Ex-expat

Rationalizing

2009-05-15T20:55:00.004-05:00

This afternoon, on the phone, my sister said that she thought I was kind of a snob in high school.

She's probably right. I was skinny, underdeveloped, didn't take very good care of myself, wore unfashionable clothes, profoundly lonely, and tried to make up for it by showing off my superior intelligence. I don't remember being overtly mean to people on more than a couple of occasions, but by the time I had reached tenth grade, I'd developed a pretty prickly shell, which was the first thing people saw. Mostly from being teased for years and made to feel outcast by popular girls and unpopular boys alike. Unpopular wouldn't have even described me--I wasn't even on the social radar screen.

Yes, high school was not my high point.

Had she told me that just a few years ago, I would have reacted differently. I would have been defensive, and I would have tried to explain my behavior and find someone to blame for it.

But now I'm staring down the barrel of thirty, and I'm starting to feel differently. Twenty is when you blame your mother for everything that's wrong with you. Thirty is when you own up and assume the consequences for your own behavior. Thirty is when you stop caring about what happened in high school. Thirty is when you move on.

Looking at it this way, thirty can't come fast enough.

Ten Common Enough Things That I Have Never Done

2009-04-10T10:52:00.002-05:00

1. My taxes
2. Mowed the lawn
3. Changed a tire
4. Smoked a cigarette
5. Been to a concert at a large venue with a big-name headliner
6. Seen 456 of Star Wars in their entirety
7. Gone spring breakin'
8. Sought legal advice
9. Owned a pet
10. Taken out a loan

And It's a Monday, Too

2009-04-06T08:56:00.002-05:00

You know how, when you break a glass, you quickly vacuum up the shards? And how no matter how carefully and thoroughly you vacuum, you always miss a few? And how, inevitably, you locate those remaining shards by stepping on them?

Yes, my day started with me digging glass shards out of the bottom of my foot at 7:15 in the morning. It hasn't gotten better yet.

No One Ever Mentions the Drawbacks

2009-01-27T12:07:00.003-06:00

Winter basket January 6
Originally uploaded by skorky64.

I've been eating mostly local organic vegetables and eggs since last June, supplemented with grocery store stuff only when needed. It's been a fun time of exploration and discovery, and I do feel somewhat healthier. Or at least more virtuous, in the "I eat more vegetables than you do" kind of way.

But there are drawbacks. Beyond the challenge of eating the season (mountains of the same food, all at once), I've found that one by one, the snacks and prepared food of my childhood are no longer as satisfying.

I've started to make my own popcorn in a saucepan, rather than microwave popcorn. (Although that's more to do with not having a microwave.) It tastes so much fresher, and I can put as little salt as I want on it. Campbell's tomato soup felt gluey in my mouth after I had my homemade version. Jell-O instant pudding is too sweet. I still eat Spaghetti-Os when I'm by myself, but they taste more and more metallic to me each time. It won't be long before I give them up completely.

But my last holdout was Velveeta. Yes, the "processed cheese food" appellation scares me, but it's so darn creamy and melty and smooth. Nothing else works on a grilled cheese sandwich quite like the cheese in the foil-wrapped brick.

Frenchy left yesterday for a week-long job elsewhere, and so grocery shoppers on Monday evening saw me rush to the cheese aisle like it was 1849 California. Gruyere, Cheddar, Velveeta, goat, anything I could lay my hands on. By the time I got home, I was starving, so I made myself one of my favorite snack/dinners: fried egg, slice of ham and Velveeta on a toasted English muffin.

But something was off. I can't explain it, but it just didn't taste right. I finally narrowed it down to the Velveeta. There was something wrong with it. Is it that I've gotten used to the taste of fresher foods, or that I've just grown up?

There should be a term for it: the slow loss of childhood pleasures, the realization that what you used to enjoy just isn't that desirable anymore. I've grown up and have replaced each item with a grown-up equivalent, but I still want the old taste. Or rather, the familiarity that the old taste gave me.

I'm too young for nostalgia.

The Less Commonly Seen Hispanic Southerner

2008-11-24T11:37:00.000-06:00

Without flirtation (I think) and while cooking up my delicious pasta lunch lunch, the cafe chef referred to me repeatedly as "sweetheart."

Aw, I miss living in the South!

Am I Happy?

2008-11-20T07:24:00.004-06:00

On the morning of what is to be, ultimately, three Thanksgiving meals (and none of them actually on Thanksgiving Day), I find it appropriate to ask myself if I'm truly happy.

By all rational accounts, I should be insanely happy. I enjoy good health, as do those around me, I have a good family and a few good friends, a steady job, money in the bank, a wealth of entertainment at my fingertips. I don't own a TV. I have a lovely new life partner, and we've made good steps to building a sustaibale lifestyle in the past few weeks. There's no one dropping bombs on me, curtailing my freedoms in any significant way, taking my home away. I've lost money in the stock market, just like everyone else, but at least I have some savings, and the mentality to save.

Maslow's hierarchy of needs says that humans have five basic levels of need. Each level is dependent on the one below it; you cannot reach for a higher level of need without achieving the one below. You can temporarily regress and place a higher importance on health, for example (say you suddenly get sick), but you don't necessarily have to work back through all the levels to get back to where you were.

It's interesting to look around you and try to figure out where people are. (It's even more interesting to determine what level they lack, but that's mean-spirited.) My father-in-law recently started writing novels and is now published. Could we say that he has attained the fifth level of creative output? Does my growing knitting habit represent a channel of creativity? Am I really the happiest when I'm sewing something?

Around this time of year, it's worth taking a look at this pyramid. I could always have more friends, more security, more confidence, more spontaneity, but overall I'm doing pretty well. Here's to remembering that.

Vade retro

2008-11-05T15:33:00.002-06:00

As heartened as I am by Barack Obama's victory, as much as I believe this is the first election in a while in which people voted for a candidate rather than against his opponent, as disappointed as I was when I finally made up my mind that McCain was no longer the moderate ethical voice in the Republican Party, mostly what I feel today is relief.

Relief that the hokey woman in the lipstick, heels and designer suits is going back into obscurity where she belongs.

I can handle someone who believes in an abstract story of creation. I don't judge a person for having a regional accent or for using earthy language. I have felt myself the mind-blank when put on the spot.

But to ridicule solid, promising scientific research on fruit flies and bears? Research that can potentially lead to breakthroughs, not to mention contribute to the worldwide body of knowledge? That is unforgivable, short-sighted and warped.

Good riddance.

Liesl's Magnificat

2008-10-27T12:08:00.006-05:00

Yesterday was luscious. We had almost written the whole weekend off, what with Saturday's rain and slop and wet. Saturday was a non-day. A day to clean the kitchen, a day to finish up that project that's been sticking its tongue out at you from the floor of the hall. A day that we simply endured together, sleeping and eating and sleeping some more. A day for drinking raspberry tea. Not a bad day, just a prosaic day.

But, oh, Sunday, sweet Sunday, the autumn day of my dreams. The rain brought in warmer air, for one precious Indian summery day. The sun woke us up, nudging us into the day earlier than usual, so that we could taste and savor the sweetness of the bluest sky and hear the crispness of the leaves.

We wandered through Central Park, the only proper destination for such a day. We shared the gray-beige rocks of Turtle Pond with other couples and watched the men row their ladies in green rowboats. Impromptu kisses beneath the goldening leaves may or may not have been shared. We talked of cabbages and kings, of wedding plans and future things. Shared one slice of pizza between the two of us, a sip of coffee, and a free chocolate. Played in the leaves and the stuffed animals. Walked and talked and walked and talked down the sidewalks of the city.

Sublime and pure, the sun warmed our hearts and the leaves opened our souls to each other. It was, in short, the consummate fall afternoon, the prototype of autumn, the mold from which all fall days should be cast.

And the best part of the day was sharing it with you.

Rain

2008-10-20T14:37:00.001-05:00

So, this has been a day. I arrived at my office building to find that the elevator was out, and I'd have to walk up the eight flights of stairs to get to work - again. The stairs were wet, with water dripping down my neck as I climbed. It actually got worse as I got farther up.

If only that were the worst of it.

When I finally got to my floor, it was raining. Inside the building. Yes, raining. Like, dangit, I forgot my umbrella. Like, I want to stay in bed and watch a movie. Like, good day for ducks. Inside the building.

It appears there was a false fire alarm on the 10th floor, or a pipe leak, or something, that didn't get checked over the weekend. It's 3:30 right now, and they tell me water is still running on the 9th and 10th floors. My specific office isn't affected, fortunately.

The director's office was a soggy mess. His computer no longer works. His chairs squished when you sat down on them. When you lifted up a corner of a ceiling tile to see where the water was coming from, a fountain gushed out the other corner. We emptied out his office entirely, moving 60 years and a PhD's worth of books. We strategically placed recycle bins to catch the drops. We rescued his diplomas and family pictures and knicknacks. We set up fans to dry his important documents into crinkly, crispy pages. We set up a temporary office for him in another room. We called the crew to bring carpet fans. We thought we were done.

And then...we opened the storage closets next to his office. The ones that hold ten years' worth of paper archives, in cardboard boxes. Which were now wet archives, in wet cardboard boxes. I took a puddle of dirty cardboard water to the face when emptying those shelves.

So now we have archives, Christmas decorations, electronics, chair cushions and all kinds of documents strewn around every possible surface, drying. Fortunately they tell me the floors are made of concrete, so there's no risk of those collapsing. The ceilings, that's another story. I'm keeping my ears peeled for the crash.

Talk about a flashback to Odo-Ban!

The Frozen North

2008-10-03T13:14:00.002-05:00

It occurred to me that Canada might be feeling a little left out of this presidential election.

"Hey, we're next to Alaska, too!"

Ypres

2008-09-29T08:05:00.006-05:00

Browsing NYTimes.com this morning, I found this gem of a sentence:

Heretofore, my chief anxiety about traveling to France had always been that, at some point during my trip, I would be called upon to pronounce the name of the town Ypres.

You can read the rest of the article here. Let's just say that from the very first sentence, the article grabs you. (Caveat: You have to speak boarding school French to fully understand the article; the author resorts to peppering phrases en français throughout the text, to give it more of a je ne sais quoi.)

Rethinking The Desire To Live In Northern France

2008-09-26T08:43:00.005-05:00

You know it's going to be a long day when you arrive at work and have to squeegee yourself off. Rain rain go away, at least for the twenty minutes while I walk from home to subway and subway to work. Seriously, I am wet to the upper thigh.

But yet, I still can't bring myself to buy the silly rubber boots all the girls here wear. While certainly more functional than Crocs, they're equally funny-looking. Bets are on for how long I'll hold out.

The Countdown

2008-09-12T12:26:00.003-05:00

Well, it's coming down to the wire, folks. Two days until my birthday. Two days until the last year of a 2 as the first digit. I gave up long ago on pretending that I was still carefree, but still...thirty's in sight, just lurking down the bend, waiting to jump on me and smother me with its finality.

And so now it's time for the list. I've attempted this once before but didn't get very far. At the time, I thought I had all the time in the world to think of more things. Go look at that list. I'll wait. Do dee doo de doo.

Wow, I've accomplished, partially accomplished, or will accomplish the first four items! But for realsies, it's my turn to make my own list. No fair listing things I've already done.

Put up as many of my CSA fruit and vegetables as possible for the winter.

Succeed in making borscht this time.

Make as many of my own work clothes as I can.

Stay gracious and try not to snap at my mom when she forces her wedding ideas on me.

Take a photography class, or work on my photography skills.

Find another dance class I like, and attend regularly.

Go to a country I haven't been to and where I don't speak the language.

Talk to strangers.

Put 6k into my retirement fund. Hey, I never said the things had to be interesting!

Attend a European soccer game.

Really blow a student's mind with my insightful and probing questions on intercultural awareness, leading them to requestion all they ever thought they knew about the world (aka, do my job).

Figure out what to do about the "I want a registry!" "But we don't have any space for stuff." "But I WANT one!" dilemma.

Spend a weekend with Frenchy and a borrowed under-one, just to see if we can hack it.

Think up a really watertight excuse for when we can't hack it.

Read Jude the Obscure.

Have more than one professional massage.

Take advantage of the free gallery talks at the Met.

Learn to stop on rollerblades.

Visit some New York wineries.

Invite the couple that lives below us up for dinner or coffee.

How to make me melt into a tiny little puddle

2008-08-29T10:30:00.003-05:00

The other night we got word that a deacon who happens to be a cousin of a friend agreed to marry us in France, pending an in-person meeting beforehand. This was good news; besides the fact that we've found an officiant, we also only have to go through one day of pre-wedding counseling rather than the six months that American priests make you do. Welcome to France, where they're desperate for Catholics.

Nevertheless, Frenchy looked alarmed. "Pre-wedding counseling? What are they going to ask?"

I explained that usually the priest asks you if you've given consideration to many of the issues that may potentially cause friction: children, finances, difference in beliefs, and in our case, what country we're going to live in. He looked somewhat relieved.

"I thought that he was going to ask what I did to deserve a girl like you. Because really, somebody's got to notice, sooner or later."

Autumn

2008-08-27T08:01:00.005-05:00

The first crisps of autumn are in the air.

I wake up in the morning, shivering from the open window.

I wonder if my eight-year-old out-at-the-elbows French suede jacket will last another season.

I ditch my pinks and purples for oranges and browns. I polish my knee-high boots to be presentable for one more season.

I start to reconsider if fall is really my favorite season in New York, because it really represents the long decline towards winter.

I think of summer camp in Michigan while I walk to work (3 miles a day, I counted!) The air had a similar tang to it when the morning bell woke us up in our open cabins, a crunch that burned off after an hour and a bowl of oatmeal.

I crave oatmeal.

I count the weeks until my CSA will be over. I think about signing up for the winter share. I don't have to think very hard. Sign me up!

I remind myself that colder weather means fewer visitors to our small apartment.

I gear myself up for the parents' visit in November.

I search for recipes to preserve and store the fruits of the summer sunshine. Peach preserves this week--no eating them out of hand.

I savor the warmth as I pull sticky sweaty hairs off my neck. Why did I pledge not to cut my hair until the weddings? It's getting the chop in August.

Autumn is coming, folks.

