Archives: December 2004
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It looks like this year is going to be our second REALLY white Christmas. There is already a fair amount of snow, and we're supposed to have somewhere near eleven inches by tomorrow. Because most of the snow fell overnight, and because mom and I spent all day yesterday doing last-minute shopping, our game plan for today is to:
- sit inside
- knit
- bake cookies
What a perfect way to warm up for Christmas. The siblings show up this evening, we hope, provided the weather permits their planes to land. The house should smell like cooking calories by then.
Read more »On my way to the Mitten for vacation. It's cold in Paris but I debated not bringing my mittens with me when we went out to dinner last night. Something tells me that there's no hesitation of that sort in Michigan.
How many albums does a singer/group/artist have to make before coming out with a "Best Of"/"Greatest Hits" compilation?
I'm down with the four-part The Ultimate Michael Jackson because the man has made tons of albums and his career has spanned three decades. Same goes for The Artist with his three-part velvet book thingie.
But um, The Fugees? With a "Greatest Hits"? Please. They've only made two albums: one - "Blunted on Reality" - hardly sold and the other - "The Score" - was a huge success. So are all the songs on the "Greatest Hits" from album number two? Shouldn't we just call it "The Score" then?
Ah... Christmas break. Coming home on the train, reading my book, feeling the stress release from my back. I switched off the train and onto the métro at Les Halles, getting onto the crowded line 4.
At Odéon, the doors opened and people began the get-on, get-off dance. Suddenly, from my left hand side, there was a sharp, loud popping sound, followed by an incredibly loud hissing. My first thought was that something was wrong with the engine, and then a slower, calmer thought of bombs or gas came to mind.
Before I knew it, our car was a stampede of crazed people running from the poison gas released in the air. Screaming, yelling, trampling... several people fell and I acutely heard one young woman yell for her mother from across the train.
Read more »There was a mighty wind in Paris today. Might-ay, might-ay. Because we live on the last floor, and because this building is a hundred years old, the wind is a noisy thing.
"Whoa!" we kept shouting, as our fireplaces clattered and our windows shook.
It got so intense that I got up to check the streets below. Nobody was outside, but garbage was swirling upwards in little turbillons, sometimes reaching the roofs across the street.
Suddenly, I heard a loud crack! then a bang! then some shouting. Craning my neck to see further up the street, I saw a man carrying a 6'x5' piece of metal across the street, struggling against the wind. Weird, I thought, and wondered where it came from. I sat back down and got some work done, all the while hearing more crack!s and bang!s.
Then I heard a really, really loud crack! and bang! and got up to check again. Yet another piece of metal had fallen. But from where? I had to open the window and lean out a bit to see that the metal was actually pieces of scaffolding falling off the building a little less than halfway up the street from my apartment. Chunks of it were everywhere, and a few other smaller pieces of metal had already fallen on the cars below.
Read more »The Boy and I just finished reading Genesis (as in the first book of the Bible). I told my parents they hadn't done a proper job of raising me, because I can never answer any Bible questions on "Jeopardy!" If I'm going to get by in the second Bush empire, I need to at least pass for a quasi-Christian, and I've got a lot of catching up to do.
The Boy was an altar boy in his mom's Catholic church, so he knew all the stories as a young lad. But when he walked in on the pastor fucking the nun one day, he decided that everybody at the church was a two-faced liar, and promptly forgot all the stories and who begat who and what not.
I decided to take matters into my own hands and buy us a Bible. We already had one that some Mormon guy at The Boy's mom's church gave him, but the writing is so small and I can't keep my attention span going if there aren't any pictures. I also bought some sort of Hey-I'm-Young-Hip-and-Christian Bible because I thought the dumbed down language would help me stay focused, but even that didn't work. In the end, "La Bible Illustré pour garçons et filles" was my saviour (The Illustrated Bible for Boys and Girls).
I read the first part alone last night, but read a whole lot more this morning.
