Day 99

Would you be mine, could you be mine . . . won't you be my neighbor.

Ah, Mister Rogers.  Nothing like a 50 year old virgin in a cardigan and house slippers teaching your children about morals and proper social etiquette.  That being said, some of it must have sunk in over the years, because I would test out his teachings in an exchange that, like so many others we have had in this fair land, we could liken to no other.  The door bell rang early this Saturday morning.  Upon my wifes answer, a very friendly greeting was given by our neighbor.  The reason for her visit?  An invitation.  Coffee and cake at 16h.  My wife graciously accepted and we spent the rest of the morning worrying about how exactly we were going to communicate with these folks and how we were going to keep our children under control.

Our worry was for not, because despite our fears, our French has come quite a long way and we had a lovely hour or so in the company of our 90 year old neighbors.  That's right, 90.  Actually, he is 90 and she is 84.  A more pleasant couple you could not ask for.  There was a moment during the afternoon that I had to take a moment to realize "oh my god, I am actually having a social visit entirely in French".  There were moments where we had difficulty making sense of the conversation, but further explanations helped out and we ended up having a wonderful time without a word of English having been uttered.  I think this was one of those watershed events for me that I think will stick with me for the remainder of my life.  Their hospitality was limitless and they had even made concessions for our children as well.  Soda and lollipops were waiting for them upon their arrival.

They just celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary and he has lived in Bordeaux all of his life.  We looked through photo albums and shared our adventures with the use of an old atlas whose bindings had become so week that the cover easily separate from the entirety of the book.  We showed them our home on the map and in turn they showed us theirs.  Their home is quite grand for the two of them and they had an honest to god wine cellar.  The experience was so much fun, that I almost regret the decision to move.  ALMOST.  They are wonderful, but their hospitality does not make up for the crappy nature of Madame Chabou's Reform School for Girls.  Couldn't bad mouth the joint too much as we discovered quickly that he is actually Madame Chabou's cousin.  I only wish we had gotten to know them better a bit sooner.  That is however, the way it is with the French.  I learned that from our failed cultural training session.  The analogy is that we American's are like and Orange and the French are like a Coconut.  It is true I suppose.  The orange has a a soft exterior that is easily pierced.  We are easy to make friends with and our fleshy interior is at times not so sweet.  We are quite compartmentalized as well.  We put people into categories once we make "friends".  Not all are given the best.  Some we reserve for those chambers that aren't quite so juicy.  The French, however, are just the opposite.  They have a very hard exterior and it is tough to get inside.  Once inside, however, the center is large and wide open.  You get all the sweet coconut juice you can handle.

We could go on and on about this analogy, but I don't think it necessary.  The truth is there for those that have experienced both cultures.  All of this is just a very circular way of saying that once you get inside the inner circle with these folks, they treat you like one of the family.  That is a very wonderful place to be . . . especially for an Expat.  That is about all I have for now.  I will keep you posted as life carries forth.  Take care and have a bon weekend!

Day 96, 97 and 98

Time flies when you're having fun.

Since making the brilliant decision to move AGAIN, things have become even more hectic if that is even possible.  The days are blurring together in a haze of sweaty trips to the school house and late nights finishing projects on Madame Chabou's house of horrors so that we can have the realtors over for pictures.  Couple this with the upcoming departure of our eldest to Wales and all of the shopping that such an adventure requires and you have little time for sleep let alone calm reflection on the days events.  Mercifully, Friday is finally here and the  eve of the weekend has allowed me a bit of time to sit down and write.  Today was full of activity like the two before it.  More of the same.  Frantic trips across town, back and forth to school, all punctuated by several trips to the market for food and travel essentials.  The difference today was that we would have mom home for the day to act as reinforcements.  It made things tremendously simpler on my end.  I arrived at my French lesson EARLY and could stay for the whole class without bailing early to make my customary 20+ minute hike to the elementary school.  What a treat this turned out to be.

After class, My wife agree to pick up the youngest and meet me in the Centre Ville for a bit of specialty shopping.  Our focus was singular.  As I mentioned before, I have become a bit of an espresso junkie and my Krups Pixie required refilling.  These are single serving packets that can only be purchased at one store that I have found here in town.  The shopping experience was a bit overwhelming.  A store that only sells these tiny capsules in every variety under the sun in a sort of drug store counter environment made my blood pressure rise.  We survived and came away with my favorite flavors in mass.  On our way back to the car park, the youngest who was tremendously well behaved in the coffee store  requested a bite to eat.  Eating out here is not a terribly kid friendly process.  To be honest, in a culture where children are to be seen and not heard, it is really fairly uncommon to see children in a restaurant or cafe.  My youngest is not exactly the model citizen when it comes to quiet culinary experiences.  That being said, his tastebuds seem to have a flair for French cuisine and I will be damned if I will let a possible outbreak of 3 year old temper prevent him from experiencing a different way of life and expanding his love for foreign foods.  We stopped at a little cafe and ordered a sandwich and Coca for each of us.

Cafe's tend to be a little quicker since self service is the name of the game in some circumstances, so we settled in under an umbrella to enjoy our lunch and a bit of people watching.  Much to my surprise, the youngest seemed game and settled into his chair quietly to enjoy his alone time with Ma and Pa.  He was of course the only kid in the place, so he already drew a bit of attention.  You combine that with his love for the people and you have the recipe for alot of impromptu conversation.  He is quick with the greetings and feels it necessary to stop everyone on the street to have a chat.  His personality is infectious and even the busiest of folks greet him with a smile and a polite Bonjour.  This entire experience has made him a very social ladd indeed.  Not measured at all in his personality.  Quite a contrast to his older brother who is stoic and still.  BOTH are my heart and my soul and I couldn't be prouder to call myself their father.

