But as I reached down for the crappy, lesser plastic sleeve - the one that would soon hold my final notes and would stand out in stark contrast to all the other, more perfect plastic sleeves in my binder - I breathed a sigh of relief. I saw the perfect plastic sleeve bag lying on the floor next to my supplies department, with just one perfect plastic sleeve still inside. Phew, I thought, It must have just fallen forward when I was getting out sleeves earlier. And oh! How lovely! Just one sheet left for my one remaining master sheet! This is God trying to tell me something! I will so ace my final tomorrow. I don't even need to study anymore!

As I pulled it up from the ground, however, reality came crashing down on me: the plastic bag and the lone plastic sleeve inside it had actually fallen partway under the heater. The entire middle section of my one remaining perfect plastic sleeve had withered up so much it was now unusable. Worse, I had already proclaimed my earlier discovery as obvious proof of how well I'll do on my exam tomorrow. The only logical conclusion I could make was that, in fact, someone was trying to really drive home the point that I'll really freakin' bomb.

One thing's for sure: I'm going to wear my lucky red pants tomorrow. I'm gonna need 'em.

About 45 minutes later, I was at the train station in the suburbs, where I catch a bus that I take for another 20 minutes in order to get to the high school. Imagine my surprise when I stepped out of the train to find about three inches of snow on the ground.

This is Paris! It doesn't snow here! I thought of my sister's recent experience in Portland, and realized that this was going to be a long day.

Shivering, I waited for the bus, with slush slowly creeping through my slip-on shoes (I didn't know it was snowing in the suburbs! I would have warn my boots!). I waited around some more. And then some more.

By the time the bus finally came, there were two train-loads worth of passengers waiting to get on board. We all tredged our snow-covered, ice-cold feet onto the steamy bus, everyone glad to be out of the cold but not so glad to be packed together like sardines inside a moving vehicle.

The ride took twice as long as it normally does. This is normal, as the bus driver probably has little or no experience driving in snow. And instead of shutting everything down, like a respectable non-snowy American city (ie Portland) would do in this sort of situation, the French technique appears to be different: we'll just keep everything up and running, but nothing will actually function.

At about 8.15, I got off the bus, crossed the grocery store parking lot, and walked the 5-minute route to the school. My steps were amongst the first along the snowy path, so of course I was ankle-deep in snow the entire time. With slip-ons, folks. When I reached the high school, I bolted it to the teachers lounge, said a breathless "Bonjour" to my co-workers, and went straight for the sink in the corner of the room. Without any shame, I took off my shoes, standing next to the sink in my dad's black socks (with gold tips!), and dumped chunks of snow out of my shoes.

My eyes puffy from lack of sleep, my hair in a nappy ponytail from having snow and wind send it in every direction, and my pants now soaking halfway up my calf, I resolved to remain true to my Michigan heritage and think, "This? This? Nah... this is nothing!"

Just then, the teacher's whose class I was supposed to take over gasped. She looked at me, and said, "Oh my God. I'm so sorry."

"Uh-oh," I said, "What?"

"Your class this morning was cancelled. We rearranged the schedule yesterday. I should have called you."

Right-o.

So I left early. The bus was now experiencing delays of over an hour, and I deemed it wortwhile to leave the high school right then and there, before I killed somebody. I could have slept 'til noon, and been fully rested for my final. Instead, I went back to Paris (it took forever to get there), still cold and wet, and sat in a café for an hour before my exam began. Which, by the way, was really fucking hard! I still think I did semi-ok, but I bet I would have done a lot better had I not been shivering the entire time.

Anyway, the day sucked so much that, while at the grocery store today, I decided I deserved some cookies. This is probably the first time I have bought myself cookies since 2000. There's a reason for this: I have already eaten nine. The box only has 12. The entire box will have been eaten by noon tomorrow. There's no escaping it.

Could we talk about how John Kerry has skipped out on 64% of his Senate votes? That's his JOB. To vote. In the Senate. Could we just think about that for a second? Or could we also think about how he plays up his veteran-ness but then supported cutting veterans' pay? Or how he makes a big bruhaha about how he protested against what he considered a useless war (although he claims he slept on the mall in Washington, other sources say he slept comfortably at home) but then voted for another one thirty years later? Or what about how he wants this Iraq situation to turn out for the better, but then voted against the funding to make this possible? And, how although he voted FOR the Iraq war, FOR No Child Left Behind, and FOR the Patriot Act, he is running on a platform that is against all of them? What are you people thinking?*

Could I also point out that he didn't even make all the requirements to even be on the NY Ballot (not enough signatures and didn't file in all countries. Actually, the only people to have correctly done so were Dean and Edwards)?