The Global Workforce

2008-08-12T13:06:00.001-05:00

I went to a Mexican restaurant today for lunch, that was staffed and cheffed entirely by Asians of indeterminate variety.

That just seems wrong.

Transitions

2008-08-07T10:42:00.003-05:00

I need a break.

I've only been working for three weeks and I need a break. There, I admitted it.

It's harder than I had thought to transition from over three months of unemployedness to working full time, waking up at quarter to silly o'clock, and making sure there are enough lefotvers to eat the next day for lunch.

Keeping yourself on task, not checking your hotmail. Trying not to clock-watch. Putting makeup on every day. Remembering to bring a wrap in case the office is too cold. The list goes on.

Did I mention the 6:45 am wakeup?

But really, it's not the work that is burning me out. Work is the escape. It's the home. Specifically, it's the people at home. We have recently doubled the population of our one-bedroom apartment to four people. The Frenchy's sister and her boyfriend are here for a vist.

A two-week visit.

Did I mention the small apartment? And the two weeks?

While they are both delightful and lovely, it's a bit of an adjustment to skitter out of bed at the first clang of the alarm in order not to disturb their peaceful morning lie-in, to tiptoe to the bathroom and shower as quietly as possible, to go about my normal working life while they merrily vacation. And it's not just the morning that reveals the disjunction. For the past two weeks, we have eaten out or gone to a bar every single night. Every night. That's a lot of money, and a lot of calories. And a lot of very late-night returns.

I want to enjoy spending time with them, to learn how to shift from girlfriend to in-law, to practice my French without feeling burned out. I looked forward to their arrival, I begged her to visit because I want to get to know her better, and now that they're here I'm furtively checking how many days until they leave. I want them here with me, just not quite so close to me. I want to be a good hostess, but I also with they would hang up their towels. I like talking to them, but speaking constant French tires me out.

The irony of it all is that I have brought leftover sweet-sour chicken for lunch today.

Vegetable basket 16 July

2008-07-17T13:01:00.001-05:00

Vegetable basket 16 July
Originally uploaded by skorky64.

Ahh, this week's theme is "oblong."

I'm beginning to think that my CSA harvest vegetables according to a theme, rather than what's ripe. This can be the only explanation.

And a few of the cherries somehow got purloined before the photo was taken. Don't know how that happened!

Vegetable basket 2 July

2008-07-02T18:23:00.003-05:00

Well, this must be the red and yellow week at the CSA. It also features flowers from Frenchy, yellow lilies.

This batch became a zucchini stir fry, blueberry muffins and pancakes, swiss chard quiche, beet risotto, and a whole bunch of other things I can't remember but were supremely tasty.

Vegetable basket 2 July

Mobile, Portable or Cell

2008-06-30T09:13:00.001-05:00

Typical Reaction to the Revelation That I Do Not Own a Cell Phone, By Year

I had one when I was in France from 2002-2003, but I only got one here in 2006. I believe this fits me squarely in the rubric outlined above.

In Which I Am Drinking

2008-06-21T21:28:00.006-05:00

Well, howdy all. Hey look, it's my HUNDRETH post! In three years! I think that must be a record. A record of half-assedness and incompetence. I doubt there is any blogger out there who has so ineptly stuck to an ailing blog for three years and posted so little of any real worth.

And yet, here I am.

A friend was over several times last week, the same friend that saw me through college, tsking at my music selection all the way. Let's just say that I grew up on a steady diet of KLOU 103, Good Times, Great Oldies, and draw the curtain. I don't care if my music selection is unabashedly nerdtastic, it works for me and that's the way I like it. And I shall not be abashed!

I had mentioned that my playlist was stuck in December of 1999, when our college firewalled all illegal downloading. The next day when she came to see me she brought a mixtape (actually a mixCD) with lots of great new stuff on it, Chicago rap, indie stuff, and all around I love it, just for the new sounds she brings me.

But there is one gem, one brilliant center rock in this diamond ring of sound that I must share with you. Forget the visuals, just close your eyes and let the sleazy lounge tune slide over you. Groovy, baby!

Firstfruits

2008-06-19T13:08:00.003-05:00

Vegetable basket 18 June

The wait is over! I have my first vegetable basket! There is:

a dozen eggs

two rhubarb stalks

two quarts of strawberries

a purple lettuce

another purple lettuce, different and absolutely massive

a pint of pea shoots

garlic scapes (I was supposed to take five but I only have four, owing to an apparent inability to count wild curly things that hang together like wire clotheshangers)

spinach

mixed baby greens

a pint of sugar snap peas

a bunch of cilantro

I washed all of the produce in the sink, noting with joy the promised dirt that the CSA people said would be there. Somehow it makes it all more authentic, I think. I had to improvise a bunch of drying racks all around the kitchen. A salad spinner is in my future, I think!

So far I've made a little stir fry of some of the pea shoots, a scape, some snap peas and some green onions that were wilting in my fridge. I can safely say that while I've somehow picked up the famous "touch" necessary to make a good salad dressing, I haven't gotten it for stir fry. Too much soy sauce!

The sugar snap peas were delicious, and I've sneaked several of them raw, and the garlic scape was unusual but good. I can't say as much for the pea shoots. I was expecting a delicate leaf and stalk, almost as soft as a fat mung bean sprout, but they were tough and stringy when quickly sauteed. Perhaps I should try them raw, as many sites recommended?

The baby greens will go next, as I imagine they won't hold up very long in the fridge. And of course I've eaten some of the strawberries. That goes without saying. (Too late!)

The Difference Between Frenchy and Me

2008-05-22T11:20:00.007-05:00

I have discovered the Frenchy's weakness, and it is brownies.

I made brownies a few days ago, to go with the utterly satisfying Mint Ice Cream. The Frenchy doesn't eat any ice cream that isn't vanilla, but nevertheless he wouldn't let me put chocolate chips in the mint ice cream. Yes, I love him anyway. It's hard sometimes.

So I made these brownies to go with the ice cream. This photo (weirdly sideways, I can't get it to straighten out) is about a day and a half after they came out of the oven. By this time I had eaten two reasonably small-sized squares. Frenchy ate the rest. For breakfast.

Normally it is me and my sweet tooth that pigs out on the cookies, brownies, cake, etc. I've been known to vacuum up an entire pint of Ben and Jerry's in one sitting. Frenchy, in his best Frenchy manner, takes three spoonfuls and says "That's enough for tonight." (How can he resist the caramelly crunchiness of Americone Dream?) I scarf it up and don't even feel guilty. If it tastes good, I'm eating it. End of story.

I have long avoided reading French Women Don't Get Fat, partly because I'm convinced I came up with the idea by myself after living in France ten years ago (dirty plaigiarists!) and partly because I suspect the book will annoy the living daylights out of me. If you haven't read it, basically it comes down to this: American women are scared of their food, and like a horse that can sense fear, the food attacks back in the form of guilt, flab, indigestion and cottage cheese thighs. French women, on the other hand, savor the flavor, get the most out of the small amount of food they eat, and therefore can consume horrendously buttery and cholesterol-laden foodstuffs with no avoirdupois impact.

(You see, the difference between me and French women is that I combine the American and French technique: no-guilt eating, but I don't stop with just one helping. Lord knows how I keep this svelte figure.)

But there is one thing that will break a French person's resolve to have just a cubic centimeter of food at once, and it is Duncan Hines Extra Fudgy Brownies. I am rather gleeful over the discovery.

1001 Movies

2008-05-14T15:15:00.002-05:00

And of course, here's the celluloid version. Full list here. These are the ones I've seen.

106. Grand Illusion (1937)
110. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)
123. The Wizard of Oz (1939)
145. Dumbo (1941)
152. Casablanca (1942)
166. Meet Me in St. Louis (1944)
188. Beauty and the Beast (1946)
233. A Streetcar Named Desire (1951)
245. Singin’ in the Rain (1952)
258. Roman Holiday (1953)
278. The Seven Samurai (1954)
285. Guys and Dolls (1955)
339. The 400 Blows (1959)
341. Some Like It Hot (1959)
351. Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959)
373. Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961)
375. Jules and Jim (1961)
381. West Side Story (1961)
383. Cleo de 5 a 7 (1962)
417. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964)
419. My Fair Lady (1964)
421. Dr. Strangelove (1964)
437. The Sound of Music (1965)
453. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966)
459. The Graduate (1967)
463. Belle de Jour (1967)
517. M*A*S*H (1970)
525. A Clockwork Orange (1971)
527. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971)
544. Cabaret (1972)
550. The Godfather (1972)
575. Amarcord (1973)
593. The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975)
595. Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975)
612. Network (1976)
620. Annie Hall (1977)
636. Grease (1978)
652. Life of Brian (1979)
655. The Muppet Movie (1979)
661. The Last Metro (1980)
667. Airplane! (1980)
680. E.T.: The Extra-Terestrial (1982)
693. A Christmas Story (1983)
712. Paris, Texas (1984)
714. This Is Spinal Tap (1984)
721. The Breakfast Club (1985)
722. Ran (1985)
727. Back to the Future (1985)
736. The Color Purple (1985)
742. The Decline of the American Empire (1986)
745. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)
760. Babette’s Feast (1987)
764. Good Morning, Vietnam (1987)
768. The Princess Bride (1987)
783. A Fish Called Wanda (1988)
786. Dangerous Liaisons (1988)
792. Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)
798. When Harry Met Sally (1989)
818. Europa Europa (1990)
819. Pretty Woman (1990)
828. Raise the Red Lantern (1991)
847. Glengarry Glen Ross (1992)
856. Farewell My Concubine (1993)
860. Philadelphia (1993)
861. Jurassic Park (1993)
862. The Age of Innocence (1993)
863. Schindler’s List (1993)
866. The Piano (1993)
871. Forrest Gump (1994)
872. Clerks (1994)
873. Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994)
874. The Lion King (1994)
890. Toy Story (1995)
892. Braveheart (1995)
894. Clueless (1995)
897. Seven (1995)
908. Independence Day (1996)
911. The English Patient (1996)
917. L.A. Confidential (1997)
930. Titanic (1997)
933. Saving Private Ryan (1998)
936. Run Lola Run (1998)
941. The Idiots (1998)
947. The Blair Witch Project (1999)
955. Fight Club (1999)
956. Being John Malkovich (1999)
959. Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
961. The Matrix (1999)
976. Memento (2000)
978. O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000)
979. Amelie (2001)
987. Moulin Rouge (2001)
995. The Pianist (2002)
999. Chicago (2002)
1000. The Barbarian Invasions (2003)

For comparison's sake, let's apply the same metrics. Except this time I'm going to divide them by decades. This is the number of films in each decade in the original list:

1900s: 2
1910s: 5
1920s: 39
1930s: 85
1940s: 92
1950s: 131
1960s: 149
1970s: 151
1980s: 153
1990s: 151
2000s: 39 (2000-2003)

This is a bit more spread out over the decades. I suspect there was a deliberate attempt to equalize the number of films in each decade of the 60s to the 90s.

And my percentages of movies seen in each decade. I predict this will be the opposite of the books: that I'll have seem primarily the last couple decades. I also predict that my showings will be far poorer than the printed matter.

1900s: 0%
1910s: 0%
1920s: 0%
1930s: 3.5%
1940s: 4.3%
1950s: 6.1%
1960s: 7.3%
1970s: 8.6%
1980s: 12.4%
1990s: 19.9%
2000s: 17.9%

Yep, pretty much as I expected. Although I thought that foreign movies were not very well represented in this list. I've seen my fair share of those.

1001 Books

2008-05-14T11:10:00.006-05:00

A recent book, 1001 Books To Read Before You Die, lists the thousand and one most essential books, in their opinion. In my opinion, it's heavy on the more recent ones, which have not yet stood the test of time. There are far too many books from 2000-2008 on there: certainly we have not perfected the craft of writing in the last eight years. And of the whopping 716 books of the 1900s, I'd guess that two-thirds of them are from the last one-third of the century. The full list can be seen here. Here's the breakdown of the number of books listed in each century:

2000s: 69
1900s: 716
1800s: 157
1700s: 46
Before 1700: 13

Of these, here is the percentage of each category I have read:

2000s: 1.4%
1900s: 6.8%
1800s: 29.9%
1700s: 13%
Before 1700: 30.7%

Hmm, you can really tell what I like to read from this. And I have to say, the majority of the "ooh, I really want to read that!" were from the 1900s category.

Other inferences: The same authors tend to reappear. For example, the first Thomas Hardy book I read was Tess of the D'Urbervilles. I liked it, so I went on to read quite a bit of the rest of the Hardy opus.

We can also safely assume that I read the French books in the original French. Practically all the French books on the original 1001 list I've also read. Only a few were missing. (Come on, who actually gets through In Search of Lost Time?)

