Chti-shirt

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

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

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

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!

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

A Reverse Chronology of my Life

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.