Here's when you know you've found somebody really special:
"Hey, I'm gonna read Genesis to you now, ok?" (as he's waking from his sleep)
"No, I don't want to hear it..." he says, face still smushed against the pillow.
"Yeah you do. I'm already past Adam and Eve, and Noah and his arc, so we're moving on to Abraham and Sarah, mmkay?"
"..."
Fifteen minutes later, The Boy interrupts me, "Wait, just stop reading for a second."
"Ok," I say, figuring he's had enough, and surprised he hadn't been sleeping the whole time.
There is a reflective pause, and then he says, "So, what I don't understand is, if Jacob was the bad brother, why do we only hear about him for the rest of the book? Shouldn't God be favoring Esau? Technically, Jacob's the liar and the one who resorted to dirty tricks. Why are we on his side? I mean, Esau comes back briefly, but..."
And we spent the next hour or so reading (still from a children's bible, but no matter) and discussing some of the strange things. I might go to hell for wondering why there's so much incest, but um... there's a lot of it. What's up with that? And what about the brief mentioning of Ismael, son of Abraham and some slave, who went on to lead the Arabs? Could I get some more details please? And anyway, this is all taking place in the modern-day Middle East and Egypt. Why are all the pictures in the book of blond people?
We had a good time. Tomorrow's Exodus. I'm gonna be so up to speed soon, I'll be itchin' for the "The Bible" category in "Jeopardy!" when I go home.
I have decided that I am going to have my life together enough by this point next year that I will actually send out Christmas cards. Maybe even on time.
I know, I'm not married and I don't have children, so what the hell am I thinking?
But I feel it could be an important milestone for me, so let me dream. Thanks.
I woke up today knowing it was gonna be a longie.
When I got on my train at 7.45 (I got to sleep in an extra hour), I was not prepared for the group of 40 Italian High School Students on their way to Disneyland that came rushing into the car as the doors closed.
Know what? Italian High School Students on their way to Disneyland do not care that those minutes on the train are my final, precious minutes of peace before four consecutive hours of teaching French High School Students on the cusp of Winter Break. I am not sure which group is louder, the IHSSotwtD or the FHSSotCofWB, but they both need to just stop the clapping. Why so much clapping? Is it really necessary?
Know what else? That whole stereotype about Italians being loud and gesturing a lot? Kinda has a bit of truth to it. Kinda lots and lots of truth to it. Kinda almost burst my eardrum as you almost hit my face with your wildly gesturing hands truth to it. At least when it comes to 40 Italian High School Students on their way to Disneyland.
Then I taught my classes, after such a relaxing ride. My classes were equally as relaxing. I had to yell at some kids, which I hate, but at least I'm better at it than I was last year. I had to seperate three students. I had to do the whole you're-more-mature-than-this lecture, which makes me feel like I should be wearing an apron and heels with a vacuum in my left hand and a feather duster in my right. I'm too young to be telling these kids that they should be capable of behaving like adults. Honestly, though, I was getting upset more because the troublemakers were making it difficult for the interested kids to hear. And that's uncool to me. Some of the kids were obviously really, really into the lesson, and I didn't want some little shitheads to ruin it for them.
In my next class, the student that I ran into at the nightclub however many weeks ago was an absolute asshole to me. Today was our first day having class since the run-in. "Going dancing this weekend?" he asked, sorta goofily.
"Nah..." I said, and laughed.
"Small world, huh?" he responded with a friendly smile.
And then? For some reason he turned into the devil. I think he was pissed because he was put in the middle-level group (of three). He asked me what level his group was, and I answered honestly that I didn't know.
"I'm in the wrong one," he said cooly. "I'm the best in the class."
Modest, too. But then when he started insulting my knitting and my taste in hobbies, I got a little annoyed. And when he started bitching about the activities, I got really annoyed. Then when he just went to sleep instead, I just gave up. I didn't want to listen to his bullshit anyway. Argh.