Here's the ones I have read:
2000s
1. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time – Mark Haddon (book on tape)
1900s
2. The Poisonwood Bible – Barbara Kingsolver
3. Memoirs of a Geisha – Arthur Golden
4. Black Water – Joyce Carol Oates
5. Like Water for Chocolate – Laura Esquivel
6. A Prayer for Owen Meany – John Irving
7. Love in the Time of Cholera – Gabriel García Márquez
8. The Cider House Rules – John Irving
9. Perfume – Patrick Süskind (in the original German, boo-ya!)
10. The Color Purple – Alice Walker
11. The World According to Garp – John Irving
12. Delta of Venus – Anaïs Nin
13. Slaughterhouse-five – Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
14. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel García Márquez
15. Manon des Sources – Marcel Pagnol
16. To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee
17. Things Fall Apart – Chinua Achebe
18. On the Road – Jack Kerouac
19. Lord of the Flies – William Golding
20. Invisible Man – Ralph Ellison
21. The Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger
22. Nineteen Eighty-Four – George Orwell
23. The Plague – Albert Camus
24. Animal Farm – George Orwell
25. Cannery Row – John Steinbeck
26. The Little Prince – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
27. The Outsider – Albert Camus
28. The Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck
29. Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck
30. Their Eyes Were Watching God – Zora Neale Hurston
31. Gone With the Wind – Margaret Mitchell
32. Absalom, Absalom! – William Faulkner
33. Tropic of Cancer – Henry Miller
34. Brave New World – Aldous Huxley
35. A Farewell to Arms – Ernest Hemingway
36. Lady Chatterley’s Lover – D.H. Lawrence
37. The Sun Also Rises – Ernest Hemingway
38. The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald
39. A Passage to India – E.M. Forster
40. Babbitt – Sinclair Lewis
41. Ulysses – James Joyce
42. The Age of Innocence – Edith Wharton
43. Main Street – Sinclair Lewis
44. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man – James Joyce
45. Straight is the Gate – André Gide
46. The Jungle – Upton Sinclair
47. The Immoralist – André Gide
48. Heart of Darkness – Joseph Conrad
49. The Hound of the Baskervilles – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
50. Sister Carrie – Theodore Dreiser
1800s
51. The Time Machine – H.G. Wells
52. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
53. Tess of the D’Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy
54. The Picture of Dorian Gray – Oscar Wilde
55. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde – Robert Louis Stevenson
56. The Mayor of Casterbridge – Thomas Hardy
57. Kidnapped – Robert Louis Stevenson
58. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn – Mark Twain
59. Bel-Ami – Guy de Maupassant
60. The Death of Ivan Ilyich – Leo Tolstoy
61. Treasure Island – Robert Louis Stevenson
62. The Portrait of a Lady – Henry James
63. Return of the Native – Thomas Hardy
64. Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy
65. Around the World in Eighty Days – Jules Verne
66. Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There – Lewis Carroll
67. War and Peace – Leo Tolstoy
68. Little Women – Louisa May Alcott
69. Thérèse Raquin – Émile Zola
70. Journey to the Centre of the Earth – Jules Verne
71. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland – Lewis Carroll
72. Les Misérables – Victor Hugo
73. Great Expectations – Charles Dickens
74. A Tale of Two Cities – Charles Dickens
75. Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert
76. The Scarlet Letter – Nathaniel Hawthorne
77. Wuthering Heights – Emily Brontë
78. Agnes Grey – Anne Brontë
79. Jane Eyre – Charlotte Brontë
80. Vanity Fair – William Makepeace Thackeray
81. The Count of Monte-Cristo – Alexandre Dumas
82. La Reine Margot – Alexandre Dumas
83. The Three Musketeers – Alexandre Dumas
84. The Purloined Letter – Edgar Allan Poe
85. The Pit and the Pendulum – Edgar Allan Poe
86. A Christmas Carol – Charles Dickens
87. The Fall of the House of Usher – Edgar Allan Poe
88. The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby – Charles Dickens
89. Le Père Goriot – Honoré de Balzac
90. The Hunchback of Notre Dame – Victor Hugo
91. Frankenstein – Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
92. Northanger Abbey – Jane Austen
93. Persuasion – Jane Austen
94. Emma – Jane Austen
95. Mansfield Park – Jane Austen
96. Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen
97. Sense and Sensibility – Jane Austen
1700s
98. Confessions – Jean-Jacques Rousseau
99. Dangerous Liaisons – Pierre Choderlos de Laclos
100. Candide – Voltaire
101. A Modest Proposal – Jonathan Swift
102. Gulliver’s Travels – Jonathan Swift
103. Robinson Crusoe – Daniel Defoe
Pre-1700
104. The Princess of Clèves – Marie-Madelaine Pioche de Lavergne, Comtesse de La Fayette
105. The Pilgrim’s Progress – John Bunyan
106. Metamorphoses – Ovid (much of it in the original Latin, double boo-ya!)
107. Aesop’s Fables – Aesopus

The Gutenberg Invention

2008-04-18T11:58:00.003-05:00

This video, the first of six installments, shows the BBC team replicating an original Gutenberg printing press, from building the press to casting the type to making the paper. (It skipped the ink; I wish it had taken a small look at the fourth essential ingredient.)

It's fascinating, funny, insightful and spine tingling, if you're into the printed word as much as I am. I think I'm going to add "operate a manual printing press" to my list of things to do before I go.

All six parts total more than an hour, but a thoroughly worthwhile hour it is.

The Human Animal Body

2008-04-07T11:44:00.000-05:00

Oh, the Stupidity

2008-04-02T16:21:00.002-05:00

So, I've been unemployed for exactly eleven days now (Oh, I didn't tell you that? Must have slipped my mind. Anyway, thank you for not asking.) and only today got around to scrubbing the bathroom. For all my professed amour de cleaning, I sure have managed to put that one off for a while.

I've baked cookies, made pelmeni from scratch, hung a hat rack, done oodles of dishes, drank buckets of tea, but have avoided cleaning. Today I could put it off no longer.

I vacuumed six times, getting up all those obnoxious rubbery pellets from artificial turf that hate to be vacuumed, getting up every last sneaky shard of broken glass (total glasses broken by Frenchy since we moved here: 3; total broken by guests: 2; total broken by me: a big fat ZERO. I'm just sayin'.) every cookie crumb, and every stray bit of dirt. I hung up all the clothes on the floor. I dry swiffered. I wet swiffered. I took the wet swiffer pads and got down in the kitchen floor and scrubbed the gook out of the corners. All fine and good, although gross.

Then I took a big breath and tackled the bathroom. Toilet, sink, shower walls, tub. At the end, I can't figure out why the last bit of dirty water in the tub is not draining. I select one of our two plungers (please don't ask) and start to plunge away.

No deal. The water stays, and just gets dirtier. I plunge more emphatically, and get an image in my head of, well, something that my boyfriend thinks I should do more often. Still nothing happens.

Out of breath, (wow, the similarities are stunning!) I sit back on my heels. What could possibly be blocking the drain? All of a sudden, it comes to me.

I lean forward and flick the lever which had accidentally been switched, allowing the stopper to rise. The water drains away merrily and I realize why I had been avoiding cleaning the bathroom: Soft Scrub must really do a number on my brain.

Food and Sensibility

2008-03-12T21:39:00.004-05:00

I have an interesting relationship with food.

I have always been slim, except for two months right before college, which I'll get to in a moment. A combination of an old-fashioned childhood, common-sense parenting and obedience made me try everything, like most things, and never have to worry about gaining weight. Rather, I was the shortest and skinniest kid in class all the way up to tenth grade, when I shot up to be tall and skinny.

My mom, bless her femme au foyer heart, made decent food every night, packed our lunchbags in the morning, and surrendered the weekend kitchen to Dad. A true homemaker, she shows her affection by providing and nurturing. She never liked cooking, but did it and did it well. As she always said, "Veg, meat and starch at every meal, the dinners are ideal."* Predictable, yes, but my family never pretended to be anything else.

We ate dinner together every night, most of the way through high school. The dinnertime conversation ebbed or flowed, according to our loquacity of the evening, but was always familial and cordial. So food was a comforter, a sustenance, a conversation, and a source of love.

*Well, she never actually said it, but I bet she will now.

Then I went to France, gained weight, obsessed about it surprisingly little, went to college and danced it off in a few months. Then I went back to France, probably gained less weight than I thought I had, came back, broke up with a boyfriend, took an overload of courses one term, stressed myself out, and briefly flirted with anorexia.

I wanted to lose my French weight, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I liked food too much, liked the taste of it, the warmth and comfort, the sociability of it, the feeling of satiety, and the adventure of trying new things. So I shook myself out of it by discovering ways to de-greasify dining hall fare: steam salad bar veggies in a microwave, crack the free peppermints over vanilla ice cream, and assemble your own 'grilled" cheese sandwiches in the toaster. Talk about cooking on a budget. I also took fewer credits the following semester.

Even though I had lived in France, the place where they invented meals as an excuse for conversation, I never really *got* the connection between the two until I had gained enough confidence to be able to hold my own in such a conversation. I've written before about the "Wednesday Girls' Night," and I can't think of a more enjoyable way to spend an evening than with friends around a table of good food. I don't want to go to a bar, just give me a casserole. I loathe the idea of a bachelorette bash at a club; give me a potluck with my friends and a sleepover and we're good.

But it was another meal that made me turn the corner and look the label of Foodie in the eye. A friend and I had started spending a weekly meal together, sharing our photos and memories of abroad over a glass of wine and a plate of delicious. At one point he served me a cold three-bean salad that was sublime, yet simple. I have never been able to recreate it, although I've tried. In return, I introduced him to eggs Florentine, one of my favorite go-to fixes. Anyhow, I was hooked on good food, well made.

Since then, whether I'm cooking for one, two or twenty-seven (cf: last Thanksgiving!) I try to cook the best I possibly can. Lately this has meant eschewing processed foods in favor of original sources. Just as I felt utterly granola for joining a yoga spa, I feel organic and earthy for dropping half a grand on a Community-Supported Agriculture (CSA) program. Every two weeks starting in June, we'll get a full basket of fruit, vegetables and eggs, all straight from a Long Island farm. (No kidding, the contract makes sure these durn city-dwellers understand the food may have DIRT ON IT!! Gasp!) I can't wait for it to start. I'm already planning on canning my own tomato sauce from the reddest, ripest tomatoes I'll ever eat that I didn't grow myself and filling the house with the fragrance of applesauce cooking down.

I can't think of anything else that I spend so much energy and time on, try to be creative with, or take more pride in doing well. Cooking is a challenge for me, and the moment that I get to sit down at the table with my Frenchy is the moment I wait for all day. We quietly talk over the day's happenings, the news, share ideas for handling work problems, and just be. And food continues to be the reason for intimate moments, for nurturing and for enjoying life. There's nothing better than a good meal.

Open Letter to My Landlord

2008-01-28T18:53:00.000-06:00

Dear Landlord,

First of all, I don't really know who you are. The superintendent seems to do all the actual work around here. (Incidentally, I know he is the superintendent because he is missing several teeth. This seems to be one of the common characteristics of New York supers.) Identify yourself, please.

Second, while I appreciate that you didn't raise our rent (much) for our second year of life in your fine establishment, I do think it's kind of skeezy that you allow us to pay said inflated rent by fax. Who uses a fax anymore? (Incidentally, the way this works is that he just copies my bank account number from the bottom of the check and deposits that much money in his coffers. My BANK ACCOUNT NUMBER which is so prominently displayed on the bottom of each check I write. Watch me never pay for anything by check again, ever.)

Thirdly, the stairway and hall in my apartment building is being repainted. While this is an overall improvement, I would like to register the following complaints:

The pervading fumes have given me a constant headache for the past few days, as well as made me a leetle crazy. I cannot be held responsible for my actions. I also have enough candles burning in an attempt to mask the odor that you could probably see my apartment from space. This is most certainly a fire hazard.

Some dumb crumbbum keeps taping the "Wet Paint" sign right onto the wet paint! WTF! I have peeled it off and moved it elsewhere several times, but it seems that I am the only one in the whole ship to have common sense, or care.

I understand that the work is not yet finished, but the painters previously had to scrape a whole buncha crap off the walls prior to painting. Now the stairs are full of (likely lead-based) paint chips and dust, which get tracked into my apartment each time someone comes in. Swiffer pads are expensive, dude. Shouldn't the paint guys vacuum?

And finally, I have a confession. I like to peek through the open doors of other tenants if I pass by at the right moment. A few weeks ago I noticed that New Girl downstairs had bright pink walls! Why does she get non-institutional wallage and we don't?

Respectfully submitted,
Liesl

Cultural Reintegration

2008-01-14T15:44:00.000-06:00

Over there on the right, down a little, a leetle more, there you go, is a new element that I cleverly called "Cultural Reintegration," continuing the whole culture shock metaphor. It's a list of movies I've seen in 2008 (although since I can't remember exactly when I saw three of the four listed there, it may be more aptly described as movies I've seen in 2008 and maybe a little back into December 2007, but definitely not so far as November.

I realized I have poor short-term memory a long time ago, probably around the time when I was trying desperately to memorize dance routines and just couldn't keep one step in my head before moving on to the next step. The same phenomenon showed up in college, when I swear I read a book but couldn't tell you a thing about it. Ditto for movies. And for pretty much anything that required me to retain information. This might be why I didn't do so hot in grad school.

So as a memory jog, I'm going to keep a tally of the movies I saw in 2008. Movies in cinemas only, please, no rentals/illegal downloads that we watch at home. Those may feature on another list somewhere. Perhaps this will help me remember the general plot arc more than a week later, or make me a little less pathetic in the Kevin Bacon Game. (Truly pathetic. I think I can possibly name one film that Mr. Bacon himself was in.)*

If I get even more ambitious, I might write a review. Although I really hate when bloggers do that. I really don't care about your opinions. So maybe I won't. Unless I decide to.

Yes, that will be all for today.

*He was in Apollo 13, right? Ooh, and Footloose! Two!

Six Words

2008-01-11T12:45:00.001-06:00

For the moment, this post is just a placeholder of a link I saw: the Guardian's Six Word Stories challenge. I'm going to try to come up with a few, just not while I'm at work. (Hi, boss!)

---------

Okay, back now. In the meantime, I've found a lot more examples. Check out Caterina, Wired, or Flickr for stories (and accompanying photos). Here are some I've come up with.

Apartment squeaky clean. Page still blank.

You’re 26. Comic books for birthday?

Guitar in corner, strings all broken.

Finger un-ringed, she’s curled up crying.

As she sobs…he sleeps on couch.

She welcomes pain of cramps, thankfully.

Fan finally arrives, broken, in October.

In-laws come, go, we survived. Barely.

Too hungry to cook. Take-out again?

“Good morning, love.” “Who are you?”

Asleep; it costs too much to eat.

“I only lie when it’s important.”

I want to be anywhere but here.

Most people who have tried this exercise say it's easier to write the sad ones; I agree. The trick is getting the six words to tell an entire story, beginning, middle and end. It's too easy to write a simple description, or to write what could be the first sentence of a book.

And before you ask, some of them are true, some are true but embellished, and some are entirely imagined. Which? I leave that up to you.

The Return

2008-01-02T16:48:00.000-06:00

The holiday festivemaking has been made, and no one could think of any good reason not to go back to work, and so back to work we went today. I don't think you could find a more dejected-looking group of privilieged Westerners than myself and my subway mates as we clanked our way across the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan today. I even forewent coffee in order to wallow in my more perfect misery. That, and the line was too long.

Anyhow, I was greeted with the Kenyan electoral crisis. We think we have a problem with the Democratic candidates who can't keep straight what side of the fence they're on and the Republicans who, if you added all their ages together, would be able to remember when Martin Luther's German translation of the Bible was banned and mail service began in Denmark, to name a few events of that year.