From the NY Times (requires registration/login to see):

I'm also a bit perplexed by the way the media is handling all of this. I read somewhere that Kerry pretended to smoke a joint on stage with Peter, Paul and Mary. Surely, this is something that the media would trounce on Dean for, but thus far I've only seen it mentioned in a small, itty-bitty paper. It just seems off-kilter. Is there some sort of bias? A lot of people in the Dean campaign believe it is in the (mainly Republican) media's own interest to promote Kerry, as he will so obviously lose to Bush were he to be the nominee. Why will he lose to Bush? Well, because he voted WITH HIM in almost every major issue the country is facing today. What do you all think?

I understand not liking Dean, but Christ almighty, don't opt for Kerry instead. The more I read about him (and I've read a lot), the more he comes off as straight up slimeball.

**Update: Turns out I'm right. Dean people have been complaining of phone calls being sent on behalf of the Dean campaign, while actually being from Kerry's team, ringing people up at 2 or 3 in the morning. There have also been rumors of push polls. While many may chalk this up to crazy Deaniacs freaking out over the NH primary, ABC has just confirmed it. Hopefully, there's more to come on this matter soon. Kerry should be in deep trouble, were the media ever to do their job correctly.

*Could I also add here that this will make debating against Bush very, very difficult. Bush will bring up something that he's (oddly) proud of, and then Kerry will try to say, "But it's wrong because...," while still prefacing it with something like, "Well, I voted for it at the time, but it's wrong because..." Seriously, the guy obviously has no political foresight whatsoever, and is just going with whatever's popular so as to win the nomination.

So I walked out of there a little torn. If I were in the US, my estimated grade would have been a B, in the worst case scenario a B-. That, to me, is a shitty grade, but at least it's squeeking by. The problem is that I don't know exactly how harshly they grade in this country, and from the experience I've had thus far, it's pretty tough. So I'm a little afraid I didn't pass the exam - not because I didn't study enough or didn't pay enough attention in class, but because I didn't know the freakin' words they used in the problems. That would really, really suck. I find out on February 13.

At any rate, I'm glad it's over. I studied the perfect amount - I could have probably have studied even less than I did, in retrospect. I knew everything I had to know from a theoretical and analytical standpoint, which I hope will come shining through when they correct my exam. It's not fair for me to complain that the words they asked us to analyze were too tough on non-francophones, so I won't. But, I will sit her nervously waiting for the exam results to come out.

By the way, can you believe the Frenchies post exam results on the wall for all to see? How humiliating, really. It's also very torturous - it means that everyone goes crowding around the results all at once, and thus your reaction, be it good or bad, is seen by everyone around you. I'm not a fan of this system.

The good news is that even if I don't pass, I can re-take the exam in September. That's the way it works here. Everyone gets a second chance. Handy.

That makes one down and four to go. Next up: Signification et théories linguistiques. I still don't understand why they call it that, because to me the class is really just about applying the language of logic to linguistics. I feel pretty prepared for that exam already, so a little revision over the weekend is probably all I'll need. That was the only class where I felt on top of everything from day one. Instead, I'll focus on Tuesday's exam in Comparative Linguistics, which I think is going to be a doozie. Everyone's pretty much freaking out about that one, which I find oddly reassuring. It's good to know that I'm not the only one trying to make sense of the madness.

Meanwhile, things are pretty much chugging in a pleasant, calm way. I've gained confidence in the classroom so that new classes no longer make me so nervous (I had three new ones on Tuesday). My schedule for next week is rather light, out of consideration by the other teachers for my exams (by light I mean I only have 10 hrs of teaching instead of 12, which I suppose is not all that different). Another good thing this week is that I've also managed to catch up with a few friends I haven't spoken to in awhile, which is always a wonderful thing.

An interesting twist, after my setback with Andre from just after the vacation, is that we managed to have a nice, pleasant conversation at the beginning of the week. I was smooth as ice, so I hope I'm back on the cool list, if only to continue this ridiculously entertaining sideline in my life. Meanwhile, however, I've noticed a new element to the story: there's another girl lurking who appears to have the hots for him. I'm pretty much just observing silently from afar, because if anybody should pursue him, it's her, not me. And, conversely, if he should pursue anybody, he should go after her, not me. I mean, unless she has a loving, caring boyfriend at home as well, of course. In that case, that bitch better get ready for some competition.

