Day 38

How many lawyers does it take to screw in a light bulb . . . adventures in grocery shopping and moderate electrocution.

The day was relatively sedate.  The usual back and forth to the school house and the occasional wave of a paint brush here or there.  Since we had failed at our shopping adventure on Sunday, it was time to hit the market in an effort to replenish our supplies.  First to Pickards.  You see, the French have started to succomb to the western pace of life and as such, frozen foods have become a necessity.  The problem however, is that the culture is quite foodie and they take their chow seriously.  The quality must be up to standard.  That's where Pickard's comes in.  A frozen food store where they sell  nothing but more elaborate looking frozen fare and maintain a very limited supply.  It is very popular and probably a huge statement regarding the westernization of the culture.  The food is actually quite good and we have stocked our tiny freezer to the brim.

After Pickards, we hit the neighboring Simply for the remainder of our supplies.  Nothing major to report other than the Purdue jacket my wife was wearing garnered a coffee invitation from a gal from West Lafayette.  Small world.  Once back at the homestead, it was time to put away groceries and replace the burned out lightbulb in the utility room.  Removing the lightbulb was a snap, unfortunately, replacing it would be a shocking experience.  The lightbulb was of a variety that I had never seen.  It was a two pole affair that requires the removal of part of the light socket to replace.  Not knowing much about this system and handling this procedure, for the most part, in an entirely dark room proved to be a recipe for disaster.  When the human hand crosses both poles and the 220 begins to pour through your veins, there is a moment of great clarity.  A clarity that only a glimpse of the afterlife can provide.  Time stood still even though my convulsing body did not.  Nearly soiling my last pair of underpants, I managed to remove my now aching hand from the light socket when the breaker finally blew.  Fortunately I do not have much hair left on the top of my skull, or I would have certainly given Don King a run for his money.  Now walking with a limp on a burnt flip flop and a peering through a squinky eye on one side, I have a healthier respect for changing a simple light bulb.

I knew that life in France would leave a lasting mark on me, I just didn't think it would be in the form of a semi-permanent physical disability.  At least when I get back to the States I will qualify for the really choice parking spots.  I only wish the price of admission didn't involve drooling out of one side of my mouth.  That is all I have for now and it is time for my pain medications.