Day 34

Raising Red Coats.

Pita and Pole.  This is what my youngest kept saying to me in a sing song rhyme.  Over and over . . . Pita and Pole.  What in the sam hell is Pita and Pole I asked.  He wasn't going to give up the secret that easily.  Pita and Pole.  I was bothered by this riddle for most of the day today.  Then it hit me . . . Peter and Paul.  The children's curriculum is split into two parts.  One part English and one part French.  The interesting part is that my children are starting to speak their native tongue with a VERY English accent.  This is because the English teachers are from the UK and thus much of what they learn is not American English.  Aeroplanes and PREpositions.  I am clearly raising two children with a major identity crisis.  The youngest seems to particularly suseptible to the accent.  As if children in the US won't think they are weird enough upon their return, the heavy Brit lingo should do the trick.

The chow at the school cantine is still marshing my eldest's mellow.  Part of today's fare was couscous.  He called them tiny white balls and it took some interrogation to discover the identity of the dish.  He was less than impressed.  To make up for the rough culinary experience, we sprung from some pizza this evening.  Mind you, this is the first time we have been able to have any type of food delivered to the house in quite some time.  In fact, I can tell you for certain it has been over 6 years.  The novelty of this has yet to wear off and the intrigue is only heightened by the fact that our pizza was delivered via scooter that was parked heading the wrong way up our one way street.  I have seen these guys around town on a regular occassion and I have to say that the daring with which they ride their two wheeled hotrods is truly terrifying to watch.  The Pizza was from a place called La Boite a Pizza (literally translated as THE PIZZA BOX).  Their slogan is "goutez la difference" (taste the difference).  It was quite nice and not at all foreign.  Just what the doctor ordered for my 8 year old's tired digestive tract.

My day was fairly uneventful.  I spent a fair amount of time slathering a shit ton (that's 2000 shit pounds for you math geeks out there) of French Sherwin Williams on our walls in an effort to renovate this dump.  It is going well, but like all projects done in fits and starts, it is taking a bit longer than anticipated.  Still have a lot of edging to do and that project is time consuming without the aid of a good sash brush.  That being said, I should have it all buttoned up by the weekend . . . I HOPE.  The weekend promises to be another adventure.  I have been doing my best to maintain the functionality of my current wardrobe, however, my pants now hang on me like rags on a cadaver.  It is definitely time for some new apparel, but I am trying to hold out for warm weather gear.  I haven't a clue what they wear for summer and hope to god they aren't booty shorts to match the prevalent man purse.  What I do know is that it is time for new socks and underpants and this is something that can wait no longer.  We already have to hit the commercial center for some new shoes for the boys over the weekend, so I should be able to replenish my supplies at that time.

I do have some concerns about the undergarments.  Knowing that the need would soon arise, I have kept my eye on the men's counter at any department type store we have visited over the past couple of weeks and I am somewhat alarmed at the man panties that seem to be the only choice for testicle retention here in our new home.  If I have to start wearing man panties and booty shorts, I am going to go ahead and go all in on the man purse.  Maybe while I am at it, I can start shaving my legs and have my breasts augmented.  I will let you know how my trans-gendering is going after the weekend.  We have a dinner engagement on Sunday and if I have to spend it pulling string underpants out from between my hairy cheeks I am not going to be a happy camper.  The dinner engagement is to take place in a neighboring village.  It is reported to be a very quaint area known largely for their wine.  I have sampled from one of the vinyards of this area and it was excellent.  This will be the wife and I's first adventure out without the boys in tow.  We are overdue for some adult time.  Finding a babysitter promises to be a bit of a challenge, but we already have a couple of very reasonable options that should work nicely.

I am sad to report that my second hand 206 is starting to show some wear.  Back home, black rims are all the rage and are quite popular here as well.  The difference is that the black rims here used to be covered by hub caps.  This is something that I hadn't understood till now.  I couldn't figure out if there was a big fencing operation for stolen hubcaps in the city or this was just a fashion trend pulled off in an economical manner.  The truth, as I have discovered, is that it is neither.  Now having nearly disentigrated all the hub caps on my deuce ot six, I realize it is just simply a casualty of war.  A byproduct of city driving and parralel parking on very narrow side streets.  I am fairly adept at parrellel parking, but even I have nearly blown off a hub cap or two in my attempts to rush my shuttle into a waiting parking spot with horns blaring from the rear.  It certainly adds some pressure when you are blocking a line of impatient morning commuters.  I have already decided that if one goes, they all go.  I suspect that soon enough I too will be sporting black rims on my trusty 206.  The commute this morning was particularly rough as I had left the house a little later than usual and had to make up for lost time.  When it rains it pours, and on this morning's frantic commute, I ran into several blocked corridors which meant several daring passes against traffic down bumpy one lane roads.  Doing my best rally car driving, I made it to the school house on time, but my petite Peugeot paid the price.  It seems all the jostling about knocked the license plate lamp from its home.  A little super glue should do the trick.

If my hatchback isn't held together with duct tape and gorilla glue after our tenure here is complete I may well try to ship her home.  Even with blown shocks and a slipping trans, it is still a gas to drive.  I can only imagine the fun we could have on the back country lanes of rural Kansas.  The lust for a new bicycle is now unbearable and soon enough I should have an alternative mode of transportation that will save some wear on my beloved 206.  That is about all I have time I have for tonight.  The language barrier has become too much to handle, so I must spend some more quality time with the Rosetta Stone.  Good bye for now.