a Maui Sunset. I need a Mai Tai from Aloha Mixed Plate, garnished with a purple orchid. I want to eat pineapple until my mouth gets raw. I want to hear waves lapping against the shore. I want to be tan.

So, my dear readers, does anyone want to make me feel better for choosing to spend a month in a climate the same as mine here, spending way too much money just to buy groceries because our dollar is worth nothing now, and paying $7 gallon for essence (gasoline)?! It's only $3.98 right now on the Islands.

Wahhhhhhhhhh. I know.

Meme

2007-12-10T13:38:00.000-08:00

I got tagged by the LBR to do a Four by Four Meme. Et voila...

What four things did you love most about living in France?

I LOVED the outdoor markets. The produce is so gorgeous and 9 times out of 10 tastes even better than it looks! I also love that fact that if I wanted (never did) I could buy a live chicken in a cage and then kill it myself for dinner. No thanks. But I appreciate that the offer is there!
I loved the rituals of the meals. Always aperitif first, (drinks, olives, chips, nuts, etc) then the meal (my favorite part is the cheese course and dessert!) and then coffees after. ALWAYS.
I loved the countryside when the sunflowers were in full bloom. Ahhhhh.....
I loved the tradition of taking a coffee break (or beer break) in a cafe and just drinking in France.

What four most memorable jobs you have had?

My very first job was at a little "French" restaurant, in a little strip mall, in our little town. It had the ambiance of an office with some tables dressed in linens. I don't think the owners had ever been to France, though they did own a local vineyard. I was 16 and I was hired as a dishwasher because I was too young to serve alcohol. One night, the owner/cook got furious that his ugly tomato garnish came back in the kitchen untouched (the meal itself eaten) and he freaked out and put it on the next plate going out! I quit that night.
My second job moved up a few notches. McDo! I actually learned a great work ethic there that I kept for my future jobs.
As a 'tween, my friend and I needed some cash, so we spent all day long in the hot sun picking strawberries at the local farm. We thought for sure we had hit the jackpot and earned perhapas hundreds. We got about $1.49 each.
I still dream about 20's era job....I'm filing and filing my night away....as a manicurist!

Four quirky things about the way I eat (and drink)

I don't know if this qualifies for quirky, but I absolutely cannot NOT have a sweet (preferably chocolate) and coffee after a meal! Is this what happens when we get older? Or is this a side effect of living in France?
I don't eat this anymore, but as a kid/teen/young adult I created this sandwich and ate it all the time: Peanut butter, mozzerella cheese and Cheetos. Don't think I can do this nowadays.
I love pancakes with syrup, but I cannot pour the syrup all over the pancakes. I have to pour a bit on each bite, so the pancakes don't get soggy.
I wipe my fingers off with each bite of pizza. I use like 90 napkins per pizza-eating session. Seems a lot more than everyone else, when I look at the pile of used napkins.

What are your four favorite foods?

Chocolate
Pastries
Pasta
Cheese

Four recipes you cook all the time?

Goat Cheese Rosemary Tart (Emeril)
Various Pasta Dishes
Peanut Butter and Butter Sandwiches
Cranberry Spinach Salad

Four people who I'd like to participate in this Même?

You're A Corker!

2007-12-07T00:04:00.000-08:00

As I read La Belette Rouge's list of what she was going to buy in a Paris Pharmacie, it made me think of what I went into the pharmacie for two years ago, the last time I was in Paris. LBR's list was so exotic, chic and trés interesting. I never really spent much time looking at products in them, because I was always there for a specific item, or to talk to the pharmacist about an ailment. One thing in France that is cool, is that you can give the pharmacist your symptoms and they can prescribe you a medicament on the spot.

Which brings us back to the last pharmacie we went to in Paris. We had been to Italy the previous week and arrived in Paris for a two day stay to visit my friend, who I'll call S. Before we met up with her, my hubby reluctantly summoned me for major help. He only had to say one word, bouchon, for me to know that I was going to have to do some embarrassing translating.

Bouchon is a longstanding joke with us, thanks to S. She was visiting us in the States when she pulled out some medicine once and told me she had to take it because she didn't want a bouchon. Bouchon means cork. You figure it out.

As I moaned and groaned about asking the pharmacist for the proper tire-bouchon magic pill, Hubby says, "And don't you dare say it's for me!" Suuuuuure, sweetie-pie. I told him not to worry, I'd take care of it.