And then my last class. Oh Lordy, my last class.
Let me tell you all a little story.
Read more »Just saw the best movie since La Mala Educaccion. Which I saw sometime before this summer, so this is the best movie since at least six months ago.
Great, wonderful, fabulous: In America. Rent it as soon as you can. To talk about it would be to ruin it, so just trust me on this one, mmkay?
PS I also saw Maria Full of Grace yesterday in the theater. Two pretty intense, hard-hitting films back-to-back. Oddly, I'm in higher spirits now than I have been in weeks.
PPS Just updated the flicks page again. Man, was I falling behind.
I'm working on a little project called The Two Types Project. It goes a little something like this:
There are two types of people in this world...
a) those who, when finished with their meal, smush the napkin into a ball and toss it on the table
b) and those who fold it neatly.
a) those who having matching cups/toothpaste/soap holders in their bathroom
b) those who don't.
a) those who dream of buying (or already have) a new, modern, fancypants house
b) those who dream of buying (or already have) an old, beat-up one and fixing it up.
a) those who use rulers when taking notes
b) those who don't.
a) clubbers
b) non-clubbers
a) SUV drivers
b) the rest of the world
a) those who know WWF is all acting, no action
b) those who follow WWF religiously
And so on...
So I had written this entire post that was published for about ten hours before I decided it was too personal to leave online for my dad's boss to stumble upon. I had visions of hanging out with his coworkers at a dinner party sometime, with somebody having background knowledge that I didn't want him to have, and me realizing this only after he says something that hints to this knowledge. Then I would have to avoid him for the rest of the evening.
Let me, instead, speak slightly more abstractly. Here is the problem: I have some medical issue that is pretty freaking sensitive. It has affected my health, my feelings of well-being, and my relationship. I have worked for over two years, and seen at least ten doctors, in an attempt to get a diagnosis. I have been falsely diagnosed with a variety of mild-to-serious illnesses, diseases, viruses, and "issues." Each diagnosis has since been proven to be inaccurate. I cannot tell you how much money, energy, and time I have spent in doctors' offices since I began suffering, and how many doctors I have had to have a follow-up visit with when treatment wasn't working.
Last Tuesday, I went to see a super duper specialist, the one who was to be the light at the end of this infernal tunnel. Her conclusion? "Yes, something's wrong. I can see that..." When I asked her what it could be the result of, she said plainly that she had no idea. Her suggestion was "psychological trauma." In other words, that this is all in my head.
I am at the end of my rope. I don't know who to turn to or what to do now, and I am really, really getting down about it.
Luckily, I have an extremely understanding boyfriend. He says and does all the right things, and I wish I could express in words just exactly what it means to have him standing by my side through all of this. I cannot talk about these problems with most people because of the nature of the condition. It's a horrible cycle of pain and shame and fear and frustration, constantly on repeat and with little relief.
I have been referred to the Mega Specialist in France. I can't get any higher up on the scale for these kinds of issues. I'm a little nervous to see her, because if she can't help me, no one can. At least not in this country, where health care is still reasonable and I am still covered. Meanwhile, I have been researching quite a bit on my symptoms and situation, and have found a tremendous relief in reading other women's stories like mine. Some had to go ten, twelve years before getting a diagnosis. I cannot imagine it, but at least I know I am not a complete freak.
It is truly frustrating when the one person who you look to for help turns around and suggests it's all in your head. It's crushing. I broke down in her office and wept. She was understanding about it, but I felt ridiculous trying to tell her that I am in no way traumatized while crying uncontrollably. I pray that my next visit goes better, and that I might be able to get some answers.