And lastly, and this is very strange, but I've noticed an unexpected but welcome weight loss since December. Nothing serious, maybe five or eight pounds, but enough so that everything fits just slightly differently. These are the pounds that always come and go, but it's rare that I notice them on the "going" side of things. I think the loss is due to the fact that I've been running around so much and have had little time to eat, usually opting for a healthy muesli-and-yoghurt breakfast around 6.30 am, followed by just some fruit or a sandwich at lunchtime. I don't usually get home until 19.30, and when I'm not home very much, I simply don't snack. Since I haven't been going to the grocery except to pick up the absolute essentials once a week, we don't have much of anything to eat in the house. Dinners have been quick-fixes: pasta, omelettes, etc. They're relatively healthy little meals (I try to get some greens in there somehow), but nothing so tasty as to inspire me to pig out. None of this is really intentional, it's just that my lifestyle has altered and thus my eating. Which I'm fine with. I don't think the weight loss is significant enough that anybody else would notice it, but there are slight differences in how my zip-up boots fit and how my pants sit on my hips. I think I'm pretty much at the weight I'm supposed to be at, so I don't expect this trend to continue much longer, but I'm certainly not complaining for the time being.

Anyhow, that's the update. I doubt this weekend will provide much material for a post, as it will basically be me, my notes, and my linguistics dictionnary chilling 24/7. But I'll let you know if something more exciting comes along. As if that's not excitement in its purest form!

While I can't really underestand the headscarf ban, I accept that I am in a different country with a different culture and that things are just done differently here. In France, apparently, such basic liberties as wearing one's own religious symbols CAN be regulated by the state. But I never thought it would get to the point where the French government would consider outlawing beards. Even worse, the BBC reports:

That's basically another way of saying that a whitey can have a beard, but nobody else. On NPR, I heard that they were thinking of telling Sikhs - who are not allowed to cut their hair - to wear hairnets instead of turbans. Hairnets! When are they going to stop and ask themselves if they're taking things too far?

At the high school this morning, we tried to make a joke of it. "Jamel, you better shave tomorrow or you might be out of a job." and "Phillipe, your stubble is dangerously bordering on beard-like. I'd get that mess under wraps if I were you." We had a good laugh, to the point where the entire teachers' lounge was laughing at once, but the laughter faded quickly as we realized exactly what we were laughing about.

"Well, I guess we have to laugh about it. Otherwise we'll cry," said one young teacher, seguing into the debate that brought up all the major issues: limiting personal freedom, racism, hypocrisy. I'm sure they're not going to look to outlaw Jacques Dupont and his gray, stately beard, but I'd be willing to bet that Samir Waddafi will be stopped at the high school entrance for any sort of facial stubble. The underlying message is that France's 5,000,000+ Muslims are not really welcome here, and that France has no problem making that as clear as possible. And it's disgusting.

"Well," said Fabrice, lightening the mood, "It's no big deal really. If some guy has a religious beard, he can just take it off at the school entrance, just like the girls." Everyone giggled before he continued, "Even worse: do you think that if a girl took off her scarf, and it turned out she had a little bit of a beard, would they make her shave it, too?"

232: Number of American combat deaths in Iraq between May 2003 and January 2004

501: Number of American servicemen to die in Iraq from the beginning of the war - so far

0: Number of American combat deaths in Germany after the Nazi surrender to the Allies in May 1945

0: Number of coffins of dead soldiers returning home from Iraq that the Bush administration has allowed to be photographed

0: Number of funerals or memorials that President Bush has attended for soldiers killed in Iraq

100: Number of fund-raisers attended by Bush or Vice-President Dick Cheney in 2003

13: Number of meetings between Bush and Tony Blair since he became President

10 million: Estimated number of people worldwide who took to the streets in opposition to the invasion of Iraq, setting an all-time record for simultaneous protest

2: Number of nations that Bush has attacked and taken over since coming into the White House

9.2: Average number of American soldiers wounded in Iraq each day since the invasion in March last year

1.6: Average number of American soldiers killed in Iraq per day since hostilities began

16,000: Approximate number of Iraqis killed since the start of war

10,000: Approximate number of Iraqi civilians killed since the beginning of the conflict

$100 billion: Estimated cost of the war in Iraq to American citizens by the end of 2003

$13 billion: Amount other countries have committed towards rebuilding Iraq (much of it in loans) as of 24 October

36%: Increase in the number of desertions from the US army since 1999

92%: Percentage of Iraq's urban areas that had access to drinkable water a year ago

60%: Percentage of Iraq's urban areas that have access to drinkable water today

32%: Percentage of the bombs dropped on Iraq this year that were not precision-guided