No, Kenya's electoral crisis is verily a crisis. The incumbent just somehow managed to squeak out 230 000 more votes than the opposition, who was running significantly ahead in all the pre-election polls. And just somehow, the body overseeing the election can't get their hands on the original stack of ballots, before someone just managed to alter 300 000 of them in the incumbent's favor. Now, understandably, people are mad. What do Kenyans do when they're mad? The same thing that Southerners do: go out and shoot somebody.

Well, it's not quite that simple. But the long and the short of it is, there's major violence and unrest in Kenya, and my students were supposed to have arrived there today. They are not. We've delayed their arrival until things settle down, or transferred them to other locations, as they wish.

Our onsite coordinator says things are already settling down, which is in contradiction to every media story I've read so far. But today, more than anything, what has struck me is a passage I remember from John Gunther's Death Be Not Proud: that the media generally reports on anything out of the ordinary. Rather than brood on the destruction and despair in the news, we should instead rejoice that our society still considers death of human beings an anomaly. It's when death becomes so banal that it is not reported in the media that we should become worried.

And we must calmly go about our business, with the thoughts of the Kenyan families in our heads, the ones that traveled great distances to vote, only to see their election stolen and their children burnt in church. I can't believe that this is the same country that I dreamed of visiting only a few months ago.

Wish List

2007-12-19T13:30:00.000-06:00

There was a request to move that last post further down the page into oblivion, and so I am gracing you with my Christmas wish list.

Here is the list of wishes I sent my family:

Yoga ball to replace office chair at work
Yoga tops
Yoga pants
Silver watch
BBC's Planet Earth DVD
Books!
White hoodie

Here's what I would actually like for Christmas

My loose tooth fixed for good (boo to no dental insurance!)
Sheets that actually fit our bed and match (can't ask my family for sheets for a full bed, as that would remind them (gasp!) we're not actually married!)
Someone to take me makeup shopping and buy me stuff that actually works for me and show me how to put it on
A bike, and to be able to ride it again without fear of it getting stolen or me getting hurt
To be able to reduce the amount of stuff in my life, without actually having to get rid of any of my treasured possessions
A really good night's sleep, or twelve
Better eyesight without glasses or contacts
A reason, a budget and a workspace to get out my sewing machine again and go to town
An exchange rate in favor of the dollar, so I could travel more

Sometimes I Wonder

2007-12-17T13:53:00.000-06:00

Originally written a few months ago.

Sometimes I wonder just what I am doing here. Not here in New York, which I've already discussed many times, but just here in general, at the point in life where I find myself.

We had a fight last weekend. General crankiness, wanting to finish Harry Potter, toothpaste and disagreement about coffee tables were involved.

From a distance of several days, none of those things seem very important now. I haven't learned to choose my battles, that's for sure. Nevertheless, during a fight, each new topic adds fresh rancor and resentment, at least the way I have been taught to fight.

Why is it so impossible to let go, to realize in the very moment that things are not as important as they seem? For several months I justified telling my boyfriend each time he did something I disliked, and exactly why it hurt me, by saying that at least I got it out in the open. Usually this backfired when he continued to do the same as always, which I interpreted as not giving a crap for my feelings. More recently, I realized it was rather a passive way to "improve" another person, to change him into the shape I thought a person should take.

At one point, I did swallow my pride and try to apologize, only to be pushed away. Perhaps we haven't learned exactly what pushes our buttons, when to step down and when to hold tight. There was more than one point this weekend when I thought, "Is this really worth it?"

But no matter whom I'm with, I'll still be struggling with the same tendency to resentment, the same loaded jabs, the same bitterness. I'm worried that as we have bigger things to fight about, our fights will get bigger, too.

Instead of trying to change the other person, how many years together does it take to change one's own personality?

It makes you pretty

2007-12-13T12:25:00.000-06:00

I learned today that it takes exactly 22 "glurb glurb glurb"s from the water cooler to fill up my water bottle.

Well, that would be 22 individual glurbs, not 22 triple glurbs, which would come out to 66 glurbs altogether. But I was afraid if I just wrote one single glurb, you wouldn't know what I was talking about.

Then again, you probably still don't.

:(

2007-12-10T19:53:00.001-06:00

I've been so depressed lately.

Not in a "are you supposed to slit your wrists across-wise or up-wise?" way, but motionless, energy-less, and bleary-like. I don't think it's the weather, as I finally have a window in my office and get some semblance of daylight.

But I Just. Don't. Feel. Like. It. I don't want to cook (hello, pasta!) I don't want to wrap any more presents. I don't want to read a book. I definitely don't want to go to work, and I most certainly do not want to pick up one more used tissue from the floor by the opposite side of the bed! Gross!

I do, however, want to eat ice cream, chocolate chip cookie dough, surf on the internet until Godknowswhat hour, snap sarcastic remarks in the Frenchy's direction, and in general be in a strop.

Help.

Gone fishing

2007-11-27T23:40:00.000-06:00

So you'd think I might have learned from her, but of course not. Guess who went and dropped her Metrocard in the toilet, in the EXACT same manner?

Yes, that would be me.

I stared at it, trying to decide what to do. On the one hand, ew, toilet! On the other hand, it was an unlimited monthly pass. On the other hand, it was about a third of the way into the month. On the other hand, that's only a net loss of about 45 dollars. On the other hand, it's Christmas time, and I can think of a lot other things I'd rather be spending fifty dollars on. On the other hand, that's exactly what soap was invented for. On the other hand, I was just bragging about how I never got sick, not even from touching the subway poles. On the other hand, I've run out of hands.

I took a deep breath, rolled my right sleeve up, and--dip--drip--there I had it! I ran out of the stall (this was at work) and without even buttoning my jeans, spent the next twenty minutes frantically washing my hand, metrocard, back pocket, anything that might have come in contact with the card.

Suffice it to say that I have not contracted any Deadly Disease of Death, the metrocard still worked this evening, and most importantly, no one walked in the bathroom to question why I was scrubbing a small piece of disposable plastic, or why my pants were undone.

And no, I'm not going to tell you whether it happened before or after I used the toilet. There are some things I'd rather keep between myself and the porcelain gods.

The holidays are starting again

2007-11-27T22:01:00.000-06:00

I have just managed to break a third of my miniature glass bulb ornaments into a zillion dangerous shards and covered my floor with a quantity of dried lentils, to boot.

Happy Holidays, folks. At least the bookworm looks festive.

Game of the year

2007-11-20T15:41:00.000-06:00

I met a girl from Kirkwood at a wedding two weeks ago, and when I told her upon leaving that we were going to beat them, she kind of looked at me blankly. Turkey Day? High school? Football? "Oh, I don't really follow that."

Blasphemy.

Martine

2007-11-07T15:31:00.000-06:00

Oh, holy hell, these are funny. I never knew about the Martine books, since I was never a child in France, but I've heard about their rosy-cheeked sugary cuteness. I don't remember how I stumbled across this (oh yeah, I think it was through Polly-Vous Francais?) but I spent a large portion of my morning the other day going through the archives. I only wish they had an email function. Maybe some Martine e-cards? T-shirts?

These French, they don't know how to market ideas. I mean, they don't even have a word for entrepreneurship, as our grand leader says!

I type everything in Word.

2007-11-07T15:21:00.000-06:00

Somehow things always flow better in Word. And there’s the helpful squiggly red and green underline thingies when you type something wrong, or when the paperclip decides that you didn’t pass third grade English class.

Anyhow, it’s a holdover from college. Do you always format your screen to "print layout," because it looks more like the actual page you’d be writing on if you were writing with a pen?* I can’t do the normal—I’d never know how many more pages to go until the "5-7 pages minimum length" was almost reached. The web layout? Really? And the outline version? Never used it once. I freak out if I accidentally twitch my wrist and select that one without realizing it. GET IT BACK, MAN! GET IT BACK!

(Also, hate the Reading layout. I can’t be bothered to move my eyes all over the screen. Must scroll as I read, with my eyes glued to the top half of the screen.)

My boss recently made me compose some new text for our website in Notepad. And then he said, "Well, you’ll probably be more comfortable writing in Word." And I was all, bitch, watch my work my mad Notepad skills! I can even put in the funny html tags that make hyperlinks and stuff!

Except I can’t, not really, and now I’m stuck with a bunch of .txt files that all tell me that my formatting will be lost if I don’t save it a in certain way, that is, with my thumb pressed to the top of my nose while dancing a jig. These formats, they are out to take my life or my dignity, whichever.

*I only just now realized the irony of this.

And to all the Microsoft haters out there, to ye I say unto you, get over it. Word works for me, works for the simple needs I have, and quickly responds to the emergency "shift F7" thesaurus-summoning. All I want to do is get my words down on the page, with perhaps a little column action, or some page breaks.

(Digression: Why does no one utilize the page breaks? Why do they insist on enterenterenterenterentering until they reach the bottom? Do they not realize that one more character inserted at just the right spot will screw up all their careful entering? And once you learn what the funky backwards P up there in the toolbar is, your formatting woes will be overcome, and this I say unto you. Soothly.)

Perhaps there may come a day when I am forced to learn a new program, when my sweet old graduate-school laptop decides to visit her undergraduate Gateway desktop sister in the sky. I do not want to learn new tricks. I can tolerate small incremental change, even welcome it, but major, all in-your-face change, I cannot handle it. There will be sulking on the day that I have to change computers and change my technological habits. I’m trying to delay this day for as long as possible, and this is why I freak out, honey, when you touch my computer with anything harsher than a feather, or when you spill beer on my keyboard. Ahem.

Word.

A Small Medium at Large

2007-10-31T17:52:00.000-05:00

Ah, Halloween.

Weeks of pre-holiday costume creativity and a load of free candy. Who dreamed up this festival, and can I thank him? Actually, I imagine it was probably a her, due to the copious amounts of chocolate involved.

Since it falls on a Wednesday this year, Frenchy and I have been sort of blah about actual partying--we're not organized enough to plan something last weekend, and apparently it's lame to do a post-Halloween event. Meh.

But the ambiguity has proved useful in another way, affording us an extended window during which to play our favorite seasonal guessing game, "Halloween or Hipster?" Here is our corner of Brooklyn, the hipster reigns supreme, with trucker hats, tshirts from the late seventies/early eighties and skinny jeans to shake a multitude of sticks at. Sometimes the getups get so overboard they're ironical. Or would that be so ironical they're overboard?

Anyway, at Halloween the line between costume and everydaywear in the Billyburg gets blurred, and as we sip a coffee or walk down Bedford, we point out passersby and try to figure out if they're dressed up for the holiday or simply out'n'about. It's harder than you'd think! (Unfortunately I have no photo evidence. You'll just have to take my word for it, or take the L train someday. Then you'll understand.)

Eschewing the present (see: lack of party this year) notable Halloweens in the past have featured kids running through my college dorm, collecting candy like the little monsters they're dressed up to be. One year, I noticed the kids were remarkably silent, and all scratched their chins before running on to the next door. "How rude," I thought. "Back in my day, we said thank you before leaving a house, or our mamas would whup us." (NDLR: not really. But look disapprovingly, and perhaps subtract some of our precious takings.)

Finally it hit me that these were the kids from the deaf school down the street, and that they were indeed saying "thanks" in ASL. Duuuhh!

Moving further back to my own trick-or-treating days....in St. Louis we seem to have a tradition that the rest of the country doesn't. Before getting a piece of candy, you have to "deserve" it by telling a joke, usually a bad pun or knock-knock. You know, typical kid stuff. "How do you make a handkerchief dance? Put a little booger in it!" (Digression: when I graduated to opening the door and handing out the candy, I amused myself by guessing the punch lines of the kids' jokes, and watching their faces as I ruined their joke. I know. I'm going to pay for it in chocolate karma.)

In St. Louis we think this tradition is totally normal, and it's a rite of passage to go off to college and realize that no other city does it. I always justified it by figuring that it was the "trick" part of trick-or-treat, although I subsequently ran into a snag in explaining the "or." Perhaps I thought it was the late 20th-century version of stealing watermelons, or throwing sacks of flour à la Tootie in Meet Me in St. Louis. You collected jokes for weeks beforehand, and carefully planned which houses you were going to use which jokes at, because you couldn't possibly tell the same joke at each door. If you went with your sisters or a group of friends, before ringing each doorbell, you discussed and traded rights to jokes: "Okay, this time I get to tell the pirate ghost one, and you can do the doctor and his patient walk into a bar one. Okay? Got it?"

Yes, I was organized even back then. Get over it.

Most of my jokes were terrible, but there's one that still makes me smile each time I tell it. Are you ready? Are you prepared for the brilliance?

What do you call a petite fortuneteller who's escaped from jail?

Angry

2007-10-17T17:45:00.000-05:00

Why do some people feel the urge to comment on utter strangers' facial expressions? I was hurrying to meet Frenchy for lunch today (he had a client downtown) nine blocks away, and on the way a (rather rotund and somewhat greasy) man peers at me. He cocks his head to one side and says "You should really try smiling." (This is not the first time this has happened to me, so it must Be Me. But I digress.)

WTF? I do not know this man from Ted Koppel. I'm surprised I even registered that he was talking to me, as I barrelled past him. Who made him the Chief Smile Officer?

Furthermore, why is a young female obligated to smile when walking down the street. Or even have a pleasant expression? I had just come from work, where I squint at a screen all day. When I pass through the glass doors, my face relaxes. It is at repose. It doesn't want to be messed with, or told what to wear.

In fact, a dirty look is most New Yorkers' public mask, especially the female ones. It can be quite useful, allowing you to pass a gaggle of male loiters catcall-free. It can even save your life; a well-placed dirty look to a driver says "Yes, I know you know I know you saw me, now let me finish crossing the street and everyone can keep his extremities intact." New Yorkers employ the dirty look with gleeful abandon, shooting withering glances right and left, slaying any slow-moving tourist on their path. I particularly enjoy firing off an angry glare while pretending I'm an über-important power executive, on my way to the meeting that will clinch the proverbial multi-million dollar deal, even when I'm just going to buy celery.

So this I say to ye, O Large Oily Man, let a lady scowl in peace! I am not here to serve your viewing pleasure, I have lunch to eat! And strange imaginary scenarios to act out!

Owwwww

2007-10-16T08:41:00.000-05:00

In a nod to complete transparency, I feel I must admit now that the morning following the First Yoga, I am in considerable pain.