Because I take the train into work very early in the morning, I am witness to some of the Paris region's most bizarre species. For one, nobody in Paris goes to work before 7.00 am, besides myself and a few other weirdos. Us early morning workers truly are phenomenal, and the further out I get from the city, the more resilient and hardy I find my co-travellers. What are we doing going out to the countryside at 7.00 am? Sometimes I wonder if these people are just trying to get the most out of their visit to their mother/brother/whatever, and that I'm the only one actually crazy enough to go to work in the boondocks that early in the a.m.
Then again, most of the people waiting on the train platform with me are men, and we all know how crazy they are anyway. The lack of women is sorta freaky, with probably only one out of every ten people being a female. My theory is that most women have the good sense not to take the train that early in the morning, and that those of us who are standing there, freezing our asses in the station, are the stupid ones. The men? Well, they're almost always clueless about any situation, so why should commuting be any different?
For reals though, I've seen some crazy stuff, especially when I take my 7.00am Saturday train. This is usually filled with three types of people: workers (on a Saturday!), mothers taking their kids somewhere and/or travellers, and drunks. The last category is definetly the most noticeable, as these people have usually been out partying all night and are catching an early suburban train to go home. For them, 7.00 am is still night.
This weekend, for example, I had a drunk man about my age walk by me as I was blowing on my hands in the way people do when they are cold.
Read more »I am sick today, Sunday, my only day off. The injustice is incredible.
Worse, because I just started at this new high school, I don't feel I can really call in sick yet. This reminds me of a time when I myself was a student in high school, and I didn't want to call in sick for the day. I don't know what that was about, really, but I had a thing with never wanting to miss school that lasted until my senior year (when I stopped caring altogether). On this particular day, Mom drove me to school in the morning. I was really blah in the car, and when it was time to drop me off, she leaned over and, very seriously, said, "We can still go home if you don't feel good. Don't be a martyr." The tone was dramatic and akin to that used in soap operas.
I think I was a sophmore at the time and the only martyr I knew was Jesus, so I didn't really catch what she meant. But now, every time I feel sick but think, "Oh, I should go into work/school/whatever anyway," I hear Mom calling me a martyr in the background.
Somehow it makes the terrible task of working-when-sick so much more romantic.
This evening, after leaving my Spanish class, I went to the ladies'. While in the restroom, I had two thoughts:
1. No toilet paper? (checking around me) Oh, there it is.
2. I'm excited to read the last chapter of my book tonight.
The strange thing was that those thoughts both came to me in Spanish. Complex - or relatively complex - sentences have only recently started coming to me in Spanish, and I am thrilled. I know this is the beginning of a good path, and I can't wait to walk down it.
Next I got on the phone and called my friend, speaking to her in English. After I hung up, I read the rest of my book (highly, highly recommended, also in English), only to explain to The Boy how great it was in French when I got home. I cooked Mexican tonight, and twice I noticed myself reading the expiration date (of the cheese, of the meat) to myself in Spanish. Then I said to The Boy in Lingala, "We're going to eat," when the food was ready.
In English, "you" is the second person singular. In Spanish, "yo" is the first person singular. In Lingala, "yo" is the second person singular.
In Arabic, "nahnu" is the second person plural, and "ngai" is the first person singular in Lingala. "Nosotros/as" marks the second person plural in Spanish, and "nous" is the simple enough form for the same in French.
Whenever I want to say "her" in Spanish ("ella"), I get confused and say "hiya," which is Arabic for "she." I don't know why I do this, because my Spanish is far better than my Arabic, but I am, for some reason, very attached to the word "hiya." (said hee-ya).
These words may not seem close to you on the screen, but scramble them in your head, and they will pop out at the most bizarre moments.
A few days ago, when The Boy and I settled into our semi-weekly Lingala session, I kept interjecting with Spanish words. And finally, while trying to work out a simple enough sentence in Lingala ("he dances well"), out tumbled the following phrase:
"Just wait!! Je suis tellement perdue con toutes ces idiomas in my head!" It wasn't until The Boy looked at me quizically that I realized I had mixed them up not only mentally, but out loud as well.
This is heaven to me.