1983: The year in which Donald Rumsfeld gave Saddam Hussein a pair of golden spurs

45%: Percentage of Americans who believed in early March 2003 that Saddam Hussein was involved in the 11 September attacks on the US

$127 billion: Amount of US budget surplus in the year that Bush became President in 2001

$374 billion: Amount of US budget deficit in the fiscal year for 2003

1st: This year's deficit is on course to be the biggest in United States history

$1.58 billion: Average amount by which the US national debt increases each day

$23,920: Amount of each US citizen's share of the national debt as of 19 January 2004

1st: The record for the most bankruptcies filed in a single year (1.57 million) was set in 2002

10: Number of solo press conferences that Bush has held since beginning his term. His father had managed 61 at this point in his administration, and Bill Clinton 33

1st: Rank of the US worldwide in terms of greenhouse gas emissions per capita

$113 million: Total sum raised by the Bush-Cheney 2000 campaign, setting a record in American electoral history

$130 million: Amount raised for Bush's re-election campaign so far

$200m: Amount that the Bush-Cheney campaign is expected to raise in 2004

$40m: Amount that Howard Dean, the top fund-raiser among the nine Democratic presidential hopefuls, amassed in 2003

28: Number of days holiday that Bush took last August, the second longest holiday of any president in US history (Recordholder: Richard Nixon)

13: Number of vacation days the average American worker receives each year

3: Number of children convicted of capital offences executed in the US in 2002. America is only country openly to acknowledge executing children

1st: As Governor of Texas, George Bush executed more prisoners (152) than any governor in modern US history

2.4 million: Number of Americans who have lost their jobs during the three years of the Bush administration

221,000: Number of jobs per month created since Bush's tax cuts took effect. He promised the measure would add 306,000

1,000: Number of new jobs created in the entire country in December. Analysts had expected a gain of 130,000

1st: This administration is on its way to becoming the first since 1929 (Herbert Hoover) to preside over an overall loss of jobs during its complete term in office

9 million: Number of US workers unemployed in September 2003

80%: Percentage of the Iraqi workforce now unemployed

55%: Percentage of the Iraqi workforce unemployed before the war

43.6 million: Number of Americans without health insurance in 2002

130: Number of countries (out of total of 191 recognised by the United Nations) with an American military presence

40%: Percentage of the world's military spending for which the US is responsible

And we all have our favorite accents. A lot of people love the French accent, although I'll be honest and say that after listening to it several hours a day, every day, it's starting to wear on me. They regularly forget H's and end up saying things like, "I ate George Bush." But then they add H's in the funniest of places. And that, my friend, rhymes.

I know Americans (and maybe other anglophones?) who consider the French accent sexy, but I just find silly now. It's charming, in it's own way, I just spend so much time correcting it that I have a hard time resisting the behavior when engaged in a conversation with a Frenchie who actually knows how to speak the language.

Instead, I'm very partial to a Scottish accent, myself. Or Jamaican. Although those are arguably different types of accents: they're speaking their own language and it's just me who perceives their prononciation as different. As far as people speaking English whereas their native tongue is something else, I suppose I don't really have a favorite. Do you?

At some point in the day, the English teachers and I began talking about the rhythm of the English language. It's something that native speakers aren't necessarily aware of, but I've studied it a bit and think it's the coolest part about our language. Tonic accents in English are so important (the difference between, say INvalid and inVALid, for example), and they make sentences rise and fall in ways that phrases don't in the Romantic languages. That's why some people say that be-bop can only really be done in English, because it just doesn't work in other languages. The English teachers agreed, and even extended it to almost all music forms, saying that the rhythm of English resonates with the rhythm of music whereas French or German or Portugese fall short.

A few of my students have recently stared in awe as I spoke in English. One girl breathed to her neighbor "It's such a beautiful language..." as if I were producing some sort of skilled art form before her. And sure, when MLK gave his famous speech, it was a skilled art form, but I assure you, I was probably just asking some student what kind of music he likes, or how many brothers and sisters he has. I was surprised: just as I think my accent massacres what is an extremely beautiful language when spoken properly, I sort of feel that English is just a mish-mosh language that - while possibly being considered fun or flexible or laid-back - could never really be called beautiful. Even more surprising, the other students agreed with her comment, and then told me that they think American English is far more appealing than British English. This blew me away, considering how much us Americans fawn over those Brits. I guess I just never considered my own language as being something to admire for its phonetics. I like the words, but not the sounds.

Still. I'm developing a deeper appreciation for my native tongue - and even how it has consequently permanently mutated my actual tongue. I'm getting over my constant self-conciousness concerning my accent and learning to embrace it. Maybe, even, see it as an asset.