After a brief bite to eat, we were back on the road to have a brief pause at our current residence.  Soon, my wife departed to pick up the eldest and then we would be off for a bit more commerce to check off the last few items for his trip to Wales.  I too had a bit of additional shopping to do.  While we were out, I felt it necessary to purchase ANOTHER bicycle.  I know, I know . . . I have an illness.  I decided that for family purposes, my fixie was a bit high strung and while my cycling prowess is such that I don't worry myself with toting the kid around on the back of it without the aid of freewheel or breaks, it seemed that perhaps a second bike with a bit less attitude might make for a safer ride when the streets get crowded.  The real reason for the purchase however, is that I don't want to tear up my pride and joy with the kid seat and all of the extra weight that it places on the structural components of the bike.  So, I picked up a very nice and CHEAP mountain bike from my home away from home . . . Decathalon.  Man do I love that store.  Great quality at a tremendous price.  A sporty guy's dream.  It's like taking a kid to the candy store.  I never walk out of the place empty handed.  We also picked up some panniers for Mom's bike so we can tote some groceries when the need presents itself.

The weekend promises to be a busy one.  Some wallpaper and paint to be applied, some groceries to be procured and an older child to see on his way out of the country.  We will have a full house in the coming week and we have much to prepare for.  I have arranged a busy social calendar and look forward to the down time.  That down time comes with a cost and my anal retentive nature finds it necessary to get ahead on several tasks to allow me to take the time off.  That being said, we will certainly take a minute over the weekend to give Mom her due.  It is time for Mother's Day (part 2).  Apparently the French do celebrate this holiday, just not on the same day as we do in the States.  I feel it only fair, given how much that my wife does for this family and the sacrifices she must make to make this new life possible for us, to give her this second day of celebration.  I haven't yet figured out what we will do and how we will celebrate, but I will let you know what we figure out.  I promise to try and be more diligent in keeping the blog up to date, but give the house guests in the coming week, please forgive me if the posts are brief or a few days late.

As for the musical selection.  As I was waiting on my wife and eldest to finish up some shopping this evening, I discovered a radio station that plays Country Music on the weekend.  I knew that this would please my lovely wife, so I programed it into the radio in the ole family truckster for her listening enjoyment.  As I listened, a song came on that I had all but forgotten, but is a musical rendition of my life and should probably stay as a permanent fixture given it's relevance to this process.  The song is "Mr. Mom" by Lonestar.  Enjoy and we will speak again as soon as is possible.

Day 95

Just call me "Wonderman".

I find that having superheroes on your underpants gives you a renewed sense of vigor and self worth.  It bolsters your fortitude and provides you with the self confidence necessary to take on the world.  I needed that on Day 95.  The plan was simple.  Arrive at the Prefecture 20 to 30 minutes prior to opening to ensure I was the first in line to conduct business at 8:30.  This would clearly make it possible for me to then make it to my French lesson that begins at 9:00.  Upon my arrival, I found my superman cape torn to shreds as a line had already formed and reached half way around the block.  Needless to say, I did not make it to my French lesson.  SHIT.  With my morning already shot and my tail between my legs, I took my medicine and finished up the paperwork for the eldest son's trip to Wales.  I returned to the school house in just enough time to pick up the youngest at 12:00.  I provided the newly acquired paperwork to the school and breathed a sigh of relief when they confirmed that we were now good to go.

Emotiofnally and mentally drained, I returned home with the youngest.  A quick bite to eat led to a nap for all.  I would not have the usual afternoon interruption of picking up the eldest as he would be spending the evening with a friend.  I know, I know . . . a sleepover on a school night?  That tells you just how unchallenging my eldest finds his new eductational experience and re-affirms the decision to switch schools come the fall semester.  With only one child at home, we prayed for a quiet evening.  Fortunately we had one . . . a LONG one.  Perhaps in a reaction to his older brother's absence, the youngest simply would not go to sleep.  Up every two seconds for some manipulative power play, we battled well into the wee hours of the morning.  I would finally win out, but it came at a price.  I had perhaps won the battled, but I had lost the war.  I am now quite exhausted and find myself much too busy to rest.  That, my friends, is the recipe for disaster.  I rather imagine that soon enough I will be ill with a summer cold.

This is the worst type of illness in my humble opinion.  Everything in your soul says you want to be outside enjoying the weather, but everything in your body says you need to keep your ass in bed.  So far, I feel fine and will keep my fingers crossed that a power load of orange juice will be enough to stave off any potential illness coming my way.  Since I haven't posted a musical selection in a couple of days, I am going to update them and get back to my roots a bit.  Home you enjoy.  Until tomorrow.

Day 94

Je m'appelle Lee Harvey.  Je suis Americain.

In what can only be described as the magic bullet of pigeon shit, I took one to the dome this morning on my walk to school.  I took this as an omen for the day.  I don't know how it happened, but with the precision of a skilled surgeon, a pigeon saw fit to crap in my ear.  Fortunately, my earbud took the brunt of the abuse.  Now, I have had some recent criticism of my musical tastes, but this is ridiculous.  How exactly the fecal matter hit my inner ear and no other spot on my body I haven't sorted out, but that was the story of my day.  Upon arrival at my French lesson, I had to pause for a moment before entering the classroom as there were a number of new faces I had not seen before.  As it turns out, there is a very large group of students here for the summer from a University I have never heard of, somewhere in Georgia.  Suddenly, the class that had but one silly American is now full of them.  It was soon apparent that while I had been accepted into the fold of the multinationals in class, this new batch of Americans didn't quite suit the rest of my classmates.