Ommmmm

2007-10-15T21:16:00.000-05:00

So I've reached a new level of New Yorkitude. I never thought I'd do it. I poked fun at it. I experimented with some forms of it and concluded it was not for me. I secretly derided the legions of girls who did it, and mocked their knit capri pants.

But today, my friends, I did the yoga.

Oh, and it gets better. To do the yoga, I became a yoga member. Not of some gym--any New York yokel can walk into a gym, slap down three hundred bucks, and say they leg press 1200 pounds. No, sir. I joined a holistic spa. This ain't no free weights and disinfectant spray, babe. It's a incense-burning, inner-happiness-seeking, granola-munching haven for hippies.

I feel somewhat out of place.

But never ye mind, I felt out of place in Billyburg when I first moved here, and now I get my kicks out of seeing what these crazy kids are going to wear next. I will get used to it. Perhaps right after I use the sauna, free to members, and only ten dollars for guests.

In the meantime, though, I'm ecstatic. Now I can join the legions of late-twentysomethings who brunch on salmon benedict and commiserate about their Downward Dogs. (Note to self: either find a spot by the mirror and get your Dog right, or move across the room and quit caring.) If I play my cards right, maybe I can get one of those girls to explain the difference between the first three warrior poses, and how to do the tree position without falling. Wobbly ankles will be my yogic downfall.

We spent most of the time "opening" the sides and back, and Shayla's isolation exercises came flooding back to me. I have a lot of flexibility to regain!

Sun salutations all around. And pass the IcyHot.

Things I Am Not Allowed To Write About

2007-10-15T21:15:00.000-05:00

1. Anything that Frenchy does
2. The defeat of France by England in the rugby World Cup semi-finals

2007-10-11T19:12:00.000-05:00

It's not like I have sexy hip wordsmithy ideas very often, as proved by my irregular posting. In fact, I post so irregularly I could be a German verb. Take a spin through my archives, you'll see what I mean. So I take my inspiration from where I can, okay?

This evening's post-spiration comes from page 288 of November's Glamour, which showed up in our mailbox today. (Sweet, I just had to refer to the magazine to find the page number, and turned to the right page on the first try!) It's entitled "12 things in life never to take for granted." Which is quite a sexy hip wordsmithy twist on the November chestnut "Things I'm thankful for."

So, ado-less and furthery,

Things I Shouldn't Take For Granted

Lady Grey tea when I post--creative juice, with just enough bergamot!

A boyfriend that grumbles but caves almost without protest when I ask for a backrub

Backrubs (and the warm touch of another human being)

Floors that I don't care about so I can keep the window open at night when it rains and listen to the sound

Just enough html knowledge to write this ordered list without having to look up the tags

Being able to sew, and have my clothes actually fit

The J train

More books than I can shake a reading list at

Just enough adventure in my soul to do crazy things, every once in a while, but not enough to get me seriously in trouble

Not a bad compendium, as compendia go.

For Mom and Dad

2007-10-05T15:39:00.000-05:00

I think I nearly wet myself on this one.

2007-10-05T15:09:00.001-05:00

Tee hee!

2007-10-05T14:49:00.000-05:00

Reminds me of the years when I used to give people thyme for Secret Santa gifts, because "every working person needs more thyme!"

26 Candles

2007-09-24T21:44:00.000-05:00

Happy birthday, Frenchy! We're only two years apart again now! I hope the 26th will be a good one for you.

Smudged Porcelain

2007-09-21T21:01:00.000-05:00

I have often talked, self-deprecatingly, about my habit of cleaning the bathroom before anyone comes over. It is a remnant of my mother (although she is most certainly not dead, at least not last week when I talked to her), a vestige of her influence, a tidbit of training. I simply cannot have guests over, even for ten minutes, knowing that my bathroom is not sparkly and lemon-scented.

My mom would make me clean each bathroom in the house (yes, even the basement one) whenever we were having guests. Guests, in her mind, included anyone who did not have a bedroom in said house. This meant that each time my grandmother or great-aunt came over, I would be dispatched to the loo bearing a bucket of Soft Scrub.*

(* It has just occurred to me that in addition to being a good hostess and showing guests that she keeps a clean house, this might have also been a symptom of proving herself to her mother. I emphatically sympathize.)

And so I find myself doing the same. There is a small voice over my shoulder, that says "But they will notice, and they will judge!" When I have people over, even if I know there's no possible chance they will have to use the bathroom, out comes the sponge. I can clean a toilet, sink and mirror in six minutes, and a tub in another eight. Practice, baby, practice.

I have guests over this weekend, friends of mine from a former life. I know perfectly well that they will not think less of me for having smudged porcelain, but nevertheless I was up at midnight last night, scouring and wiping and polishing. As I did so, I thought about my mom, about the profound influence she has had on my actions. I decided to start an early Mothers Day gift, a list of ways that she has changed me and things she has taught me.

1. Cleaning the bathroom when guests come. Must be done. No exceptions.
2. Tea is infinitely superior to coffee. (nb: Well, sometimes. Dad's influence is in there, too.)
3. A balanced meal consists of a protein, a vegetable and a starch. No more is necessary, and no less is acceptable. You may not have two starches; that is carbohydrate overload.
4. It is possible, and desirable, to use wrapping paper more than nine times. Gift boxes may be used infinitely.
5. Clothes should fit, and can be altered to fit. Although I draw the line at having skirts sit at my natural waist.
6. There is a right way to load the drying rack/dishwasher, and a wrong way. Mine is the the correct one.
7. You can always add more water to the orange juice concentrate to get a couple extra glasses out of the can.
8. I can fit three weeks' worth of clothing into a weekend bag, and I can do it in four and a half minutes. (I'm rather proud of this fact.)

Okay, the mother in question just IM'ed me. Tootles!

Pike County

2007-09-12T21:01:00.000-05:00

When we were little, we had an agreement in our house: on the hour-long trip to the lake house on Friday nights, we'd listen to "kid" songs, and on the Sunday return trip we'd listen to "parent" songs. I usually hollered loudest for the Wee Sing America tapes, and I'd close my eyes and belt out the words that transported me to Cape Cod ("Cape Cod girls they have no pins, heave-a-way, heave-a-way, they pin their gowns with codfish fins"), to the railways ("all the live-long day") or to the very foundations of my country (those ubiquitous spacious skies and amber waves of grain). Even back then the lure of time and space travel had gotten to me.

I prided myself on always being able to memorize the lyrics, even for songs with dozens of verses. I oculd always spit out the correct words to the tongue-twister songs, when my sisters got tripped up on the one about mules having two legs behind.

So it has been that much more distressing to me that for the past two weeks I've had the refrain and part of the verses from Sweet Betsy from Pike traveling through my head. Except that I only remember the first half of one verse and the second half of another verse (and the rhyming parody that we made up to the same tune, Sweet Nancy from Zike). And even after having caught myself humming "too ray lie ooh ray lie ohh ray lie ay" more times than I care to admit, I still couldn't put together the missing chunks. So today I gave up and googled Betsy.

The Wee Sing people must have figured that their target audience was short of RAM, because out of about a zillion verses to the original folk tune, only three made it into the Wee Sing America book (pictured here is a more recent edition than the old-school blue-bordered one we had). In addition, they were hedging their bets on the fact that the eighties were clearly a more innocent time, since the words that I remember have her crossing the wide prairies with her husband Ike.

Well, go have a look at those words and come back here. That whore Betsy left for California before she got married, traveled across the country with her lover, played with guns, drank whiskey and made a habit of mooning people. What a slut!

Melted!

2007-08-01T19:40:00.000-05:00

Late Saturday evening, a certain member of our apartmenthold went on a late-night ice cream raid.* I woke up the next morning and found the freezer door standing two inches open.

* Identity hidden to protect Frenchy

ALL the food inside was completely thawed, and so we spent the morning cooking: browning ground beef, boiling shrimp, cubing and cooking chicken, poaching fish. We've been eating pretty well this week!

Except this evening. I got all industrious and went grocery shopping after work. I marinated salmon, made an apple crisp and planned to have a great dinner ready for Frenchy when he came home grumpy from work. After that was done, I vacuumed the entire floor and cleaned the bathroom from tub to tile.

Then Frenchy calls and says he's going to poker night after all, when he had all but decided last night he wouldn't go. I hate it when he does this!

Let it go, Liesl. Breathe.

I am going to hell

2007-07-19T17:09:00.001-05:00

Things to say when your redneck-teacher-Bridezilla-ex-friend gloats that she's pregnant and you're not.

"Gosh, I thought you wouldn't ever do anything to make your hips even wider."

"You already live with someone who has the mental age of a five-year-old. Are you sure you want another one?

"What stage is it at now? Does it look like a turd or an alien?"

"That's okay, I llike not puking every morning."

"Well, it's a good thing your students got used to getting less attention from you during your wedding planning--they'll be used to it."

"Congratulations! And you won't even need to have a baby shower, because you already have all the stuff from your husband's other two kids.....oh wait....he's a deadbeat dad."

"Are those the same hormones that made you grouchy for the nine months before your wedding, too?"

"Oh no, I've heard it's always the end of a friendship when one girl gets pregnant and the other one doesn't!"

"Great, now you can finally come to girls' night every week, because your husband won't be home alone--the baby can keep him company!"

"I'll buy you a Toby Keith album to play to your bump--that way the baby will recognize her kind when she comes out."

"Gosh, it's such a pity our house isn't baby-proof."

"Maybe you should consider switching to M condoms instead of XL. They do have a history of slipping off, you know."

"So, how's that baby savings account going?"

Hot

2007-07-10T19:53:00.000-05:00

This is how I feel.

Or would you prefer this?

Sweet haunches of Hades, it's HOT here! When we moved in, I vaguely knew that the lack of AC would be an issue, but I conveniently shelved my worries in the more pressing need of getting away from the roommates. Now, well into July, the problem has reared its sweaty head.

Tips for surviving New York summers on a fourth-floor walkup with no AC
* Spend as long as possible at Borders in the evenings, basking in the glorious chill.
* Take multiple showers--one when you come home and frantically peel off all your clothes, one when you've washed the dinner dishes, and one when you go to bed. And possibly one when you wake up from the heat at 1 am, 3:45 am and 6 am.
* Get over the fact that the neighbors are probably enjoying watching you walk around naked. It's hot. You're past caring.
* Do as little as possible. This means housework, of course.

No really, I'm dying here. Frenchy didn't believe me when I told him that stand-alone air conditioners were $500. So I took him to see. Now he believes me. He wants to try and stick it out. I want to tell him to drop the last word in that sentence! I think I'm coming down with heat rash. Someone get me a cool cloth.

Dilemmas in Homerentership

2007-07-02T16:45:00.000-05:00

Even though we've lived in our apartment for exactly two months now, we still haven't finished the final touches on it. Still no seating in the living room other than a sprawling futon, still no bedside tables, still no decorative bookshelf from a company we shall call Clientell, still no free carpet that turned out to be an antique Persian carpet worth thousands and thousands of dollars so our friends aren't giving it to us after all. One can quite understand their change of heart.

In France, to decorate your living space with an exotic touch means Moroccan. Former colony, etc. So accordingly, we went out in search of some poufs, or ottomans (ottomen? If you search too long, has it become an ottomania?) and possibly some Moroccan lamps. I've had a secret hankering for a silver teapot in which to make sweet mint tea and for a pyramidical tagine to make proper couscous. (Note to self: do not confuse the two.)

Well, if you want to make a quick buck, it appears the Moroccan import business is the way to go. Damn, those things were expensive. They don't look difficult to make, when you really get down to it, and I was asking one vendor about the inside stuffing, seemingly a stiff cotton or wool batting. His shop makes poufs to order, he quickly volunteered, and so we browsed around the authentic handwoven wool tapestries to pick a pattern.

Frenchy picked out a frighteningly ugly (sorry, honey, but it's true) one, and for the sake of finally having something to sit on I agreed, and then came the delicate moment of finding how much this would set us back. Well, the fabric alone would cost $750, plus the cost of making the pouf which would be another $250! We found the front door of the shop pretty quickly! Dilemma part one. I think I can manage pretty well on my own, as well as do some decorative embroidery.

Now I get to browse the famous fabric stores where the Project Runway people shop!

But back to the dilemma part two--ever since the Clientell deal fell through, we still don't have bedside tables. A friend of ours is moving back to France in August, and she agreed to sell us her tables cheaply. Now, as much as I'll really hate to see her go, I really want those tables!

Chti-shirt

2007-06-20T17:41:00.001-05:00

Frenchy got back from France yesterday and brought me my present. I'm glad he's learned that he has to bring me something every time he goes home. This time it came from the shop that sells Chti paraphernalia.

Here goes. The shirt is a play off the famous opening lines of The Little Prince, where the Prince asks the narrator to "Dessine-moin un mouton," or "Draw me a sheep." Hence the sheep, and the cultural reference for any French speaker.

Except! In the north of France, they speak a regional language known as Chti, or Picard. (It's kind of like Provencal is to southern France.) One of the more famous chti words is "chicon," which means "endive." (Don't ask.) In any case, that's what gives this shirt its local reference. Got it? I thought so.

Grammar Police

2007-06-17T13:38:00.000-05:00

I realized many years ago that my habit of correcting people's grammar was, to say the least, irritating. Now I only do it in the context of helping Frenchy to improve his English.

However, I have to say: You're either leery [liri] or wary [weɘri] of something. You cannot be weery [wiri]. If you mean weary [wiri], that's another feeling entirely. Got it? Good.

Desultory Thoughts, Numbered Smartypants-Style

2007-06-11T18:05:00.000-05:00

1. Today a man on the street offered to untie the scarf around my neck. If Frenchy complains, I'll just tell him that if he's going to be gone nearly two weeks and not call me, then I'm justified in considering my options.

2. Really, he's been gone for 11 days and has called me once (when I was at work and therefore not able to answer the phone). I don't even know what day he's coming home. Isn't this something you're supposed to tell your roommate, who is coincidentally also your girlfriend?