Hell, if four people find it sexy, that's a-ok by me.

I didn't like realizing that I was already picking out some kids who were "troublemakers" and bitching about them, but it's pretty hard not to do. I'm fine with the kids who have a hard time paying attention, or who are easily distracted, or whatever, as long as they're reasonably respectful and they do their work. But I don't like the kids who try to test me, who disrupt the class, or who insist on only speaking French. I corrected exercises today by several boys who thought it would be hilarious to do the whole thing using the verb "to fuck." Fine, I thought, and didn't flinch, just correcting their grammar in the same way I did everyone else's. But I don't know if that's the right sort of action to take: should I ignore their attempts at destablizing me, or should I make a stir about it? My opinion is that I didn't get to play games and talk about life in France with a college-age French person when I was in high school, and, should the occasion have presented itself, I'm sure we all would have been really excited about it. These kids make it seem like it's such a drag to have a conversation, and they're driving me insane. Their alternative is to sit and do grammar exercises, and I can't see why they would prefer that. I imagine they're even more hellish in their normal classroom.

On the other hand, right after that class, I have a group who comes of their own will. They're not required to be there, and they come during their "free" period because they want to practice and improve their English. I was so touched to learn that they were interested and saw the class as wortwhile. They are also very talkative, they participate a lot, they ask questions in English. I love them. Walking into that classroom after being with the other group for the first hour is so refreshing I can actually feel my body relax the first few minutes.

I also feel bad because there are several girls in the first, unruly class who want to learn, but who are constantly overshadowed by the boys. Sometimes it gets on my nerves that they don't speak up for themselves: they're almost freakishly quiet all hour. But mostly I feel that I'm not doing something right, that I can't handle the class and that the girls are suffering because of it. I talked to their normal teacher about it and she said, "Oh, well, if it makes you feel any better, I can't handle the class at all, either. It's been this way for those girls all year, and I don't see it changing any time soon."

No, actually, that doesn't make me feel better. It just makes an already bleak picture seem bleaker.

Anyway, it was a bad way to start the day. I'm just happy that my other classes were all kind and respectful, or else I might have lost it at some point. I went from teaching all day to my evening class at the Sorbonne, where I promptly fell into a pretty deep sleep. That marks the first time I have fallen asleep in a class, which I think is pretty impressive (almost four months of classes!), but man did I sleep! My sleep was so deep that I started dreaming. I hope I didn't start talking, too.

I managed to wake up for the last hour of the class, where we did a practice test for the exam. I was so totally lost it was frightening. Walking out of class, I just felt an enormous weight fall on my shoulders. How the hell am I going to prepare for these exams? I am very afraid of not passing this semester - a fear I have never experienced in my life. I've been afraid of not getting a good grade, but never have I feared just all out failing. I'm just angry because I feel I've done all the work: I've been to 95% or more of all my classes, I've taken notes, I've paid attention. But for some reason, things just aren't clear to me. It might be just a difference in the systems. I don't know.

Anyway, the only good thing is that I know I'm not alone. I came out of class and talked to a few other students who seem to be even worse off than me. Misery loves company, I guess.

Kdogg and I used to exert what we called "Falda Power" (falda is Spanish for skirt), wherein we make use of the often-underestimated power of the falda. It's amazing what a little falda can do to your walk, and consequently to your talk and to the talk you get. People treat you differently when you're in a falda, which is normal, because you act differently as well. You just can't be sloppy and gross when wearing a hot, snazzy falda. Maybe you haven't been aware of it, but pay attention next time. You'll experience what we call Falda Power. And it's a magnificent thing.

I've decided to embrace the power of the falda once again, and am thus determined to wear more of them during this period of bizarrely well-balanced self-esteem.

Meanwhile, my hair has gotten to a point where I wear it down from time to time. It's past my chin, at a comfortable stage where it can get tucked behind my ears, need be. Thus far, it's gotten positive reviews from everyone but The Boy, who doesn't even notice when I get my haircut anyway. Kathypath lent me a blowdryer (on loan until her blowdrying American friend comes to visit again), and I've been experimenting with my new head. After wearing my hair in a ponytail every day since April, I'm pretty excited to be able to comb it and style it and stuff. It's the little pleasures.

So today, I woke up thinking: "Yes! Treat yourself to luxury! Wear the falda, blowdry your hair, and live it up! You're babilicious, baby!"