I took this as a compliment as I do my best to be a good ambassador for the stars and stripes and take the fact that most don't believe me to be a "typical" american as a point of pride.  I think the judgment of my classmates is a bit rash, but in someway justified.  The American lot is young and full of piss and vinegar.  The problem is the remainder of the class is a little closer to my age.  I am the eldest, but they have all been around this wild world for awhile and have sorted themselves out so to speak.  These new pups have a way of rubbing you the wrong way and seem at first glance to be somewhat disrespectful.  One girl in particular is actually quite unpleasant and I myself don't care for her.  That is saying something, because I am a jovial sort that loves damned near everyone.

Soon enough, class was over and I was back in the heat of the sun for my usual mad dash back to the elementary school to pick up the youngest of my brood.  Even though I was tired and sweaty, I took great pleasure in the enormous running hug that my youngest always gives me when he sees me cross the threshold of the door.  It is always one of the brightest spots in my day and I hope that he appreciates the time with me as much as I enjoy the time with him.  We have a bit of a walk to our usual parking spot and it is a nice time to chat about how his day at school and he now takes great pleasure in asking me about mine.  We spent the afternoon in the usual manner until it was time to pick up the eldest.  Once the eldest had been sorted, we were off to the Police station for a bit of paperwork.  On my own with two children and a meager command of the language, I was certain that this was going to be a painful process.

This couldn't have been further from the truth.  We needed one of our immigration forms from the Police station so I can return to the Prefecture tomorrow to complete the paperwork for the eldest's trip to Pays de Gaulle.  The folks at the police station were very nice and fortunately between their bit of English and my bit of French, we had things worked out inside of 5 minutes.  The children doing their part as well, by standing quite respectfully and patiently waiting for Dad to conduct his business.  In all, a very pleasant day despite word from home that a Tornado had wiped out a number of residents in a town very close to the one in which I grew up.  I received many concerned emails, but fortunately I do not have kin in the area and even if I did, a fair number of them have made the trip into Paris to come and visit, so would have been far away from the calamity.  I do feel for those that have suffered loss in this tragedy and my prayers are with their families tonight.  Until we speak again tomorrow . . . goodnight.

Day 93

Happiness is a comfortable pair of man panties, fresh pits, and promise of visitors from a foreign land.

Sunday was spent at home.  Home for now, anyway.  We realize that we have much to do in preparation for the big move, but didn't make the slightest dent in the list this fine day.  As has become our tradition, we hosted one of the eldest's friends for an afternoon of play here at Madame Chabou's Reform School for Girls.  It was a pleasant afternoon spent for the boys while the wife and I sorted out the domestic affairs.  In the afternoon, the parents of our son's friend joined us for a coffee and a nice long chat on our patio.  This is another Australian family.  One that we hadn't had a chance to spend any time with as the Husband of the pair spends as much time working away from home as my wife.  We were finally able to all get together in the same country at the same time and for this we were glad.  They are a very nice crew with a story as fascinating as our own.  That tends to be the way of things with ex-pats . . . none of them are boring.  We find that we have a great deal in common with the Aussies.  Their lifestyles are similar to ours in the States and their view of child rearing make for a natural  fit.  Free spirited and easy to make fast friends with, I find myself not at all hesitant in saying that Australia will be at the top of our list of travel destinations.  The gentleman is a cool cat with a cool gig.  He is away even more than my wife and does so for a longer period of time.  6 to 8 weeks at a time to be exact.  This alone gives me a great deal of respect for their family and what they must endure.  The same sort of pressures that make our life challenging at times.  His job?  Mining. Location?  Africa.  A tremendously interesting vocation that made for very interesting conversation

There were some hearty laughter shared at some of the common experiences we have shared.  Deodorant was one such commonality.  It would seem that he too finds the products here in France inadequate in just one pit.  The opposite of mine, but the same ailment nonetheless.  I however, have finally found a temporary solution to the problem.  I hit my pits with a melange of products that in tandem seem to do the job.  It is a tiring process that takes up most of my morning routine, but is well worth it in the end.  We also shared stories of products missed from home.  We shared a desire to have a good steak.  Not easily found here.  The American's miss their grape jelly and peanut butter while the Aussies missed their Vegimite.  Never had it, but being a product of the 80s, I couldn't help but hear Men at Work in my head as the conversation carried on.  They departed later in the evening than either party had realized.  I believe that is the sign of good conversation and we made tentative plans to get a sitter for the gents so that we could go out and have a nice adult evening out.  I will be looking forward to that.

The brightest spot in my day was the chance to break in the man panties I had recently purchased.  I have to grudgingly admit that there are perhaps the most comfortable underpants I have ever worn.  The wild patterns still get a comment from the wife (superheroes, dinosaurs etc), but the comfortable state of the family jewels makes the wry comments easy to ignore.  Truthfully I make them sound a lot more risque than they actually are.  They are "shortys" . . . read as boxer briefs, but they are a bit on the silky side with wild colors and patterns.  Looks like something a porn star would wear, but I like them all the same.