So I'm now in the position of being in the most glamorous city in the world, asking for the most unglamorous of items. Pas chic. I walked up to the counter where there was a young, pretty pharmacist ready to help. I told her quietly what I was looking for. She started asking me all these questions that needed detailed answers and, red-faced, I betrayed my husbands honor and blurted out "Oh Madame, I don't have this problem. It's my husband over there (hiding behind the Band-Aids) who has the issue and needs the pills....but he doesn't want you to know. But don't worry, he doesn't speak French!" She looked at me, understanding, and I knew what she was thinking...she thought I was a really crotte-y wife.

So, I guess I got paybacks for that, because a few days later when we were in Toulouse, as my husband and kids rode a carousel in the park, I sort of jogged over towards it to grab the video camera from my Hubby and I tripped on the power cord of the carousel....and in the most nerdy, geeky and un-chic way, fell right onto all fours in front of my family, my friends and the French lady who sneered and rolled her eyes as if I had no right to trip in front of her. She must have had a bouchon.

Hey Rach, Can I have My Job Back?

2007-12-04T11:54:00.000-08:00

Everyone who knows me in real life can attest to the fact that I have always wanted Rachael Ray's $40 a Day job, and let me emphasize it was well before her TV personality existed. And I wouldn't use lame-o words either, to make you hate me hoping I would eat some bad escargot on the Paris episode!
In my circle of friends and acquaintances, I am known for being the Unpaid Travel Agent. I have people calling me and asking for help with trips and even though it takes a lot of time, I just love it!
I even tried to make some money at it, and failed. Before I was HTML savvy, a relative made a "travel advice" website for me. But I just couldn't figure out how I would charge people for advice that I thought should be helpful and budget conscious. Then I, embarrassingly, got roped into a "Become a Travel Agent from Home" scheme that I am only divulging to you all because I remain anonymous. (Funny that the company fell through just days after they received my $69. )
I also wrote for Epinions.com when it was just a baby. And that is where I actually did make money! I made exactly $440.06 total from writing travel reviews. I even used my I'm-a-paid-travel-reviewer clout one time on an airline when they refused to change our seat assignment so my then 3-year old daughter wasn't sitting 40 rows behind me next to a stranger.

I made homemade destination packets for friends going to Hawaii, and they actually used them and said it really made their trip! Recently I helped a dear friend's sister (who I only know through e-mail) with her first trip to Paris. I got the nicest thank-you and I really do feel there is more happiness in giving, especially when it involves travel.

I'm no longer wishing to make money with travel advice, that was just an early-Internet-Days dream. I moved on to Ebay and found myself a little niche there back then. But speaking of Epinions, I haven't been back to that site in years to write anything. So, inspired by speaking about it in this post, I opened up my account, and after plugging in 100 different passwords I possibly could have used back in 1999, I finally found the winning number.

I have been reading my stuff and I have a mixture of feelings about it. Now that I am writing again, I find that I wrote about many of the same feelings and experiences that I have here. Some of the phrases are the same, some are how I wanted to portray it 8 years ago but didn't have the articulation that I do now (not that I am articulate, just more-so than back then.) I have the same sense of humor, the same pet-peeves and the same passions, only maybe more balanced nowadays.

And so back to Rachael, I still believe she stole my job idea. And you would have liked me! I would never have tried to force you to say "EVOO" and I still would have taken you to Paris, sure, but I would also take you to lesser-known places that I fell in love with and that is where I'd make you a nice comfy spot to watch and dream and you would quickly fall in love with those places too....

And so, with that in mind, let me leave you with a YouTube video I found of Carcassonne. It is hours from Paris, but the charm of this Cité leaves the City of Lights in the dust...in my Epinion anyway.

Trip Preparation: Panic Mode Begins

2007-11-30T00:08:00.000-08:00

“Oh my gosh, we need to find the freeway now! We are in a bad neighborhood!” I snapped to my friend who was with me in the car. We traveled to a large city in our state. I was there to get eye surgery the next day and she was with me since Hubby couldn’t get time off work. We decided to take in a movie the night before, but we couldn’t find parking in a safe area. There were sketchy people on the dark corners and no other cars around. I wanted to get out of there fast.

My friend, who I’ve been close to for years but never traveled with, was silent. Then she said, “Wow, I’m worried now. If you’re scared, it must be bad!” She explained to me that she assumed I wasn’t afraid of anything when traveling. Mouth hanging open in astonishment, I said, “What would make you think that?”