So I blowdried my hair (blewdry?) and convinced it to go in the places I wanted it to go. I also considered the falda, but vetoed it because my nylons needed some serious washing (they are currently drying on the clothesline). Although the falda was postponed until tomorrow, I still got on some nice clothes and even considered putting on some mascara before giving it the thumbs down. One thing at a time, folks. Last Friday was the first time I've gone out with my hair down, so going to work for the first time with my hair down felt like it would be a big enough event in and of itself. Mind you, it's only an event in my own head - my coworkers won't even notice. But still, I didn't need to add the mascara to the mix. It might have been too much for one day.

I headed out for work at 8.45 (first class was at 10.30), feeling groovy. But the second I stepped out of my building, I frowned: It was pouring rain. Somewhere in my excitement over such crucial fashion decisions, I had managed to remain totally oblivious to the rather serious Parisian downpour.

In hopes of salvaging my hairdressing effort, I bolted down the half-block to the metro. I would have been fine, if, when I got off the bus an hour later (I take a metro to a train to a bus to get to work), I didn't have a five-minute walk in the rain to the high school.

Argh. By the end of my journey, my hair was curling in all directions, creating a fantastic frenzy of frizzies all over my head. My masterpiece! Ruined!

So I sat down in the teachers' lounge, grabbed myself a coffee, and, defeated, put my hair back into a ponytail. I also resolved to buy myself an umbrella, even though I hate the damn things. Why not just call them Eye Pokers? Because that's what they really are. Screw the Eye Poker; I can't wait for my hat to arrive in the mail.

Now, I'm really not a superficial cat. Any female who knows me knows that:

1. I have fewer clothes than she does.
2. I have fewer shoes than she does.
3. I have less make-up than she does.

It's just the way it is. But I was pretty pissed off that the excitement of dolling myself up - for the first time in a long, long time - was so quickly and so completely shot down. As a result, I spent my classes feeling ugly and gross, with my frizzy head of rain-beaten hair stuck in a ratty ponytail that I hadn't even been able to do in front of a mirror. In my head, my students were thinking, "Dude, what's up with her hair today?" even though, let's be honest, it looked much the same as it does every day.

Walking back to the bus stop from work, the rain was coming down even harder. I decided God was trying to tell me something. I don't know, something like, "You get more split ends when you blow dry" or "Skirts are for hos" or "Stop thinking about such mindless nonsense. People in the world are dying!" I resolved to never consider such superficial crap again. To stop the madness right then and there. To just wear my ragged pants and button-downs on the daily. Forget falda power. Forget hair styling. Forget sexy babe-ness.

I was listening to Outkast, which was getting me suitably pumped up and grumpy. I bent my head against the rain and stomped my way towards the bus stop. So much for living my moment of postive self-esteem to its fullest.

But right then, I tell you, a fire truck pulled up beside me. An entire fire truck full of firefighters. They are sexy beasts, let me say. The driver leaned down from his perch and said, "Do you want a ride?" The other fireman looked on inquisitively.

Dude! Firemen wanted to drive me to the bus stop! I thanked them and said no (they were going in the wrong direction), and the driver said, "But it's pretty cold out there. Are you sure?"

I only had about half the parking lot left to walk across, so I pointed and said, "I'm just going to the bus stop. Thanks though!" and laughed. It's a good thing I refused, too, because they pulled out of the lot, drove up to the traffic light, went right, and then turned on their sirens and headed out to save somebody's life. If I had been in the truck, they would have had to drop me off before heading towards heroism, and you know, every second counts in matters of life and death.

They saved my day, though. Which is worth something. Just when I was beginning to doubt my newborn superficiality, divine intervention told me, "Aw, go ahead! Live up your hot babeness to the max!" Or at least, that's the message I got from the firemen.

It's on, baby. Tomorrow, it's falda time.

A few days ago, while correcting the kids' papers, I came around to... eh, we'll call him.. Joe. His sentences were something like:

1. My family owns a house in the country
2. I have four older brothers.
3. I love a girl in this class.

When I corrected his paper, he whispered, "This is the false one," pointing to number three. I laughed. Ok.

Everyone began reading their sentences, some funnier than others. Eventually it was Joe's turn. He read numbers one and two and then stammered a bit before saying, "I don't want to read number three out loud. Can I just write it?"

"Sure," I said, remembering the sentence and not wanting to make him uncomfortable. The point of the lesson is to get people comfortable with speaking English in front with their classmates, not the opposite. Plus, the boy is sixteen - I can see how it could be awkward at that age.

Naturally, a lot of hoo-ha was made about number three. The girls started looking around and came to the consensus that number three was the lie. Lots of questions of "Who would it be?" and "A girl in this class?" floated around the room. The boys had mixed reactions; some voted for one or two. I went with number three, considering Joe had told me earlier that it was the lie.