3. Apparently I was either a hoity-toity librarian or Victorian aristocracy in a former life. Possibly both, at the same time. Viz., and to wit:

A few of us at work were discussing who we might have been in former lives. I couldn't think of anything clever, but one girl filled in my blank for me. "You were one of the genteel Victorian proper ladies, with bustles and big pompadour hair. Or you were a librarian that was proud of the fact that you were a Librarian, Keeper of the Knowledge." Now that I think about it, both of these scenarios are very possible. I have long felt that I was more at home with historical figures in upper-crust England than I am with my middle class current self. My coworker may be onto something with this.

4. Yesterday was Puerto Rico day. As I live in the Puerto Rican neighborhood, consequently there was much celebrating and Latin pop music until the wee hours. Many people tucked Puerto Rican flags over and into the hoods of their cars. As festive as that may be, is it really safe to put flammable, flapping fabric right on top of a combustion-driven engine with many moving parts?

5. I don't know whether to ascribe it to the fact that they live in small dark apartments, to Hispanic culture, or to Brooklyn stoop-sittin' tradition, but all the Puerto Ricans in my neighborhood spend their afternoons on the sidewalks. They'll bring out folding chairs, stools, or just lean out the window and participate in the fun. The streets I take to get back from the subway seem to be fiesta centrale, with groups of old people, herds of teenagers and lumps of little kids riding scooters. While I was walking to the grocery store on some side streets, however, I only saw a couple people by their lonesome. I wanted to point them over a few streets south and whisper in Spanish, "The party's over there! Go enjoy yourself!" I wonder what they would mutter under their breath about the crazy gringa.

--skorky64 properly cites her sources

Make new friends, but keep the old

2007-06-06T23:12:00.000-05:00

So much has happened since the last time I posted. We've almost stopped arguing about how we'll decorate the new place, Frenchy has gone back to France, I've made other business trips, and so forth.

Right now in my life, we have a new coworker in town. As I learned in Missouri, it's not necessarily the best idea to dishearten them from day one, so when I went to pick her up from Penn Station, I tried to focus on the positive. Since then, she's had plenty of time to observe for herself the truly messed-up way we function. I invited her over for dinner today. We had pasta and I made her look at my scrapbooks.

This evening, I also met up with some friends. Actually, it was a friend of Frenchy's sister and her fiance. I had met them once or twice, and I was kind of afraid that we would have nothing to talk about. As it turned out, we had no problem talking about New York prices, French cheeses, Frenchy's family, the American system of dating, and many other things. I may be able to come to their wedding in September. Is it bad I told them I'd never been to a French wedding, even though I have? Twice?

Discovered!

2007-05-22T18:01:00.000-05:00

At what point does a blogger, even the most amateur one, tell her acquaintances about her writings? Up until now, I had told exactly two people about this site, one because I wanted her opinion on my take of a situation I found myself in. I eventually didn't post the piece. The other one was for technical advice, and the person was half a world away. (God bless t'internet!)

But since I write about my life, the people near to me tend to enjoy repeat appearances. Even though the most negative thing I've written about Frenchy is that he has a big nose*, I felt guilty that he had no idea about the last two-plus years of my web existence.

* A fact which he corroborates

So the other night when we were talking about childhood diaries, I quietly opened up this site and set the computer in front of him. He particularly enjoyed the pillorization of the wackjob roommates. In fact, he spent all evening reading it. I was a little nervous, but left him alone to peruse.

In the end, I'm glad he knows about this site now. Now I can write all the juicy things I've been keeping back!

Still Settling In

2007-05-10T08:12:00.001-05:00

A Reverse Chronology of my Life

2007-04-11T19:33:00.000-05:00

2007: Still working on it. Coming around to the New York concept.
2006: Split between a town too small and a city too large. Scotland and England were highlights.
2005: In January, a very difficult choice to make which led me into my first real year of adulthood. Not such a bad gig after all, except the poverty. Finally a "mistress of French studies."
2004: Six different thesis topics. Changed my tipping habits significantly. Loathed my host family and tried not to project the feeling on Nantes.
2003: The trip of a lifetime came to a climactic end. Graduate school atlernately sucked and rocked. Interested in a new boy--how far will this go?
2002: Friends hurting me and graduation. Off to Dijon and independence in my beloved country!
2001: Funerals and French classes. Stretching into a less critical and selfish person. Drama with dance.
2000: Sophomore year. Distinguishable from freshman year solely by virtue of not being a freshman anymore.
1999: Fall in Strasbourg, becoming an expert in European travel.
1998: Crying from the beauty of meeting new friends and the terribleness of leaving them. Depression and withdrawal ensued, along with 13 extra pounds. Freshman year of college came and the self-importance that accompanies it. Dance became exquisite torture, but at least I lost the 13 pounds.
1997: Graduated high school, FINALLY. Got myself the hell out of Dodge. Host families, high school redux, and headaches from living in French.
1996: Sucked. Became flag captain. Still sucked at dance.
1995: Sucked. Miss Amanda asked me when I suddenly became good at flags. Didn't realize I had.
1994: Sucked. Made the color guard/dance team, even though I sucked at both.
1993: Sucked. At least middle school is over. Dumped a friend and felt horrible about it.
1992: Sucked. Learning how to let the teasing roll off my back. Still not very good at it.
1991: Sucked. I pretty much hit my nadir here, because I hadn't learned to deal with the suckiness. One day were were growing "fast plants" in science class, and I had a full pot in my hand. I sat back, expecting my chair to be right underneath me. It was five feet back, and the pot, plant, dirt and I went sprawling on the floor. Everybody laughed at me, and I tried my hardest to laugh along. You can imagine what I would rather have done.
1990: Fifth grade camp was fun. Had a fight with a friend in class.
1989: I hated my fourth-grade teacher with a passion, the only one I ever really hated. She was really mean. She never asked me why I forged my parents' signature on my spelling homework. (It was because I've always been a good speller and the words were so easy that I didn't want to waste their time listening to me spell my ten weekly words. I only got one word wrong all year. Suck that, Mrs. Careklas!)
1988: Third and fourth grade. Don't remember much.
1987: Broke my shoulder for the second time. When our class paraded into the gym for the school Christmas concert, the sling anound my neck elicited "aww"s from the audience. I felt pretty important. Dad finally made me learn to ride a bike.
1986: Don't remember much. I think it was this summer that I started going to Girl Scout camp with Mom.
1985: I got assigned the letter "u" to write a sentence with, because I was the smartest kid in the class. In first grade when Katie arrived, I would never have that distinction again.
1984: Every morning when Amy walked over the Westerbecks' hill, I'd watch her through the window until she disappeared from sight. I wanted so much to know where she wasa going and to go with her. Of course, she was going to school, as I learned this year. I broke my right shoulder for the first time.
1983: The babysitter that stayed with us while Mom and Dad are on vacation taught me to tie my shoes bunny-ears style. When she got back, Mom tells me I'm doing it wrong. I learn to read, correctly.
1982: Apparently I had friends in preschool. Mom still remembers them. I don't.
1981: Can't say I remember much.
1980: Presumably, I started walking upright and forming words. Hot and ball seemed to be my favorites.
1979: I made an appearance in September, smack in the middle of Virgo season.

Seventies Inferno!

2007-04-07T21:56:00.000-05:00

Frenchy's cousins are visiting this week, and we spent the day trawling NY for the best "only in NY" moments. Saturday morning brunch, Brooklyn Industries, Guggenheim Museum, Belvedere Castle, the Pen-Top bar, burgers at the Meridian and views from Columbus Circle Mall were among the highlights.

We gave them the thorough Central Park introduction, (although sadly we missed the Easter Egg hunt by a few hours) and I was thrilled to see the return of one of my favorite New York institutions, Roller Disco!

The last time I saw this was in August when I had just arrived, and Frenchy whirled me through his take-no-prisoners version of showing me around. It probably took me until January to really figure out how to get anywhere. I'm only now putting together pieces of my mental Manhattan puzzle. In any case, I now know it's adjacent to the grand promenade near the south end. When I finally get my rollerblades (spring gift to myself), you'll know where to find me!

FavIcon Woes

2007-04-07T21:06:00.000-05:00

I'm trying like the dickens to get this little guy up in my favicon spot. I love everybody's images that show up in my Favorites list, but I can't figure out how to do it. Before when I wanted to steal tricks for my layout I copied and pasted the relevant portion of other people's source code, changing details, but that isn't working this time. Even Blogger is no help in their hints forums, reeling off the nonsense of "save the file where you host your website." Isn't the whole point of Blogger that you don't have to host your own space? Graaarg.

Update: I did it! I had to sign up at www.myfavatar.com, and it generated the exact code I needed! Yay!

Intercultural Annoyances

2007-04-04T21:16:00.000-05:00

Today I was thinking about what annoyed me most when I lived in France, and what generally annoys Americans in France. Of course, the most obvious is the closing of shops between 12 and 2 and on Sundays. For working people or students, these are obviously the best times to get your errands done, but Protective Mother France makes sure you have your rest time.

What else did I come up with? The dog poop is always a big winner on the French-bashing forums. No one cleans it up or nudges their dog to a less-traveled portion of the sidewalk. I also remembered the infuriating tendancy to tune out contradicting opinions, which I characterize by saying "The French love to tell you what you think." And of course, I can't forget the old chestnut of teaching schoolkids to be sheep for the rest of their educational lives.

I used to say that there were certain things that French people did that drove me crazy, and that I probably wouldn't be able to live there all my life. Having been absent from these annoyances for a long time now, and having experienced some radically different cultures within the US, I started to wonder if they would still be annoying if I were to move back to France. For some reason, I think I might now have more patience for some of them.

To be fair, I asked Frenchy what things bother French people about Americans. Since he's so culturally conditioned to the US by now and since he's naturally laid-back anyway, he had a hard time thinking of many things that would be deal-breakers for Frogs in America. Here's the few he came up with.

Not having free health care baffles us. It's a basic human need. Why should you have to pay for it, and so much?
Many French girls don't like the way American girls talk. We call American girls "les ohmygawds," and for a reason.
The way you eat. Americans are constantly snacking. A bagel at 10, pretzels and M&Ms at 4. We're taught to wait until the next meal. Why can't you just wait?
And then guys will spend six hours at the gym, bulking up. No wonder--they have to work off all the pretzels! Do you really have to be the size of a linebacker to be attractive?

From there the conversation degenerated into a comparison of the relative merits of soccer versus the popular American sports, and of the various body types that permit excellence in each. (Pretty much all our conversations wind up about soccer.) In any case, neither of us could come up with more than six or seven things that drove us nuts about theother culture. In looking over the list now, I'm not even sure that any one by itself would really be a deal-breaker for me, making me move home in despair after a few years. The difficulty of navigating official French bureaucracy might drive a person over the edge, but fortunately that isn't a daily occurrence. Does this mean that American and French cultures are more compatible that I have previously thought, or does this mean we're both remarkably tolerant?

Food for thought. But not between meals, of course!

La chance se provoque*

2007-04-01T22:28:00.000-05:00

A weekend of tenseness has just terminated, and I can now say that I have passed one of the true New Yorker tests: the housing hunt. On Wednesday, we saw an apartment that was the Holy Grail of apartments: affordable, less than ten blocks away from two subway lines, in the same area we live in now, with plenty of light and closets, and did I say affordable? We put in an application as soon as possible.

We had prepared by gathering, for both of us, three months of bank statements, three paycheks, letters of employment, tax returns, social security cards, passports, copies of anything that would establish our solvency, and copied them in quadruplicate. And put them in very profssional-looking tan cardboard folders with binder clips to hold it all together. We figured that if we ever found our dream apartment, we could just hand a folder to the landlord on the spot and guarantee our spot at the head of the applicant line.

It sort of worked out like that. For this apartment, though, the super was showing us through, and we had to contact the landlord, whose office is in Manhattan. We had to get the application from him, fill it out and fax it back to him, with the supporting documents aforementioned. Reader, this fax came to twenty-two pages. And as everyone who has ever watched Office Space knows, fax machines are the work of Beelzebub and should be shunned. It took us three attempts at the ghetto copy shop downstairs to give up and go into the city to Frenchy's office. We tried again from there, with no success either. We then decided to drop the whole thing off at the agncy's office.

Being nine o'clock at night by now, we figured we had no chance of getting it to them that night. When we arrived at the building (and by the way, I easily outpaced Frenchy who normally walks like a maniac running away from a fire) the doorman had never heard of the company, and our hearts sunk. At that point a woman comes out of the elevator and says she works with the agent and she will deliver our package to him. La chance se provoque.

To ensure receipt, we also emailed our application as a pdf attachment the next morning. Had all of our attempts succeeded, this poor guy would have had no fewer than seven copies of our application. The guy confirmed (at 11 pm) that he had received a portion of the original faxes, and would reply to us with his decision on Friday or maybe Saturday.

Friday came and went. I kept my phone on all day. Saturday came and went. Hope started to wane. Nerves set in. This morning we got up and made French toast (trying to get rid of bread in the house for psycho pseudo-Jewish roommate who's not even in the country right now) and the phone rang. We were approved!

I'm not silly enough to rejoice before the deposit is paid and the keys in our hands, but--whew, big relief! What kind of realtor works until midnight on weekends but won't pick up his phone on weekdays?

*Luck come to he who helps himself

Proof

2007-03-30T19:51:00.000-05:00

You might be a Frenchy if your nose hits your girlfriend before your lips do.

~Quoted directly from the source

Culture

2007-03-29T19:23:00.001-05:00

Culture
Originally uploaded by skorky64.

Don't say we're not taking advantages of the opportunities this city has to offer. Tuesday evening, Frenchy came home earlier than I expected, and so on a whim we dashed off to the New York State Theater. Student rush tickets, $32. Subway rides, $8. Evening of culture and music, priceless.

The opera, only the third opera I've ever seen, was beautifully staged and emotional. We both especially liked the spare scenery and rich lighting. They definitely used the lights to great effect, saving a new color scheme for the ultimate tragic moment.

Although it was pretty trippy to hear an opera about a Japanese woman who thinks she's American, sung in English.

WTF?

2007-03-14T21:20:00.000-05:00

What's up with Mother Nature? We haven't had this kind of weather since January!

What I Am

2007-02-27T16:31:00.000-06:00

While browsing other blogs recently, I found this essay, and thought I would try my own hand.

I am from the suburbs. I am from public schools and wide leafy avenues. I am from Middle America and from middle class. I am from my own bedroom. I am from two parents. I am from silence. I am from singing.