“Because you’ve been all over the U.S. and to Europe.“

I said, “And that means…that I’m not afraid of anything when I’m there?“

She said, “Right. You seem so confident.”

Sheesh, what picture was I painting of myself to my friends who got left behind in our little town while we went abroad?

Yeah, I may seem confident when I try to conjure up new destinations. I talk about it with my friends until they get sick of me. I push my husband relentlessly to dream about it too, and I try to make him realize why we’ll just die if we don’t go to such and such a place. And then, he‘ll finally agree and we’ll set some dates and buy some tickets, and that is when all the self-assurance ends. Because at that point, my mind switches into “what-if” mode and I begin to panic. All the things that could go wrong. All the reasons why we shouldn’t have chosen that place after all.

Maybe this is because the very first time I went to France, I had rose colored glasses on in my planning phase and they only came off the morning we left for the airport. My hubby wasn’t able to go with us to France, because he was working and schooling. My 2 year old and I were joining my grandma, who bought us the tickets and my mom and my 14 year old sister.
Hubby drove us to the airport and as reality set in that I was leaving the country for the first time (and with a toddler but without my husband), my guts started twisting. After several stops along the way, we finally made it to the airport. I began to snivel and hang on to my husbands neck in the lobby like I was in some sort of 1940's black and white film, where the couple are next to the train that's about to depart, clinging to the last few lingering seconds together. Then the sobbing ensued. This was so unlike me, displaying loud, uncontrolled emotional turbulence in front of a lot of strangers in a public place! Where was this bravado I thought I had, or had so successfully portrayed to my friend?

After boarding, we flew…and flew…and flew….and flew, and I realized just how far away “across the pond” really was. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat, I became giddy (in a bad way) when I checked the time and saw we still had hours to go. My head was beginning to sound the knell of an impending migraine, as is usually the case when anything requiring mental clarity occurs.

I remember the moment we were finally approaching Amsterdam, and I couldn’t believe that I was actually seeing Europe with my very own small town eyes. A couple of European men behind me began to talk to each other in English. They’d both been in Seattle and they were comparing notes. One said, “Could you believe the way people drink coffee there?” The other said, “All I saw were paper cups in people’s hands! It was so weird!” I thought they were weird for thinking that was weird. It wasn’t until later I found out why.

When we got off the aircraft in Amsterdam, I realized that Europe smelled different. A mixture of cigarettes, body odor, pastries, coffee…it made me feel like I was watching a movie I’d seen before, but I was suddenly transported into. I was experiencing what I’d only observed and dreamed of before. I knew I was in Europe, finally.

I never what-if’ed most of the things that happened, though. We almost missed our connecting flight to Toulouse because my grandmother had a harmonica in her purse wrapped in about 29 rubber bands. The way it was laying against the other harmonica made it look like a gun in the X-ray machine. Skipping boring but scary-to-me details, we made it to the plane anyway. I remember it was a City Hopper and I laughed every time they said it because it sounded like “See-Tee Hope Err”.
By this time, my head was in full-on-migraine, I stunk of B.O. (I now realize that this always happens to me the second I enter Europe and could anyone please tell me why???), and I was 15 hours past a nap, and in ready-to-vomit-any-second mode. I couldn’t get my seatbelt fastened (paybacks for earlier sarcastic remarks) and the perfectly-perfect flight attendant, with a perfect smile, had to lean over me to fasten it. I knew I smelled not pretty, so I turned about 5 shades of red and held my breath.

As my head bobbed up, down and around during the flight (because I was finally falling asleep) my daughter got into her backpack of surprises and opened up the Hello Kitty baby nail polishes I brought. Smelling lacquer wafting through the air, it jolted me out of my fleeting slumber, only to return again for 2 more seconds of sleep until my throbbing head bobbed and weaved and then smashed into the seat in front of me. I think this routine lasted about 2 hours. Two hours that felt like 20.

We finally arrived in Toulouse and were greeted by my uncle. I desperately needed to use the restroom to change out of my dirty, toddler defiled shorts and into my extra pants. I went to the bathroom and noticed the stall doors were solid marble. I walked into one in the center of the row of 15 vacant ones and fumbled with the latch for way too long and decided since practically no one was even in the airport anyway, I’d just prop the door closed as I changed.