Finally, our first visitors from the States will be arriving in France this coming week and we will be seeing them the week after.  We are very excited for their arrival and have a very long list of experiences that we would like for them to share in.  The visitors are Family.  I am probably looking forward to the visit the most as these are kin from my side and having them here will make this feel more like home for me than it has since we have been here.  I have a full dance card this evening, so I am not going to post a new musical selection till later, so bear with me.  Looking forward to coming weeks, I will talk to you all again very soon.

Day 92

No Moss Gathers on a Rolling Stone.

Well friends, just as we were sort of getting settled, it is once again time to move.  Don't get excited, we aren't coming home just yet.  Given our recent decision to pull the children from the International School, we found ourselves no longer tied to the metropolitan area and decided to stretch our wings a bit.  We really must think our eldest son for our new accommodations, for it is his friendship with a young english lad that led us to our new home.  This young man's mother is a lovely woman, who upon hearing of our situation, suggested we check into the home that she had left in the countryside.  The scene is indeed as amazing as she had described.  The house . . . a converted horse stable that sits in the shadow of a 14th century castle in a small village roughly 20 minutes from my wife's place of employment.  The castle . . . home to the noble land owner and base for the wine making operation carried on at this location.  That's right, we are moving to a winery.  Words can't do it justice.  The home is magnificent and the castle is truly something you would expect to see on the face of a postcard.

Our neighbor is perhaps more intriguing still.  On the edge of the property sits the longest closed bicycle path in the region that stretches all the way back to the city that we currently reside in.  Saturday was spent touring this location and the surrounding area.  It was one of the most fantastic days we have had since we have been here and we are excited to take possession of our new home in mid-July.  I really don't have any witty remarks or humorous anecdotes for the day, and frankly I don't think we need them here.  The magnificence of the day speaks for itself.  The once in a lifetime opportunity of living in a foreign land punctuated by a once in a lifetime opportunity to live within the confines of a working winery.  I only hope that I am afforded the opportunity to get to know the owners better and perhaps learn a fair amount about the wine making industry.   I hope my offer of free labor will luck me into a form of employment that one seldom gets the opportunity to enjoy.  At the very least, we should have access to fantastic wine and stories that will last us a lifetime.

I think that should about do it for now.  The story is much more complex than I have made it here, but we will have plenty of time to set the stage in posts to come.  Take care for now.

Day 91

Julia Childs is my home girl:  How I lost my sanity at the DMV.

Schizophrenic.  If I were to describe the day with just one word, that would be it.  The morning would be spent in queue at the Prefecture in an attempt to finalize the paperwork for the eldests trip to Pays de Galles.  This was truly administrative hell.  The line moved with all the urgency of a dead snail and seemed to snake its way out of the building, down the street, and then across eastern europe finding us waiting somewhere around the Lithuanian border.  Much like the DMV, the process was slow and painful with no end in sight. "Number 23 please . . . NEXT!"  My number?  7,239,642.  Finally we would have our moment in the sun and approached the window with high hopes.  High hopes that were soon smashed against the rocks in a cataclysmic administrative tsunami that we will not soon find our way free from.  With business not nearly conducted, we left the scene battered and bruised, but able to fight another day.  And yes, another day will in fact be required to complete this task.

After the blood letting at the Prefecture, we had to drop off one kid and pick up the other.  Back at home, we  busied ourselves for the afternoon with domestic affairs until the youngest decided it was time to find a family doctor.  Upon waking from his afternoon nap, what started as a runny nose turned into a full blown ear infection that had him unsettled to a level we had yet to experience.  A quick run to the pharmacy soon gave way to a quick run to the doctors office for a check up and prescription medications for the ear infection and apparent case of allergies.  Once again, the French health care system would dazzle us with its efficiency and cost effectiveness.  Inside of an hour we had visited the doctor and and the pharmacy twice having only spent what one would expect to spend for an evening at the movies.  Simply amazing.  The youngest was somewhat less impressed in that the medications are administered in such a dose that they must be forced down his gullet with what appears to be a turkey baster.

The extra efforts for the day put a bit of pressure on our dinner plans.  I have now taken the initiative to become the family Chef.  Thus far, things have gone quite well.  A wonderful vegetarian burrito was so successful, that I had decided that this evening we would get a bit more complex with a pork tenderloin in an amazing orange glaze.  It was quite good despite my children's rejection of the dish.  We decided to call it an early evening since the morning would require yet another social outing with some visitors from my wife's place of employment.  Since these folks were imports from the States and we have become the unofficial social coordinators for such visitors, we were obliged to join the morning's scheduled activities.  They are all wonderful people, so I can hardly call it a drag.  It doesn't take much arm twisting to leave the young one's at home and knock back a glass or two of the local red in the name of enhancing business relations.

That about sums up the day except for the musical selection.  I have come under recent criticism for not being terribly diverse in my musical tastes.  This is NOT the case, I can assure you.  I have simply been enjoying the acoustic nature of the new folk movement as I attempt to drown out the noise of the city, but it is just the most recent flavor that I have been sampling.  I enjoy all varieties of music . . . except for Opera.  I don't like Opera.  Beyond that, there are no limits.  That being said, today I am going to post a couple of more diverse selections for your listening pleasure.  The first is from a band based out of NOLA by the name of Galactic.  In case you were wondering, this is a band routed firmly in the Rap scene.  For those of you that object to this  genre, please give this a chance.  Their albums are amazing and can't be painted into a corner.  If you are into classifying things, I would guess you could call it a fusion of Rap and New Orleans Funk.  The second is one of my personal favorites in the Country genre . . . Hank III.  With the voice and hauntingly familiar facial features of his granddaddy and the lyrical sensibilities of his pappy, he is truly a joy to listen to.  Since I also have a love for the Man in Black, I am posting Hank Jr Jr's version of Cocaine Blues.  Again, I encourage you to check out some of the rest of his work.  You will not be disappointed.  Tread carefully though, because the duality of his personality will lead you to a side project called AssJack and a second career as a hard rock pioneer.  Enjoy them both and we will talk to you tomorrow.