I am from between two sisters. I am from sibling rivalry. I am from hoping to be noticed. I am from PSR and Sunday School, from confession and confirmation. I am from two religions and one belief. I am from the fear of sports and extra chances at serving volleyballs. I am from skinny legs and flat chests. I am from family dinners and terrible jokes. I am also from terrible haircuts.

I am from Jo March, Anne Shirley and the Little Princess. I am from Choose Your Own Adventure. I am from reading under the covers. I am from Sherlock Holmes and Babysitters Club. I am from anything I can get my hands on. I am from Aldous Huxley and Chaim Potok.

I am from prom queens and kings, although not of them. I am from dance team and color guard. I am from captaincy. I am from struggling for recognition. I am from escaping. I am from partial friendships and superficial ties. I am from the fear of gym class. I am from secret talents.

I am from discovery and self-doubt. I am from people who care. I am from liberal arts. I am from sorority dominance and disappointment. I am from Confederate flags in windows. I am from self-affirmation. I am from a surprising affinity for neurology. I am from Greek revival buildings. I am from Alsace. I am from separatists. I am from the international community. I am from depression and isolation.

I am from thumbing rides with strangers. I am from backpacks and hiking boots. I am from trains and planes and boats. I am from host families. I am from small towns and sidewalk cafes. I am from museums. I am from curiosity. I am from sunflowers and motorcycles. I am from photographs and scrapbooks. I am from loneliness. I am from hostels. I am from teaching English. I am from teaching American. I am from defending an outlook I only half believe in.

I am from the long march of French universities. I am from theses and deadlines and learning how to be an adult. I am from boots and polka and Friday fish frys. I am from the Terrace. I am from realizing my own limitations. I am from squeaking by.

I am from advice. I am from expanding your horizons. I am from neediness and incompetence. I am from holding hands. I am from a small rural town. I am from a huge city. I am from travel and discovery. I am from international phone calls. I am from the internet. I am from vicarious experiences.

I am from the totality of my experiences.

Update

2007-02-19T10:48:00.000-06:00

When I first began this blog, I found a site where you can check off all the states (or countries) you've been to, and it generates a map for you. I haven't been to any new countries since then (good God, and I call myself a traveler!) but I have added a bunch of states in the Northeast. Scroll sideways for the entire most recent version:

create your own visited states map

Now the map tool is at a different site, and they've expanded your choices. For those of us who have confined their wanderings to Western Europe, here's a map made just for us!

create your personalized map of europe

Chinese New Year

2007-02-18T21:56:00.000-06:00

Happy New Year in China! Or in your nearest Chinatown.

We went to Chinatown today to party like it's 4704. Apparently it's the year of the Golden Pig, which comes around once in a blue moon. Everyone had these long cardboard tubes which shot off a bunch of confetti and a prize attached to a parachute. The air was filled with confetti and you heard little bursts of tubes every few seconds. Of course, we had to try it for ourselves. It was hard to twist the tubes, and I had to get Frenchy to set off both of ours.

Frenchy finally got it:

We can't all be perfect!

Keepin' It Real

2007-02-18T21:17:00.000-06:00

Frenchy and I went to Katz's Deli the other night, the most famous deli in New York, where God forbid if you lose your ticket. Known for pastrami sandwiches and fake orgasms à la Meg Ryan, it definitely keeps the New York 'tude real.

The waitress was surly, until she saw how I polished off my reuben like a local. Gotta get respect one way or another!

Rental Car Marco Polo

2007-02-10T19:17:00.001-06:00

It happens to us all. Leaving a school, heading towards the parking lot (of course it’s a commuter school, easily recognized by its ginormous and ever-extending seas of parking spaces), we realize for the twentieth time, “I have no idea what my car looks like.”

As road warriors, we spend our days skitting from campus to campus and our nights in different yet similar hotels, the only alteration being that tonight’s room is a mirror image of yesterday’s. I’ve been known to enter a hotel room and walk straight into the coat rack, intending to go into the bathroom. We collect the miniscule shampoos and lotions (less than three ounces, great for the plane!) and forget our phone chargers.

We wake up in one town, drive to another for our day’s labor, and drive to a third for the night, in a different car every few days. Each time we step off a plane, our wheels for the week might be different. One week a Chevy, the next a Ford. I hate Fords.

Yet we learn to cope. We go back to a select few chain restaurants for their comforting resemblance, the only hint of sanity in our fluid lives. Conserving our mental energy for students and for administrators, we choose the easiest path for the basic pleasures of eating and drinking. Panera, anyone? We learn the protocol for delivering pizzas to hotel rooms for late-night arrivals.

And so I play Marco Polo with each new car. Standing at the edge of the parking lot, I sharpen my senses for the game. “Marco,” beeps my keychain remote. A split second later, somewhere from the depths of the sea of metal, my car of the week honks its “Polo!”

Boo to Changes

2007-01-30T23:09:00.000-06:00

Under intense pressure from Blogger, I upgraded to New Blogger, and in doing so, I lost all of the fun tweaks I had done to my template. And now I don't remember how I did them. Does anyone have any hints for learning HTML so I can again have the coolest background ever?

A Real American

2007-01-24T22:06:00.001-06:00

The final step has been taken, and Frenchy is now a full-fledged American. No green card yet, but he's got something even more fundamental: the cowboy boots.

He posed for this picture, forgetting that the flag poster was in the background. As it were, it was the perfect setting! Now he just has to perfect the "yawl!"

Much Too Close For Our Health

2007-01-18T22:15:00.000-06:00

We discovered "three-dollar token Fridays" at the Brooklyn Brewery, which is just down the street from us. Of course, they don't have a beer license, so you can exchange your token for a free beer, or you can keep the commemorative token. Obviously, no one chose the second option.

Cohabitation, or The Things My Roommates Do That Are Wacko, And Sometimes Marginally Rude

2007-01-08T20:46:00.000-06:00

Our roommates are really bizarre. I guess with the wheat of the awesome loft comes the chaff of the two wackjobs that inhabit it. Here is a partial list of the obnoxious things they have done since I moved in. Hopefully this will let off steam so I don't blow up at them one day and lose my wonderful place to live.

1. When I create a wet laundry jungle in my room to avoid using the dryer (and by extension the weird cardboard thingamajig that they fashioned to hold the dryer hose out the window, which incidentally lets in gales of cold outside air), ask me why I didn't simply use the dryer.
(1.5. Cardboard? Stuffed in the window next to the gas stove? Which you have to stand on to insert? Are you kidding?)
2. When I use the dryer, pull a long face at me and complain that there's a cold draft and that I shouldn't use the dryer. Hmm, I didn't see you so upset about the cold when it was our room that had no heat. Which brings me to...
3. Realize around mid-October that there is no heater in our room. Our room with the twelve-foot-high factory windows. Order a heater from Japan that will come next week, I promise. Meanwhile, an Arctic front moves in.
4. Receive heater a month later. Realize that a key piece is missing. Order piece from Japan, that will come within a few days, I promise. Don't offer any extra blankets. Finally receive piece in mid-December, after I have reinforced my stock of wool sweaters and have become resigned to wearing double layers of socks to bed.
5. Quit job in August. Piss around all day on the computer, downloading porn. (I have proof.) Complain about money. Sleep till four pm. Buy a new laptop. Transfer porn to laptop. Arrange a "study" area upstairs and pretend to study, but download more porn. (Okay, no proof on that one, but really, wouldn't you feel justified in suspecting?) Talk about rehabbing upstairs, but only move a bunch of junk around.
6. Regularly ask us for rent a day before it's due, and before you calculate utilities. Get mad when we don't produce check on the spot.
7. Work four days a week at two crap jobs, and complain that it's "simply too exhausting to work on Fridays." Complain again about money.
8. Pry into our personal lives.
9. The only time I answer the house phone, during which I take a message and relay the message accurately, coldly tell me, "Don't ever answer the phone again."
10. The day I move in (bringing my MO apartment furniture with me, fully expecting to get a place of our own relatively soon and not wanting to move cross country twice), tell me, "Um, didn't you know that this place was furnished?" Simultaneously, hide piles of broken junk in the massive storage space upstairs. Make me feel like consumerist crap for having a complete set of nice furniture.
11. Make me put all my things in storage upstairs, then rearrange storage so I can't get to them.
12. When we throw out a lamp with broken wiring, chase us down the hall and retrieve it, saying, "Well, maybe I can fix this," and relegate it to the storage pile. See item 10.
13. Talk to Frenchy while he's watching football. Really, even I learned this one years ago.
14. Completely fill freezer so I can't store any food larger than a single fish fillet.
15. Taunt me as materialistic for putting my name on my food, then eat my ice cream.
16. When I go to the massive storage space upstairs (now turned into a putative "bar exam study area") to get a sweater from a box that is still up there, follow me and insinuate that I am not allowed upstairs.

I'm sure I will add more as they happen, and as I un-represss memories. When it gets too bad, I just have to remind myself of the view. It's nearly the same from our bedroom window. Life isn't all that bad, is it?

Hey, guess what?

2006-08-03T21:35:00.000-05:00

Well, I've passed yet another "adult" milestone. I quit my first job, and for reasons other than "the school year ended" or "it's after Labor Day, no one wants to come to the pool."

I'm glad to report that I got another job in my field, located in New York (for those keeping score, this is where Frenchy lives!) and am moving in less than a week. I totally should be packing right now, but can't be arsed. It reminds me spookily of the evenings when I was supposed to be researching.

The story of how I was delayed on the way home from my (current work-sponsored) trip to England, extended my layover in Newark, fought with the damn Transit Authority ticket machines, got myself into the city and interviewed for the new job, barely made it back to the airport, and then flew through tornadoes to arrive home doesn't need to be repeated. Oh wait, I just did. Be thankful that you were spared the details of how the St. Louis airport was completely without power when we landed, including lights to see where you were going, electricity for the baggage carousel ("We're taking everyone's baggage to the Burger King," because every good St. Louisan knows where the BK is in the airport) and the sensors on the automatic-flush toilets weren't working. Fortunately my mom got to find that one out, not me.

The actual quitting process wasn't nearly the drama I was afraid it would be. I did hear one under-the-breath "well, we could see that coming," but really, they could see it coming from a thousand miles away. 1,024, if you believe MapQuest. Do they really think I'm going to be able to drive that myself in seventeen hours? In a strange U-Haul? And why, for the love of Weezer, don't they put a CD player in those trucks? Or at least a tape player. Everyone loves them some old skool mixed tapes. Anything to avoid the endless country music channels on the AM dial, which must be the only radio stations in Indiana. When you New Yorkers see a greasy, squinting girl with chocolate smeared on her face, hyped up on the sweet, sweet Dr. Pepper, narrating every billboard she passes, you'll know I've arrived.

Reasons why this is a life-changing event:
1. I'm throwing out armfuls of clothing. Me. The one who saves something if I've worn it in the past five years. Or if I might wear it before 2015.
2. And shoes. I dumped seven pairs of shoes, all at once.
3. (I'm moving in with a boy!)
4. I bought a cell phone. This is probably the one that will shock the most people. More so if I tell them that I actually have owned a cell phone before, when I was teaching English in Dijon. But that was France, and we all know that what happens in France stays in France.
5. I actually agreed to reduced the Eiffel-Tower-themed decorations in my apartment. This is love, y'all.

I barely recognize myself anymore. Brooklyn, here I come!

The Mother Land

2006-06-30T20:07:00.000-05:00

So I'm off soon for my trip to England and Scotland. Ostensibly I'm going to attend a professional conference in Durham and to visit two of our university partners there, in Lancaster and Manchester. I'm also planning to spend four or five days backpacking around Scotland.

By now, I would think I have all the international travel preparations down. This is my sixth trip abroad, for Pete's sake. I know where my passport is, don't need a visa, have made sure my bills are paid, have bought proper squishable clothes, have told the credit card people that it is actually me who will be suddenly purchasing random items in a foreign country and please don't shut down my account, bought exactly the size of shampoo etc so I won't run out but won't be carrying extra weight, loaded the MP3 player with my best music, packed a ziploc bag of laundry detergent so I can do daily laundry in the sink and torn out the "England and Scotland" pages of an old guidebook. And yet the feeling remains that I have forgotten something.

Perhaps it's because I'm relying on ATMs in England to provide me with money. I have always gotten at least some cash before I left, but not this time. Am I pushing my luck? I do feel like a hypocrite, since I tell all my students to get some local currency before they go, so they can get used to what the bills look like.

What have I forgotten?

Committee on Un-American Activities

2006-06-14T22:27:00.000-05:00

It's official: my Frenchy has had too large an influence on me. I never was interested in sports before. Baseball? I'd glance at the Cardinals' score if the sports page happened to be lying around. Basketball? Had enough in high school and college when I had to sit through every home game and pretend I was interested. Football? Gimme a break.

But now I find myself at the head of the office cheering section for the World Cup. I'm actually reading the sports page--on purpose! I'm learning the names and stats of players. I'm drawing brackets and putting money on my choices. Good grief, I barely recognize myself.

The final realization came yesterday when France was playing Switzerland. For some reason, our office has a TV with cable* which is kept in our conference room. Every so often (about every three minutes) I'll pop my head in and check the score (or stay for half an hour, ignoring my boss's dirty looks). But precisely at 1:54 Central Time, someone decided to have an unnanounced CONFERENCE in the conference room! I went ballistic. They're keeping me from my game on purpose!

I'm ashamed to say, I hovered. I kept it up for the entire first half. I made a piteous phone call to Frenchy, hoping that he would commiserate. Then I gave up and ran across campus to a pizza place and made them change the channel on their large-screen TV.

*How is it that my office has a TV, cable service and a DVD player locked up in our conference room, when I can't even afford to buy a TV in color larger than my hand span? I would like to know this.

So it's true, I have joined the rest of the world and become a football fan. I feel so un-American.

30 Things

2006-05-30T21:55:00.000-05:00

My sisters and I live at different ends of the Midwest, and it is rare that we all come together. Once or twice a year at most. Since some extended family were having a party for my great-uncle, we all came in for the weekend.

I can predict what happens each time. One arrives at home much earlier than the others (it was my turn this time) and gets the full update on all the neighbors' doings. As each subsequent sister arrives, the neighbor stories are repeated. The house becomes gradually noisier. Somebody starts in a fit of giggles, setting off the other two. There is almost always a lecture, wherein the others attempt to look interested.