Right at the moment that I was bent over, in a precarious position with one foot in the new jeans, the other foot on top of my shoe so I wouldn’t step onto the bathroom floor, a French lady came flying into the restroom and decided to shove open my door, even though there were multitudes of other stalls that were empty. She slammed the marble door into the top of my skull and when I yelped and fell backwards towards the toilet, she screamed at me, “Well why didn’t you lock it? It’s your fault, you should have locked the door!!!!” And then she said some other things I didn’t understand. Probably just as well.

So I said something I‘ve kicked myself for, for years now, “Oh je suis desolee, je suis desolee.”

So we left the airport and made the drive out into the country to my family’s house, I bathed in a tub with a shower head but no curtain, took some migraine medicine and fell fast asleep. About 4pm I awoke and decided I better call my hubby. My uncle set the call up and exited the room. When Hubby answered the phone I was bawling so hard that he couldn’t understand me. “I *gulp* want *hiccup* *gulp* to *sniff* go home *snort* *sob*!”

He lovingly laughed and assured me I was ok and made me promise to make the best of it. I cried and tried to convince him to buy a ticket and come. He couldn’t. He didn’t even have his passport.
I turned to look at my surroundings and realized that the shutters were wide open. And everyone was sitting outside, just in front of them, having coffee. They all heard the Big Brave Traveler’s true colors.
I waited as long as I could to join them, quite mortified of my unsophisticated howling. As I went out and sat down, Uncle said, “Hey, why don’t you come with me to the cave in the village. We need to get some wine.”
That trip to the wine store, filling up our gas-can-like container with wine from a hose in the wall of the cafe, and the dinner al fresco in front of my relatives 18th century farmhouse was the recipe for my mental well-being. I was suddenly done being homesick. And I had 3 glorious weeks ahead of me.

And now, let the panicking begin, because I just wouldn’t be me if I didn’t do it this time.

How to Turn Lots of Dollars Into Very Few Euros

2007-11-28T01:20:00.000-08:00

Peer out this window, please.
This is a view of the French countryside from 25,000 feet.

We were heading to Toulouse on an Airbus, how appropriate!

This was my view in 2005.

This again will be my view in a few months!

We are now proud owners of a series of numbers that will, when decoded at the airport, get us on an airplane bound for La Belle France! (E-tickets. I sure miss paper tickets, there's something about them that are more exciting, more official feeling.)

Anyhow, we are going to stay a whole month....

....but it won't be in Paris.

Is anyone interested in a Virtual Tag-Along to see what treasures and adventures can be found outside of Paris? The dollar is weak, so I won't be indulging in high-euro priced eats*. I will promise you lots of gorgeous photos or rustic places, beautiful buildings, scrumptious food and details, details details!!! I promise to bring you the true France. The France I told you about in the beginning. Frustrating, intoxicating, fabulous.

*But my friend in Paris is going to bring me a box of Laduree macarons! This is what she wrote to me last week:

MACARONS are absolutely DELICIOUS
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! they are the best « cookies » of the world !
The best ones are those you can find at “ladurée” in paris. When I visit you
in Toulouse I bring you a box with all kind of tastes yummy !

Learn English with Baby Charlie

2007-11-20T15:06:00.001-08:00

In looking for French lessons on YouTube for my kids, I decided to see what French people have in the way of English lessons on the Tube. I found this series of English lessons, presumably for adults. It's like a bad smell, so to speak. It's so horrible, but just to make sure it's that bad, you keep sniffing. You can't stop watching until you're through and then you want to see if Lesson 2 is just as hideous. So you go ahead and click it, and it's even worse. So you continue on with 3, then 4.....

I don't know if this is just a bad joke, or an actual English lesson. So, why don't you let your curiousity get the better of you and click PLAY. And then I won't be the only one who has to admit they watched this flick.

PS. Oh, for the full effect, you should understand French. If not, you can still get the idea that it's very, um, classy.

PPS. My kids love it! They keep saying, "Put Baby Charlie back on!!!! It's so funny!"