Day 90

Man Panties and Strong Coffee.

Well, I finally did it.  I broke down and bought some man panties.  No doubt about it, the are going to revoke my membership to the heterosexuality club.  These babies are as gay as the day is long.  Couldn't be avoided though.  The alternatives are bleak.  My current supply is starting to get so warn that they will be nothing more than a couple of strings and an elastic waistband within a washing or two.  All other reasonable options for replacements are way too expensive to consider.  I would rather be gay than bankrupt.  That being said, it was man panties or nothing at all.  I will say one thing for them . . . they are awfully colorful, they way all man panties tend to be.

The day ended in man panties, but it definitely didn't start out that way.  The usual school day routine was strictly adhered to and all such endeavor carried on as usual.  We had a bit of banking to do in the early evening and so we met Mom over at the bank to finish up on some lingering paperwork.  With that completed and children in relative good humor we decided to push our luck and spend the evening shopping for the last few items we need to truly call this home.  Most of these things are more a matter of convenience than necessity, but having done without them for some time now, they certainly feel necessary.  Added to the list was a new variety of deodorant.  I have now tried both of the aqua net style cans that I have at my disposal and unfortunately the results are the same.  Things work out fine for an hour or two and then moisture and tremendous stank set in for the afternoon.  The strangest part is that it is only my left armpit that is involved in this revolt.  My right armpit smells just fine, even as we speak, but the funk coming from my left armpit would remove the varnish from a fine piece of furniture.  I pray that the new "roll-on" type I purchased this evening will yield better results.  If not, we are going to have to figure out a treaty that will allow me the mass importation of my brand from back home.  I cannot live the next few years with stinky pits.

We also splurged a bit on a complete luxury item.  I have grown quite fond of the espresso served here and decided to shell out some hard earned cash to purchase our own machine.  The concentrated black gold that this thing produces is nothing short of tremendous.  I have discovered that this is what coffee should be.  Not the gallons of caramel colored water consumed back home, but rather high octane, dirt black nectar that I am convinced I could use as an alternative fuel source in my trusty 206.  The other items purchased are a lot less glamorous, but equally appreciated.  The evening ended without much drama and soon we were back home safe and sound at Madame Chabou's Reform School for Girls.  We had one last administrative detail to attend to upon our return.  Earlier in the day, on one of my multiple school runs, I had been given a tip on a possible housing opportunity close to my wife's work, but not right in the gang capital of the South of France. The truly intriguing part of this opportunity is that it is right in our budget and sits along side a Chateau on a working vinyard.  It is picturesque indeed.  The wonderful British gal who opened our eyes to this opportunity actually lived in this location for two years and was kind enough to send us some photos of the home.

Close your eyes and imagine a farm house in the French countryside.  Yup, that about does it.  Exactly what it looks like.  Long drive up to the Chateau lined by vinyards on each side.  It is certainly appealing cause as we all know, we ain't nuthin but simple country folks from Eastern Kansas and this new fangled city livin is real hard to grow accustomed to.  The flip side of the the coin is that we really don't want to isolate ourselves from the world and the private school that the children would have to attend, might not be the best thing for them.  At the very least it is worth looking into further.  I will let you know if we will be moving as soon as we figure things out.  I will leave it at that for now.  There are many other things I want to discuss, but it is getting late and tomorrow promises to be challenging in the administrative sense as we must go to the prefecture to complete some paperwork for the eldest's upcoming class trip to Wales.  I am sure this will be a fiasco, but at least I am confident enough in my French now that I have a remote idea of what to ask for.  Wish us luck.  See you tomorrow.

Nearly forgot . . . musical selection.  Lets see, tonight, I think I will leave you with "No Harm" by The Boxer Rebellion.  Not exactly challenging lyrically, but the reverberating bass line is enough to rattle your brain through your earbuds.  Enjoy.

Day 89.75

Tihs psot wlil maen soemhtnig to tohes taht wnat to mkae fun of my sepllnig.  Fcuk YOU.  Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at an cmabirgde uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, olny taht the frist and lsat ltteres are at the rghit pcleas. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed ervey lteter by ilstef, but the wrod as a wlohe

Did you get that?  See, spelling is of little importance to the message being conveyed, and since I don't have an editorial staff, you are just going to have to get used to the occasional error.

Day 87, 88 and 89

"If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."

Thats a catch phrase that all parents have used at least once and that has been the theme for the past couple of days for me.  I don't have a single f _ _ _ing nice thing to say, so I have remained quiet as my parents advised.  I can remain silent no longer, so I pray that this doesn't head down the wrong path.  I want to keep it on the possitive and share with you some of the randomness that has been floating through my shallow thoughts over the past couple of days.  Poopin has been a subject that I seem to have returned to a time or two and would like to re-visit once more.  We are a house full of manly men.  Poor mom is woefully outnumbered.  That being said, we make a manly mess and leave a manly stench wherever we go.  The downside to this is that there seems to be something in our biology that makes us all have to take an earthy shit at the exact same time.  They say that females that spend alot of time together, "cycle" together.  You will have to excue me, I just vomitted in my mouth a little.  I think it is true however, in that everytime I steal away with a magazine for alittle alone time, there always comes a knock on the bathroom door.  Annoying to say the least.