To maintain suspense, I asked the kids to erase the first truth and then the second, leaving only the lie on the board. This usually creates a stir as those who voted for a truth see their vote get erased. I taught them the verb "to fool" and we practiced saying, "Joe fooled Elizabeth" and the like.

So naturally, when Joe erased number two, only a few people reacted. But when he erased number three, jaws dropped to the floor. The girls looked around at one another, eyes wide. I could tell they were sizing one another up to see who could be the object of Joe's affections.

"Ooo... a little bit of mystery for the school year! This is getting exciting!" I said, genuinely happy to have a budding romance revealed right under my nose.

"Who is it?" one of the girls insisted.

I rubbed my hands together mischievously.

"I'm not going to tell." he said surprisingly cooly. He went back to his seat with a bunch of girls pestering him about who it could possibly be. Even when I had called forward the next student, they were still stuck on it. But Joe wisely stuck to his decision to not spill the beans in the slightest.

The rest of the hour passed uneventfully. At the end of class, one of Joe's friends - Thomas - walked up to my desk and looked toward the back of the room and smiled. What is he doing? I wondered, and realized that Joe was in the back with a cell phone that doubles as a camera.

"No, no, no... no pictures. I hate pictures...." I mumbled as I gathered my stuff up off my desk. I had a class to go to and my shit was everywhere. Thomas just laughed and walked to the back to see the picture.

Curious, I followed him and went back to look at the picture, too. What I saw surprised me: in fact, Joe hadn't taken a picture of Thomas and me at all. Nope. He had taken a picture of just me, smiling but with my head slighly down, calmly trying to ignore the camera. Thomas was just there for effect, so I wouldn't think anything of it.

I looked at Joe and a moment passed. My brain said, Just act normal. You're his teacher.. "Wow, it's actually pretty good quality, huh?" I asked, surprisingly naturally. "I'm surprised."

"This is the newest cell phone on the market. The best you can get," he said, and left it at that.

An exciting year indeed.

I stride into the room and there he is. I carefully ignore him as I beeline for the coffee machine. Very cool, very smooth, very caffeine-addict-like (they say that's the new black). Later, he walks by my as I am standing in line for something else. I wave from across the room. He says, "Hi." So far, so good.

At lunchtime, as I saunter casually on by, I notice him sitting alone at a table. We make eye contact, so I stride over, keeping my pace even with the one I used to walk into the room in the first place. I'm super suave, still wearing my scarf. He asks how my trip was, I ask about his. Normal chit chat. I play with the danglies on my scarf incessantly. Once I am aware of this, I grab the back of the chair in front of me to keep myself from doing it. My fingers are itching for something to do with themselves. Instead, I start swaying back and forth a bit, while asking for clarification on something he just said. I hadn't been listening, due to the scarf distraction. I blush as I try to recuperate by saying, "Oh, right, you just said that." I blush more. Awkward silence, interrupted by the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. I itch my arm.

He asks about how ready I am for exams. I tell him that I have almost finished typing up and organizing all of my lecture notes. They're in a binder in reverse chronological order, so I'm feeling a bit more prepared now. I realize this is a dead giveaway, now he knows: I am not cool. I am a huge, huge nerd. All those conversations about music and politics and globalization, gone. Fuck, I hear my head saying, you're losing ground here, kid. Get out while you still can.

I mumble some excuse in poor French (the syntax of which I will later spend my metro ride examining in great detail) and then get on my coat. Once I am safely out of sight, I screw up my face and close my eyes and beathe out an angry, "God damnit!" to myself in frustration. Just like they do in the movies. I might have even slapped myself on the forehead with the palm of my right hand.

So much for seizing the occasion, taking my flirting powers to the next level. Apparently, I still have absolutely no game. I never want to see him again.

Then again, after pondering the conversation a bit, I've decided he might have been a tad nervous himself. Or I'll just keep telling myself that so that I don't feel I've lost all social grace. Also in my dream world, he's playing the scene over (and over and over) in his mind, too. And as long as we're in my dream world, that means he's not asking himself things like "God, why the hell did she say that?" or "Could she please just stop playing with her goddamn scarf already?" but instead he's thinking, "Wait, so this means she's a babe and she organizes her binders in reverse chronological order?!? Man, that's hot."

What one thing are you most looking forward to . . .