Job Descriptions

2007-11-19T01:47:00.000-08:00

We live in a country where Customer Service exists and is pretty darn good. Customer Service does not exist in France. Well, not as we know it in the United States, anyway. This can really be infuriating if you need to get something accomplished or just accomplish getting through the day without getting ticked off. Take for example the French policy of returning items to the store for exchange or refund. Oh wait, it doesn’t exist. Each item we purchase, be it a washcloth or a small appliance, is carefully checked out and debated between us, because we know that in France, the customer was always wrong. Even if said appliance spontaneously combusts. This really puts the pressure on, because I hate retail commitment, especially in light of my bad luck; if there is a defective one of something , I’ll be the one to buy it. Even if I reach in the wayyyyyy back of the shelf and grab the untouched one, it’ll be sure to be the malfunctioning one. Even if I, against my better judgment, grab the first one, it’ll be the faulty one. And why can’t I bring it back if I have the receipt, mean French lady at the counter?

Maybe it’s not her job. Because we heard that a lot. My brother was living in Switzerland at the time we were in Toulouse and one day he hopped a train to surprise us. Settling in on the train, he fell asleep. While he was in a deep slumber, the train stopped somewhere along the way, split in two, and went their separate ways. One half going to Toulouse, the other half going to Spain. When the train-half that my brother was on stopped at the final destination, he woke up. But not in France. He was, you guessed it, on the wrong half.

He had to buy another ticket from Port Bou, Spain, to Toulouse.

Being that he didn’t speak French and I did, I decided to stand up for my brother like any big sister should, and become his personal translator and get some compensation! I never would have thought of this on my own, but every person we reported the story to said, “That qualifies for a refund! You must explain the situation to SNCF and they will give you compensation. ”

After standing in line at the train station for almost an hour, we finally got up to the counter. There was another mean looking lady. I smiled and greeted her (with no reciprocation) and I told her at great length what happened and how traumatized my brother had been to have opened his eyes to see he was not in a familiar place…. The lady apathetically stared at us and after a long pause she said, “I’m sorry, but you are in the wrong line. You must go over there, because this is not my job to help you.”

She pointed us to a lady at a desk, so we walked over. We were told to sit down in the waiting area and…wait. We waited for almost 30 minutes while she sat at her desk typing. When we were finally called over, I again translated the story of what happened. She listened as if she was going to care. I included, “Since my brother was never informed when he bought the ticket that the train was going to be severed, and that he should sit on the France end of it, he is entitled to some sort of compensation. After all, can you imagine how traumatized to wake up and find you are in another country? “

She just looked at me and said, “We cannot compensate your brother for his mistake. And besides, this is not my job. You were supposed to be at that lady’s desk over there, she’s the one who deals with this kind of thing. This is not my job, Madame.” And she pointed to a desk about 20 feet away, where the young woman (girl) was just sitting and looking bored. My brother began to raise his voice and I stopped translating. Frustrated that I didn’t continue the translation, his voice got louder and louder. I calmed him down and said, “Let’s just go over to the girl at the other desk.”

So we did. We (again!) explained the unfortunate events of the previous day’s journey and it wasn’t falling on deaf ears, but sympathetic ears that resulted in a profuse apology. Finally, we thought, someone who will take pity on us and give us compensation (now in our minds it wasn’t compensation for the train splitting anymore, but compensation that we had to endure the French work ethic!) But then, she said something that should not have shocked me since it seemed to be the thought of the day. ”But I’m sorry, this isn’t my job. I cannot help you. You have to go through the door behind me into office number 100 and talk to someone in there.”

At that point in time, I informed my brother his translator had quit and he was on his own. Because the only thing I cared about then, was getting away from all French SNCF employees. And besides, translating is not my job!

It didn’t go well in room 100. And there was no compensation. But I, thankfully, was no longer involved.

But just when you think you have it all figured out, “they” change it again on you. A few weeks later, Hubby’s brother and another friend came to visit us. It was their first time in a foreign country and things had not started off smoothly. They decided to fly into CDG Paris and take a train to Toulouse. (And yes, they were warned about the tractor/TGV collision.) They were told by someone at the airport they could not buy train tickets at that train station; they would need to go to one in the center of Paris. So they bought tickets to that particular station, found the ticket counter and successfully purchased them.

And then the same man who sold the tickets to them said, “Oh, by the way, you aren’t leaving from this train station. You must go to Gare du Nord (which was across the city from where they were!) and your train is leaving in 20 minutes, so you won’t have time to make the train!”

They tried anyway and as they made it all the way across town and onto the platform they showed an SNCF employee their ticket and as she looked at it she said, “Oh, see that train that’s just pulling away? That is your train. You missed it.”