You see, there are two kinds of poopers in my estimation.  Power dumpers and Reflective dumpers.  I fall squarely in the second grouping and do not like to be disturbed.  I have a dear friend that can take care of business inside of 30 seconds.  That is from the time the door closed to the time it re-opens.  He is truly an olympian.  If there was a gold medal for power dumping, he would be the Michael Johnson of the sport.  I have a theory that the difference between the power dumper and the reflective dumper is their tolerance for their own stink.  I find that reflective dumpers actually enjoy their own aroma.  While I think the smell of fecal material as a whole is repugnant and we would all agree that we would just as soon do without it, there is something to be said for our acceptance and, even more so, our enjoyment of our own odor.  To me, all poop stinks except my own.  This is clearly where the phrase " you think your shit doesn't stink " comes from.  I don't think it's original intent was to convey arrogance, but rather a simple statement of fact.  For I, would certainly answer in the affirmative . . . I really don't think my shit stinks and I am one of the most humble individuals you will ever meet.

Ok, ok, enough about pooping.  If my wife is reading this, she is likely red with embarassment.  She is a power dumper by the way.  So is my youngest.  One log hits the water and he is done or at least so he says.  Me, I know better.  That first one is just a warning shot across the bow and if you exit too early, you will miss the war.  That first log is truly the head of the class.  Did you notice that no matter how rough the entirety of the experience, that first soldier on the battlefield is always well formed and a prime specimine.  Never a good litmus test for how the remainder of the regiment is going to look.  Ok, I promised to stop talking about pooping, and here I am, carrying on again.  There are other topics I wish to discuss, so lets get this train back on track.

It was a very busy day here at the house as we had every tradesman in the south of France come by to look at this or that.  A plumber, a carpenter and a candlestick maker.  Ok, not a candlestick maker, or a butcher of baker, but you get the point.  First it was the plumber, then give an estimate on the replacement of our kitchen window and finally our old friend Smokey returned to finish painting the wall by the pool.  These visits are becoming somewhat less stressful in that I speak just enought French now to be polite, but when talk gets technical, I still feel like a retard.  Actually, that is an insult to retards, for which a must apologize.  The final visitor was Smokey the maintenance man.  I am officially changing his name to Sweaty.  We will get to that soon enough.  I want to preface these remarks by saying that I can't help buth think of Mr. Miagi or more recently Mr. Han when Sweaty comes calling.  I very seriously doubt however that Sweaty knows any Karate or Kung Fu, and trying to picture such makes me giggle like a school girl.

The maintenance man arrived in enough time to make sense of the debate that I was firmly entrenched in with the window guy.  I greeted him at the door with a warm handshake.  Warm and  . . . moist.  Smokey was sweating profusely and shaking his hand was like submerging mine into a puddle of teppid water.  Yummy.  By his appearance, I would have guessed that he ran to my house  . . . from 26.2 miles away.  By the time he reached my scorchingly hot kitchen, he was at full purge.  All the valves had been opened and I couldn't help but think that he must have been floating in his own shoes.  Soon he was out of the house and off to work.  The heat isn't a problem if you shed enough garments and much to my horror, shed he did.  Sweaty has healthy growth of man fur on his chest that was matted flat from the massive perspiration.  Removing the garments let the aroma run free.  Something I hadn't necessarily noted yet since, despite the name change, he is still absoutely stank with cigarette smoke.  Soon, however, the smoke would be given an assit.  A good shot of B.O. to play a strong second fiddle.  Fortunately, as the afternoon is winding down, it doesn't appear that he is going to be finished with this project this afternoon, so perhaps we will see him again soon.  I do so enjoy his visits.

All the conversation about odor is a good segway to my final topic for the day.  Spray on deoderant.  After a solid week or two of giving my pits the KRYLON touch, I realized one thing . . . something has to change, cause I am starting to smell a little too FRENCH for my taste, if you know what I mean.  That coupled with the absolute horrific cloud of mace created when applying said spray on, is enough to blind a weak man and make a strong man puke in his shoes.  Fortunately, I have visitors arriving soon from the States and have put out and SOS for some armpit perfume.  Soon I will be back to smelling my old self again.  The reference to "SOS" gives me one last thought that I would like to share and is actually somewhat educational.  Just the other day, my eldest son was reading a book and ran across the term SOS and asked what it meant.  It is clearly an abbreviation of some kind, however, my vast knowledge of useless facts failed me and I was not able to give him an answer.  Some investigation lead me to this answer:  SOS in the sailing context is often associated with the phrase "Save our Ship" or "Save our Souls".  The truth?  Neither of these are the root of the SOS abbreviation.  Apparently, this is no abbreviation at all.  Simply a matter of convenience and recognizability (is that a word?).  It is an easy Morse code sequence to remember and it is VERY recognizable by telegraph workers due to its distink series of beeps and pauses.  No clever phrasing, just simplicity by necessity.  There, a quick piece of history for you to store in your collective minds.