And after about two days, we are all silent, since we have pretty much shared all the news that we want to share. There's nothing left to talk about, and we are perfectly comfortable sitting in a companionable silence. No one feels compelled to fill it, and we have been known to spend an entire meal without conversing. I'm sure to an outsider it seems as though we're angry at each other or sulking, but it's really because we feel that if we don't have anything worth listening to, then it's okay to not talk. As for myself, I learned that lesson in the previous post's anecdote.

Partway through the weekend, my older sister mentioned that she wanted to compose a list of thirty things she wants to do before she turns thirty, which will be in about five months.* We came up with only about 18 ideas for her, a few good ones, and a few that could more likely be called chores, like "painting the front door." She had a caveat that they couldn't involve a large investment of time or money. In my case, I have a little more time to consider, and so I'm reaching a little farther.

*It turns out that all three of us want to go skydiving. Who knew? Maybe we should go three times, once on each of our 30th birthdays.

1. Learn HTML for real and design a web page
2. Go to a screening of Letterman
3. Go to the hometown of at least one of my ancestors
4. Get married to my Frenchy (dare I say this?!!!!)
5. Learn something useful about car maintenance
6. Find a way to make some money from my creative talents
7. Gosh, this is hard.
8. Ride on an overnight bike trip
9. ummmm...
10. manque d'inspiration
11. Really learn Italian this time
12. oh, sod it, Letterman is on

Gratification

2006-05-19T00:56:00.001-05:00

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, half so much worth doing as simply messing around with scrapbooks.

For the ex-expat, or in my case, the exchange student long returned to her home country, it is uniquely fulfilling to share one's stories from abroad to a willing ear. A coworker and I have contracted that every Thursday night we will have a gourmet dinner and listen patiently to the other's scrapbook stories. It is a long-awaited release, a necessary escape valve, an essential therapy.

Note that I said a willing ear. It doesn't help to have someone held there by hostage. Sure, the gourmet dinner helps (brandy sours, salade de chevre chaud, roast chicken, goulash, four French cheeses and gâteau basque à la cerise) but we each understand the near primal need to share our stories. And we ooh and aah like the speaker has just stepped off the plane. God, it feels good.

During this last round of orientations, I told my little sister that she had become my favorite anecdote about re-entry. I remember the first time I came home from France after a full year abroad. I had just experienced the most life-changing, formative ten months, and every time I opened my mouth, a "Well, in France, we..." seemed to fall out. After a few (dozen) repetitions, my little sister would bodily run out of the room. I think that was the lowest point of my re-entry crash.

And now she, in turn, is preparing to spend the fall semester in England. I am torn between my professional urging to talk her through her entry and re-entry process, to help her benefit in ways that I had to find on my own, and my desire to revisit upon her all the hurt she caused me. I know what I will do, ultimately. But the eighteen-year-old in me wants to repay the fourteen-year-old sister. Will this relationship ever change?

Commenting

2006-04-20T13:35:00.000-05:00

Wow, I actually got to a Dooce post early! When I read the post, there were 11 comments. By the time I got through the Typepad sign-in rigamarole, my comment was the nineteenth.

Makes you wonder how many viewers she has at any one time. I can't imagine.

Haircut

2006-04-12T22:55:00.000-05:00

Don't you just love a new haircut? The fragrant products they use, the blunt, non-split ends, the bounce, the body, the sass? And it only lasts one day.

I don't know about you, but no matter how closely I watch what the stylist does--how she blows out my hair, what products she uses, whatever, I can never achieve the same result. Is it a secret that they learn in stylist school? I wish I knew.

There must be some lesson in here--take the time to appreciate the small luxuries, fleeting though they are, But the lesson I choose to take away is: Don't wait five months between haircuts.

Because I have worked at the same place for over a year now, and THREE separate people didn't recognize me this afternoon. Had to stare at me for a full twenty seconds before they recognized me. What does that say about me?

Countdown to Change

2006-03-25T21:10:00.000-06:00

A Year in Euskadi

2006-02-05T22:53:00.000-06:00

It is well known that once you come back from abroad, no one really cares about the awesome things you've done and the wonderful sights you've seen. It's probably the hardest part of the reverse culture shock, and the one I struggled with the most.

You learn pretty quickly to bottle up your thoughts and to try to be the person that everyone expects you to be, the one they knew before you left (but who you left, inexorably, in the airport). The only ones who can ever understand are the ones who have gone along with you.

So upon return, you latch onto those few who have traveled and you share your stories. A friend and I have been doing just this, alternating weeks, inflicting our twelve-pound scrapbooks and our mile-long stories on each other. It's emotional; it's rewarding; it's exhausting. Reliving such an integral part of my formative years takes a long time!

This is my story.

I took French in middle and high school. Around sophomore year, I realized that I was good at French, liked it,and wanted to study it more and maybe even make a career out of it. The idealism of sixteen.

Knowing that I planned to major in French in college, and having several older friends do a Rotary year abroad, the next step was natural. I applied, was accepted and went to Biarritz, France three weeks before I turned eighteen.

Biarritz is a seaside resort town, famous for its fashionable history and its surfable waves. This was the first time I ever lived by the ocean, and I believe I'll never be happy far from it anymore.

The Rotary Club prepared me well. All the students from my region got together three times throughout the preceding year, and we did exercises about cultural adaptation, emotional readiness and openness. I know that if I hadn't had the extensive support network of the Rotary Club, I never would have survived that year abroad.

In the next entry, I will relate some of the most memorable stories and moments from that first year abroad.

Omniglot

2006-01-22T18:45:00.000-06:00

The title of this post links to a very thorough website on writing systems. For linguists and others casually interested in language, it's worth a read-through.

I used to be able to transcribe IPA with reasonable accuracy, although I've pretty much lost the nuances. The one linguistics class I took (senior year of college, spring semester) explained so much to me that I wished I had taken it much earlier. Beyond cleaning up my pronunciation in French, it made me more aware of how sounds and words are formed, and how grammatical structures link together words according to a set of complex rules. If ever I were to pursue a doctorate (hah!), it would probably be in linguistics and second-language acquisition. Here's to dreaming!

Essence and Existence

2006-01-21T14:49:00.000-06:00

I'm having trouble finding my own voice for this blog, which is why there have been so few postings over the last almost-year. I don't want to write about my work, although there is plenty of material there, believe you me. I don't think it's nice to blog about anyone close to me who doesn't know that I'm doing it, and since I have told nobody about this blog, there goes that source.

So mostly I'm left with my own musings. Which don't really seem to amount to much. I'm not particularly funny. I don't even keep up with world events or politics to a degree where I would feel competent to write about them. I don't travel enough lately (serious lack of funding) to merit any reflection on intercultural experiences, which was the original intent of this blog. What's left that hasn't already been done? And that wouldn't bore any reader (including myself) to tears?

Maybe this is a hint I need to find a new hobby.

Mistress

2005-12-18T20:00:00.000-06:00

Yes, it is definite. I defended my thesis on Dec 7th, successfully. It was not as difficult as I thought, although there were awkward moments.

Such as when I couldn't think of the word in French for "streamlined." I stopped, searched around, euhh-ed for a couple seconds, stepped out of my body to think "God, I must look like an idiot," tried to find a different way of saying it, and finally just stopped the sentence and started all over again. Not exactly what you want to do when trying to impress a panel of four unsmiling French people with lots of letters after their names.

(I later asked Frenchy what the translation was, and he couldn't think of one. It appears that this concept doesn't exist in France. I should have known!)

Afterwards, I asked my advisor if one could say maîtresse instead of maître, and he got all stumbly and red and fumbly and said "well, no, not me, uh, well...." and then, a moment later, asked if I knew what I was really saying. Hello? Did you not just consider me fit to hold an advanced degree in French Studies?

I announced the news in my Christmas cards. Yes, now that I am free of guilt when doing un-thesis-related tasks, I actually wrote Christmas cards! And I'm knitting! Totally guilt-free! Guilt-be-gone! Now with two-thirds less guilt!

You know you're getting old when...

2005-11-04T13:20:00.000-06:00

...you get excited about the goody bag from the dentist.

Space Cadet

2005-10-25T22:59:00.000-05:00

Imagine, if you will (and please do, it's a fun little trip), a nineteen year old girl. Frizzy blond hair, piled on top of her head, sticking out randomly. Wide brown eyes, with a not-quite-there gaze. Puffy jacket, ratty sweater. A denim miniskirt, seemingly cut with a dull knife while blindfolded. Pink knit legwarmers that went all the way up to meet her skirt.

And moon boots.

They even proclaimed proudly what they were: huge puffy white stompers, with "Moon Boots" written in blue.

Moon boots, my friend. The ladies of my daily guilty pleasure would have had a field day with her.

Now, I advise a lot of textile and fashion marketing students who want to go to London. I've seen some funky fashions walking through my office. Some are great and I admire appropriately, some are a little too out-there for my minimalist taste. This trend, if you can even call it that, just makes me think she has some overstated aspirations as to her intended vocation.

She shuffles into the office, twenty minutes late for her appointment. "I've never been to France before, but I want to move there and be a veterinarian. How do I do that?"

It was a long day.

Pass the pipe

2005-10-11T12:50:00.000-05:00

I must have the hookup.

I'm so smooth, I didn't even know I was smoking crack. Because, really, there's no other explanation for telling my advisor last Wednesday that I would have a draft to him on Monday.

There have been so many times this weekend that I actually wanted to post something here, but I guilted myself out of it, saying that if I were going to spend time in front of my screen, it had jolly well be moving me towards my DT.* I worked feverishly every day last week, entertained my parents on Saturday, and worked from 9 to midnight on Sunday, except for a three-hour obligatory sanity-saving M*A*S*H break. I worked on Monday all day while I was supposed to be preparing applications. I worked through lunches. I worked for all the times in the last two years that I haven't worked.

And it's crap. It's all crap. Crap filled with fluff. Fluffy crap.

I'll never finish this thing; my advisor will laugh in my face and then turn suddenly serious: "No, really, we can't let you tarnish the good name of our program by bringing this before a defense committee." I'll work and work on it and get to my defense and everything will fall apart because I didn't work enough.

Now that would be a good excuse to get some more crack.

* Damn thesis.

The Primary Objective

2005-09-28T22:42:00.000-05:00

The newest link at right (also in this post title) actually accomplishes what I set out to do in this blog. Although he compares French life to Australian life. Nevertheless, many of the points he makes resound with me, or explain some facet of the French mindset that always puzzled me. I found him from Petite's comment box.

Here's a French/British/Canadian one.

And a similar French/American blog.

Edit: So it appears that the day after I found him, he quit writing. Or maybe he'll be like me and only post once a month. I'll keep him around for a while. Just in case.

Shock and Dismay

2005-09-26T22:39:00.000-05:00

I guess I'm not as good at this adult gig as I thought I was.

Today I realized my rent is almost due, and I sat down to write the check. Three days early, aren't I so good?

Then I actually looked at my bank account, and realized there is much less than there really should be in there. After the bills I just paid get debited off, and after this month's rent, I'll be left with a little over a hundred dollars, until my next pay period, a week and a half away!* I even suspended my routine savings transfers until I get paid next.

*I know this is not as dire as many people, and I should even be glad to be in this situation. But it's pretty extreme for me, and this is my blog so I'm going to complain whether you like it or not.

I thought it might be a wise idea to see where all my money is going, so I reviewed the last three months of my credit card. The results:

$422.78 for groceries. I like to eat, okay?!
$189.23 for eating out. Well, I could probably cut down on the going out. Only one of those was ordering pizza, though!
$355.50 for gas. Not too bad, considering. That includes my ten-day trip to WI, along with its chauffering Frenchy and his parents everywhere. I still plan to ride my bike to work until it starts snowing.
(gasp)$747.99 for shopping. Ouch. That really needs to stop. I wonder if I can make it to Thanksgiving without going shopping? It'll be hard, I know. I don't even want to think about Christmas....
$472.87 for miscellaneous. Includes a flight to NYC, books, Walgreens purchases, etc. If I overlook the flight, this wouldn't be too bad.

Well, I guess I know what I need to do. How did my monthly credit card bill go from $300 in January to over double that amount in seven months?

Student Life

2005-09-25T21:53:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking about being a student lately.

Not for me specifically--although I am technically still a student, having this ridiculous thesis still haging over my head, I spend a far larger portion of my time working my 8-5 adult job. More on the theoretical level.

I loved being a student. One of the main reasons I do the job I do is because I want to remain in an academic environment. I love the learning, the curiosity, the limitless ambitions. I love the crazy hours. I love the sharing and germinating of ideas, the brainstorming, the creative process, the comparing, the analyzing. I love the hammering out the best way to express your thoughts.

Since I work with students (I am a "Student Services Advisor," in the vague lingo of my university) I spend a fair portion of my time comparing my life as it is right now to what it was just a few short years ago. It really wasn't that long ago that I was in undergrad, in the same place they were, with all the drama, dreams, and drinking that they routinely engage in.

I remember a friend's mother reproaching us for complaining that we were sleepy and overworked in college: We had class for a couple hours a day, dance practice for another couple hours, and called it a full day? Try working straight for eight hours, she said. We'd see.

Well, I'm seeing. Life after college isn't all it's cracked up to be, but nevertheless, I think this period of my life is pretty good to me. I like the challenge of finding the perfect solution for each student who comes in to see me, not only the one that seems the most obvious, but the one that will benefit him or her in the long run. For every blithering idiot who comes in, there are two geniuses, and five or six normal students. I make a real, personal connection with about one in ten. No day is ever the same. When I cheekily say I work for world peace, I really mean it.

Yet, there are so many times I'd rather be lazing on a Union chair on the Terrace. I miss Danville, but I don't really want to go back. Even more, I miss Madison, and if given the chance, I'd move back there.

Hailin' Taxis Like a Pro

2005-09-16T17:01:00.000-05:00

Hey, I just did something I've never done before! I can whistle with my fingers, two-index-fingers-style. Check out where I learned it in the posting title. Right now it's more luck than skill--two times out of three I get a proper, loud whistl-y sounding whistle, and the rest of the time I just blow.

Oh, that sounded bad. You know what I meant, though.

Now I'm sorta lightheaded. Woooo-oooo!