1. ...today? Getting some of the work that has been hanging over my head finished (which means I should probably get off the internet)

2. ...over the next week? There are several things: 1) Catching up with Parisian friends after the break back home; 2) Going back to work and seeing some of the students again; 3) Getting a doctor's visit - which I have had to cancel and reschedule twice - finally out of the way.

3. ...this year? Finishing school (for this year) and going to southeast Asia

4. ...over the next five years? Finishing school (forever) and having a real job

5. ...for the rest of your life? Becoming a family with someone and the little people we have together.

Dragged into this equation is, of course, The Boy. We've been together for over four years. We were dating before my sister dated her husband, and long before my brother met his wife. To neglect his importance when making any sort of decisions about my future may seem normal to some people simply because we don't have rings on our fingers, but to me it's all the same. That said, should I know after four years of being with him if I want to be with him forever? Because I don't. And married people at least pretend to be sure of going the whole nine yards together.

I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself this holiday season. Going home is always lovely, but I miss The Boy terribly. It doesn't help when you hang out only with married couples. Every time we sat at a table and we had to bring that seventh or ninth chair around, I felt like the odd one out. Whenever we hung out - in the living room, at the table, wherever - couples sat cuddling, holding hands, or being silly with one another. Except for me, of course, which may explain why I was so glad to have the dog around.

I'm not whining, nor am I angry at any family member for being happily married (the nerve!). But I am saying that it begins to wear on a girl after awhile. And this is the fourth Christmas that has been this way. And what's worse is that I'm positive it won't be the last. As a matter of fact, as long as I'm with the Boy, I'm pretty sure that every Christmas will be this way. He doesn't care: Christmas means little or nothing to him. But it bothers me, even if it may seem stupid or insignificant to him.

My brother got a karoake machine for Christmas. The family sat around and cooed into microphones for about an hour after opening presents. Although it wasn't what I would necessarily call great fun, it gave us a few chuckles and provided some family sing-a-long time. While I was washing the dishes and trying to block out my brother's rendition of Ike and Tina's "Proud Mary," I had a moment: The cultural divides between The Boy and I are more important than I had thought they were. He can't come home with me for Christmas, and even if he could, he wouldn't know any of the songs in family sing-a-long nor would he be interested in playing Scrabble or Outburst or any of the other games our nerdy family considers entertaining. The thought depressed me. There will always be that wall.

What depressed me was not so much the fact that he doesn't know the words to "Sweet Home Alabama," but that he never will know them. That even IF we were able to hang out with my family in the US sometime, he wouldn't be able to participate in any of the things we do when we're together. That that's just the way it is, and I can't expect him to master not only American English but also American culture and history and pop music and television just because it would make two weeks with the family a bit easier or more fun.

It's wrong for me to figure these things, which are so external of our relationship, into the plan. But the truth is, they really, really matter. I'm willing to accept that he never wants to get married, that he insists on the first-born being a boy, that he thinks women should be curvy yet thin. These are culturally-developed thoughts he has, and I accept them in the same way he's willing to look past my so-called "feminist" streak, my blaring need for approval and success to the point of competition, and my constant overanalysis of everyday events. But these are the things that the two of us have incorporated into our personalities, and we've accepted them as part of one another. What I'm starting to let get to me are the external things: Thanksgiving, "God Bless America" and references to Seinfeld during the course of conversation. I don't think he lets these things bother him in our relationship (that I don't know the words to any Koffi Olimode songs, for example), why are they so damn important to me? And would I actually prefer to have a 100% American boy who understands all that stuff in the same way I do, anyway? I doubt it. So why do I let them bother me so much? Is it just the holidays? Or is it just more of me pouting because I'm alone while everyone else is with his/her honey? Or what the hell else is it?

Later, I went out to see my friends from high school. At various points, we laughed so hard we cried. I felt at home in a way I haven't felt at home in a long time. We talked and made fun of one another and choked on food and prided ourselves on still remaining friends despite barriers of time and distance. I found myself wondering why I live so far from them.

Later, I heard myself saying to them, "You know, I'm sort of thinking of moving back to the US. Nothing's for sure, but I'm going to have to decide about that soon."

"What about The Boy?" they all asked.

"Well, if I move back here, it would have to be without him. Which is why I'm having such a hard time with the decision. If you had told me six years ago that I would be sitting here telling you girls that I can't decide what to do with my life - should I stay in France with my boyfriend or move back to the US to be closer to my friends and family - I would have laughed in your face. But I can't figure out how I feel about any of this. I think either way I choose to go, I'll be losing out."

So 2004 will be a year of deliberation. The jury will have to make its verdict by December. I'll be carefully weighing the evidence, because my future hangs in the balance.