I will leave you today with a description of the music to be posted.  I am going to post three since that is how many days I am behind.  I hope you enjoy them all.  I intended to save one of them till much later, but since I am currently listening to him I thought is best to share it now.  First up is "Pretty Things" by Jay Nash, Matt Duke & Tony Lucca.  As solo artists, they are OK, but together they are fantastic.  Second, lets go with "El Camino" by Amos Lee.  Just a great song which is made even better if you pick up the duet version with Willie Nelson.  Last but not least, and probably getting the most playtime at the moment is "Hell or High Water" by William Elliott Whitmore.  An unmistakable voice that doesn't quite fit with finger tattoos.  He is undoubtably one of my current favorites and I hope you enjoy.  Wanted to save this song for Christmas time, but I can't wait that long to share.  Enjoy them all.  Talk to you tomorrow.  Maybe!

Day 86

Drinkin Wine wit ma Homies . . . Carl Douglas and the Gangster Ass Wine Tour.

Ok, folks, this one is going to require some explanation.  First off, the song.  One of my favorites.  An oldie but a goodie.  Carl Douglas' "Kung Fu Fighting".  A great song from a great year.  1974 to be exact . . . the year of my birth.  In addition, the video is a montage from one of my favorite movies that oddly enough I watched just last night.  There has to be some cosmic significance to all of this, but we will get to that in a minute.  For those who have not seen the movie, Kung Fu Hustle is a must see.  Steven Chow is a genius.

Enough of the pleasantries, lets get down to business.  This day was one for the record books.  A day full of mystery, adventure and attempted homicide.  I wish there was a joke in there somewhere, but there isn't.  The day started off innocently enough.  A couple of our friends came over to join us for a morning brocante and an afternoon wine tour.  The brocante took place just down the street from our home and was absolutely packed full with vendors selling their wares.  The highlight for me was getting to thumb through the pages of an 1800 French Dictionary (still thinking I should have bought it for 20 bucks) and having the opportunity to haggle a price on a new man purse for my eldest.  Nothing like a good garage sale to get the blood pumping in the morning.  A quick pitstop back by the house to drop off our purchases and we were soon aboard the Renault and on our way to our next destination.  Every two years, the wineries in Pomerol open their doors to the public for tours and wine tasting.  We had been made aware of this occasion by a collegue of my wife and decided to invite a couple of our friends to join us in an adult afternoon outing.

Since the brocante took up a fair share of the morning, we decided to stop in the village where my wife works to have a bite for lunch.  After a quick walking tour, we settled in outside of a small cafe just off the main pedestrian center of the city.  As I am sure you already know by now, social decorum dictates that you take an hour or so to enjoy your lunch since every other form of commerce will be closed for this hour.  The food turned out to be quite good and we enjoyed our meal and some light conversation.  The scene would soon turn to a bloody mess and we would witness an act of brutality the likes of which I cannot even begin to describe.  If an ambulance hadn't coincidently passed by with its siren in full song, we would have certainly witnessed a murder.  Since the argument was in French (and ethnic slang at that), I have no idea what the hell was going on.  All I do know is that shit got REALLY bad, REALLY fast.  Raised voices gave way to screaming and soon three or four younger men were brutally beating an older man to the edge of death, not two or three tables away from us.  Bread knives were pulled off of tables to be used as weapons, a discarded pry bar utilized as a bludgeoning tool, and ultimately a large glass water bottle was smashed over the older gentleman's skull.  When he finally went down in a pool of blood, the beating became frenzied and a bar chair was shattered over his already bleading face.

All patrons quickly took refuge inside of the cafe at the request of the wait staff, only to find the fight immdiately follow us into very cramped quarters.  Fortunately, it was at this time that the ambulance happened by and the siren seemed to break up the beating long enough for the participants to be separated.  Hence the use of "Kung Fu Fighting" by Carl Douglas rather than "Murder was the Case" by Snoop Dogg.  The manager of the cafe had called the authorities at my wife's request and soon gave medical aid to the bleeding victim now seated at the bar.  The main antagonist seemed to be a young man in a hoodie who eventually fled on foot when the police arrived.  The police gave chase and we took the pause in action as our invitation to get the f_ _ _ out of Dodge.  We found out in passing, that this was in fact an example of gang violence and is apparently not all that unusual in the area.  So, after some further consideration, we have decided not to move to the hood rich village where my wife works.  The last thing I need is for some ethnic thug to go all 187 on my hillbilly ass in the mean streets of what I now affectionately refer to as French Compton.

Not to be put off of our wine by a small gang war, we soon found ourselves at peace again in the countryside.  Our first stop was a wonderful winery with an informative tour.  Informative, not in the winemaking sense, but rather as a good litmus test for my grasp of the language as things now stand.  I actually understood a fair amount and enjoyed the event thoroughly.  The smell of the barrel room at this stop was amazing and if there was a way to for me to bottle it and sell it, I too would be a rich man.  This particular vinyard had been with this family for just short of a century.  The tasting room, however, resided in a structure originally owned by one of Napoleon's Generals.  A nice bit of wine and an even better history lesson.

The next stop was better still.  We had a personal connection at this stop, that I hope will lead to marvelous opportunities and relationships in the future.  There were a number of reasons this would be a unique expernience.  First, since the proprietor was a friend of my wife's collegue . . . (long story and very facinating, but don't have time for it here . . . will share when the time is right) we got a very personal tour of the winery by the owner himself.  This tour would be in English.   The owner is quite fluent and was very willing to give us a very passionate explanation of the process for making his particular brand of red wine.  What makes it so unique?  It is what they call BIO.  Organic is the term we would use and the process is facinating.  So passionate is he, that he in fact still works the fields himself to ensure the quality of his product.  This is a product that must be created within very strict guidelines which are made even more difficult to attain when doing so "organically".  I wish I had the time and space to share all I learned today, but it will suffice to say that we had a magnificent time and i look forward to going back for more.  Time flies as they say, and soon we were forced to retire for the evening as school comes mighty early in the morning.  Mighty early in deed.  Until tomorrow.  Cheers.