Feeling like jumping in front of a moving train, they purchased yet another set of tickets from this lady who informed them they “must buy First Class tickets, but you will be going standby. “ What that meant, they later found out, was they paid for First Class seats but ended up in the luggage portion between the train cars, taking turns sitting on a pull down seat the size of a small pizza box. Why they couldn’t have paid Second Class prices for the no-class “seat” is something we’ll never know. But I'm sure it wasn't her job anyway!

They finally made it to Toulouse, about six hours later than we estimated. We took them home, fed them and let them sleep. We hit it hard touring the next day. When they could take no more, we stopped at Place St. Georges, for refreshing drinks. Bro-in Law said with a heavy sigh, “All I want is a Pepsi with ice!” and Our Friend said, “And all I want is a water with lemon!” Hubby and I looked at each other and burst into fits of laughter . It was one of those moments of relief or a pressure release....having other Americans (and family at that) to share our bottled up, frustrating un-American experiences with. Trying to gain our composure we said, “Um, we’ve been here for three months now and we’ve yet to get a cube of ice in a drink, and forget about something as luxurious as a lemon to go with your water! It’ll never happen!”

We ordered our boissons and told tales of warm Cokes being the norm in France, and how lucky we were to have ice at the flat, and how the French guests we had over begged us not to put ice in their drinks. Clearly disappointed, our guests just moped and withered in the heat and 100 percent humidity.

And then the waiter brought our tray of drinks. There was a Pepsi for Bro-in-Law, garnished with… a lemon! And a bottle of water with an extra glass of ice to the brim for Our Friend. They looked at each other, traded luxuries and burst into laughter. Hubby and I sat in stunned silence and then we all laughed ourselves silly.

American Stuff I Want When I'm in France

2007-11-18T11:25:00.000-08:00

So because no place is perfect, I'm going to give you my "wish this country had this" list for when I'm in France. In other words, things I can't (but have to) live without when in France.

Mexican Food (and I'm not talkin' 'bout Old El Paso)
Ingredients for Mexican Food; healthy looking cilantro ("coriander" in hypermarches are pretty wimpy looking), limes that don't cost a fortune, taco seasoning, good tortillas, and jalapenos.
Coffee to go
Pepperoni Pizza
Ranch Dressing (sauce for crudites may look like Ranch, but I assure you it doesn't taste like it.)
American milk
American hot dogs (for hubby)
Chocolate Chip Cookies, or Butter Flavor Crisco to make homemade ones.
Donuts
Apple Pie, the good ol' American stuff (though with the Crisco I could make my own)
Adam's Peanut Butter
American style cake
Cheeseburger, and please don't say McDo, that's not a real American burger in the way I'm thinking :)
Salad consisting of more than just lettuce and vinaigrette when I go to friend's home's for dinner.
Pasta salad consisting of more than just pasta and mayonnaise.
Please, no yogurt for dessert!!!! It just doesn't cut it when you want a big, dirty piece of chocolate! (As my Aussie friend says).
A big American breakfast at least once. (Eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns).
Micro-brew beer. (Deschutes, Widmer, Sierra Nevada, etc)
Prawns that don't come with the legs and heads.
American grocery carts (what is the deal with the French all wheel drive?)
Customer Service

Feel free to comment and add to my list!

Shopping List for France

2007-11-16T14:56:00.000-08:00

Let's go Virtual Shopping in France! Here are some grocery items I just gotta have when I go shopping there (faire des courses). In no particular order, here they are:

Bonne Maman Tartelettes

These cookies are so addicting, with a buttery crust and fruit filling. My favorites are framboise, fraise and citron. I seriously have eaten a whole box in one sitting.

Sel de Guérande

Or any flaky salt is a must in my cupboard.

Volvic Water

I love the lemon flavored water (no sugar or sweeteners added) and Peach and Strawberry are my other faves.

Pass the Old El Paso!

Ok, ok, I only bought this when we lived in France and we were dying, I repeat DYING to have some Mexican food.

Olives...

from the olive stands inside the markets. They have olives in big tubs, each tub a different flavor. You taste them all, and then chose a couple of your favorites. They are so delicious and very important for your aperitif.

Ourson or many other kiddie treats.

France's selection of cookies is mind boggling. This is one treat my kids and I like, it's like a Twinkie with chocolate filling, but not near as sweet or artificial tasting, and way cuter!

Saucisson

Delicious dried sausage that is an essential with kids! Similar to hard salami. Can come in a strange variety of flavors.

Tuna-I really liked this brand, it was a solid white piece of fish, no mush.

Cassoulet

Chocolatines (pain au chocolat) from a shop, not pre-packaged.

Banania or Poulain (hot chocolate for breakfast)

French chocolate bars Milka is one of my faves, though there are many others!

Pago Juice

This is the best juice I've ever had! Strawberry is my all-time favorite. It's like blended up berries in a glass. This is from Italy but served frequently in cafes in France.

Sirop ...for refreshing drinks (Sirop de fraise drink in a cafe is water and strawberry syrup. Other popular flavors are mint, peach and grenadine. You can also add these to beer to make a Monaco or Peach Beer.)

Jambon and jambon du pays

Ham. I don't know what the heck they do to their ham in France, but it is sooooo good! Jambon de pays is dried, similar to proscuitto.

Bonne Maman jam

Carte d'Or ice cream!!!

These peanut flavored puffs for aperitif

Jenlain beer, because most beer in France is crap. (What can I say? We live in micro-brew territory.)

Nutella, of course! And it really does taste better when you buy it in Europe!

Maille mustard-I prefer the grainy one, especially for vinaigrette.

Merguez sausages, they are so yummy and spicy, especially grilled!

Peanuts

I'm Lovin' It!

2007-11-15T00:40:00.000-08:00

"I did not come 6000 miles to eat at McDonald's!" I said in protest during my first visit to France, when someone suggested it would be the easiest thing to do after the long day of touring. It was also a longstanding joke with friends before I left that I would end up eating at Mickey D's while in the gastronomic capital of the world.

I finally acquiesced during the 3rd and final week of our vacation. My consolation prize? I was able to substitute the Coke in my Value Meal for a BEER! At that moment, I decided McDo (as the French affectionately call it, pronounced mack-doe) needed to be given a second look.

I don't care who you are or how much you detest Big Macs, everyone is interested in the foreign Golden Arches (ok, ok, everyone I know.) McDonald's is such an American icon, it's funny to see how it translates in other lands. Even Hawaii and Georgia (USA) have local specialties on the menu; Portuguese sausage for Hawaii and grits for Georgia.

But McDo in France has the ultimate hopped up beverage! Even if you don't like your food, you can drown your disappointment in Kronenberg while the kiddos are munching an "Appy Meal" (French people don't pronounce the "h").

And do not let any French person tell you that they resent McDo being in France. Because, um, have you ever happen to see one at lunchtime in France? It's like a grand opening at Krispy Creme, or the incessant line at an In -N-Out Burger. I've never seen so many people crammed into every square inch of a fast food joint, day after day after day! The McDrive is packed with cars, the lobby is filled with hungry Frenchies and the cashiers even hop over the counter and start taking orders down the line with a notepad!

Now for the fun part; ordering. One would think that since most of the food items are spelled exactly the same way as here in the US, that native English speakers would have the home court advantage in this place. So, I ordered a Cheeseburger Happy Meal and a Big Mac Value Meal. And the girl at the register said, "J'ai pas compris." I tried again. "Madame, j'ai pas compris!"

Ahem...clearing throat, getting out my phlegmy French "R", I decided to say, "Un Beeg Mak et un Appy Meel". And voila! I was understood, rung up and handed the correct items. I felt like a real idiot, speaking my own language with a faux French accent. But that's how ya gotta do it! Mac Floohree, Shezz-boorg-air, Om-bourg-air, Meelk-Shek...you get the idea.

Now the really interesting part of the whole experience, as if that wasn't, is watching how the French eat their McDo. Since most French like to eat a complete meal with side dishes, it was not uncommon to see one person eating a burger, fries, yogurt parfait, salad and a drink. IN ONE SITTING. I became obsessed with watching people's trays and how much one little thin Frenchie girl could put down the hatch at this chain they insist is ruining their country and gastronomy laws.

But this concept of eating all available side dishes was not lost on me. Though I tolerated our trips to McDo during lunch (and to tell you the truth, the food is way better at French Mickey D's), I was delighted to go their for breakfast when we could. Because unlike here, where you get the breakfast sandwich, hash browns and choice of coffee or juice, in France you get the whole sha-bang! In their own French words, translated by moi, "Because breakfast is a time of 100 percent pleasure, at McDonald's you have a choice!"

You can customize your breakfast by choosing the main dish, the hot beverage, the cold beverage, and the yogurt.

If you want to have a virtual McDo breakfast and see the items I'm about to describe, click here.

Now then, let's examine Breakfast Meal #2, or otherwise known as Brunch 2: You get a Bacon Egg McMuffin, and pancakes with Nutella, and a Fruit and Yogurt Parfait, and an orange juice and a coffee! Plus, they always give you a cute little chocolate bar with your coffee.

Brunch 3 gets even more ridiculous, with a pancake packed with ham and cheese and three pastries (along with all drinks and yogurt.) Do you see why I'm totally in love with P'tit Dej' a la McDo? C'est tout que j'aime!

And saving the best for last....les desserts! The last time I was there and ordered an apple pie, it was deep fried, just like the old days here! But I don't see it on the menu now. I do see, however, a seasonal menu item that looks mighty good. Pomme Façon Tatin Sundae, which looks an awful lot like an apple crisp sundae to me. McMiam!*

Three-story McDonald's in Toulouse, France at Capitole (the main square in the city).

*miam means "yum" in French.

Coffee Talk

2007-11-13T00:00:00.000-08:00

Then Coffee-Mate came out with Hazelnut creamer. That is when my true coffee addiction began. It camouflaged the Folgers oh-so-well!

Then, as I started getting weary of all that non-dairy sweetness, we started to drink it black and a bit stronger. We moved on up to Yuban. But soon, we declared a ban on Yuban in our house. (Do you ban Yuban?) ;)

We were now in the midst of the Starbucks revolution and we adjusted accordingly. We thought that if we slurped down the burned tasting brew and liked it, we were true coffee connoisseurs. And certainly buying the beans and grinding them ourselves confirmed it! No more canned grounds for us, we said.

When we moved to France we suddenly felt like Coffee Pre-Schoolers . The coffee there was so strong that it shocked our palates and guts the first few mornings and we soon realized we only needed one cup to get going, as opposed to our normal three. After moving back to the States, we continued to make strong "puts-hair-on-your-chest" java, much to the dismay of our occasional guests. And when friends or family came to visit from France, we’d make requests for loads of Lavazza and Carte Noire to be brought to us.

Then my coffee maker sizzled out. Being the Google Queen that I am, I had to Google coffeemakers and read reviews on oodles of models. I came across a site about home roasting coffee beans. Roasting my own coffee? Why would I want to complicate my life more than it already is by adding another step to my coffee drinking regimen?

When FedEx came the next week to deliver my new coffee roaster, I was ecstatic but scared. Could someone like little ol’ me really take these green beans resembling lentils and actually come out with a product even close to Starbucks or Tully’s? I wasn’t so sure.

Fast-forward one year. We are officially coffee snobs. After taking that first sip of home roasted brew, Hubby and I looked at each other and could only say “WOW.” No after taste, no burnt flavor, and do we detect…chocolate notes? As home roasters often do, we now refer to that chain as Charbucks. Because, my friends, charred coffee water is not a sign of quality nor does consuming it make one the ultimate coffee connoisseur.

I’ve also switched from a drip maker to a French Press. (Do people in France really use these?! I don't know, but I think it ties in well with my blog...it's French and it's coffee.)

We serve up the best coffee in town and friends come from far and wide to enjoy a cup Chez Nous (at our house).

When Best Expat Friend was packing to come visit from France, she called to tell me she received my shopping list via email, but said I forgot to include my normal order for Carte Noire coffee. “Oh no,” I told her. “We don’t drink that stuff anymore. From now on, you’ll be taking my coffee back to France!”

And she did.

Reason #351 why I need to buy a ticket to France: she’s out of coffee.

ALERT! I was tagged by LaBeletteRouge and MyInnerFrenchGirl. So quickly, here are 10 Random Things About Moi:

I could not stand the smell, taste or sight of coffee during pregnancy.
I like Hawaii more than I like France. I wish I could live in Hawaii. :)
I've held a real Acadamy Awards Oscar in my very own hands.
McDonald's was my first real job in High School and it taught me to have a great work ethic that I appreciated ever since.
I get migraines.
My first concert was INXS, the Suicide Blonde Tour! :)
I hate flying.
I am pretty sure I came up with "$40 a Day" way before Rachael Ray did.
The last concert I went to was Prince (Musicology)
I had 20/600 vision before I had LASIK surgery