Day 85

Well, what do you know, Day 82 and 83 are back.  I guess the fine folks at Google are in fact true to their word.  They indicated that the lost posts would be restored and sure enough, here they are.  Mom returned on Day 84 and we celebrated the promise of a longish tour of duty at home with a bottle or two of wine.  Unfortunately, my head would hurt for most of Day 85 as a result.  The headache would intensify as the morning carried on.  We are nearly on the eve of our eldest's trip to Wales.  Given the week long excursion out of the country, we thought it prudent to arm the lad with a mobile phone in the event shit got hairy.   This came at a fair price since the store isn't necessarily that close from our home.  As with most of my endeavors, it all turned into a cluster fuck that ended with me traveling back and forth from my home for additional documentation, not once, but twice before the deal was finally said and done.  Alexandre (our tech guy) was quite appologetic, but it wasn't his fault and he had in fact done a magnificent job in helping the silly Americans due to his fairly proficient English.  It is actually becoming much easier to communicate these days.  My understanding of French is getting strong enough that when we have to cobble together a FRENGLISH conversation, they don't have to translate every word to convey their meaning.  I consider this progress.

It is of course against my better judgment to allow my 8 year old to have a mobile phone, but as with everything in the technology world here, they have figured out a solution.  They refer to it as "bloquee".  The same concept as a prepaid phone except with the benefits of a contract and a very limited number of hours to work with.  The price is of course rediculous and he came out of the store with a very nice smart phone with all the bells and whistles for 1 euro.  Now, mom and dad aren't dumb, so the mobile web feature is not available to him, but can be upgraded at a later date.  He of course is quite excited and continues to carry on an on about the features of his new toy as if his mother and I have never even seen a mobile phone.

I can't say as I blame him though, it is a big deal at his age and is another step toward adulthood.  I would of course prefer to keep these steps from occurring, but they are inevitable and unfortunately quicker to arrive now than when I was a kid.  It is clear however, that we will have to keep a close eye on this kid as I noted a young girl eyeballing him pretty heavy at the grocery store this afternoon.  I would put money on his new cellie being stuffed full of girls numbers within a month or two.  As funny as it seems to me, he has an advantage with the french girls . . . he is exotic and mysterious.  My evening would be relatively quiet, but his would be in fact be spent in the company of a young french girl.  He and my wife had toured the school down the street from Madam Chabou's and had made friends with the head of the PTA.  After a week of exchanging emails, my wife and this gal had set up a meeting this eveing to get the kids together and welcome us to the neighborhood so to speak.  Her daughter is of course my eldest son's age and was one of the girls who crowded around him so feverishly when they took their tour of the school.

We were all supposed to attend this social gathering, but my patience for such an event was short and our youngest was in no mood for an away game either.  That being said, we decided the youngest and I would chill at the house while my wife and older boy ran to the play date.  Apparently all went swimmingly since they didn't appear again for hours.  They were just short of my having to turn the dogs loose to go looking for them since it was getting toward dark and they were on their bicycles.  They did finally return safely and had a swell time.  Since I am just now coming out of the wine induced fog that held me under its thumb for much of the day, we decided an excellent activity for our Sunday would be a winery tour or two  . . .  or three.  We will see how this all goes, but I suspect Monday is going to SUCK.

Given my Father's continued battle with what we call our American Democracy.  I am going to dedicate this evening's musical selection to him.  The song is "American" by Sean Rowe.  I am pretty certain this guy suffers from some mental ailment or is at the very least homeless and playing for pocket change at the local subway station, but I love it nonetheless.  As always . . . until tomorrow.

Day 84

Blogger ate day 82 and 83.

I hope that a few of you had the opportunity to actually read Day 82 and 83 before the kind folks at Google deleted it.  The most disappointing part is that the audio visual portion of the blog was quite entertaining.  That being said, I am far to deep into a red wine bender to produce any philosophical musing that might be worth a good read.  I think I am going to let video and audio do my writing for me this evening.  My wife is home and we need some quality time together.  I will post two videos that I hope you all enjoy.  The first is a Steve Martin bit about learning a foreign language.  If you fllip the script, you will get a feel for what I go through everyday.  The second is a number from the White Buffalo.  He is one of my current favorites, but again his stuff is somewhat dark, so you will have to forgive my taste in music.  As I have noted before, more often than not, the jester cries himself to sleep at night.  Have a wonderful weekend and if Google does not see fit to delete this entry, enjoy the show.

Day 82 and 83

I've been considering words that begin with the letter "A"

Attitude, Anger, Addiction . . . The truth of the matter is, I have spent the last two days trying to work out an analogy to describe my personality and the way in which I work out my inner demons.  I came up with two that I am fairly fond of, so I will share them with you now.  I am like a Pimple and a Volcano.  Maybe I am like a pimple ON a Volcano, all I know is that over time the pressure builds and for the longest time the tempest within remains below the surface.  Eventually, however, outside forces push things beyond the boiling point and an explosion occurs.  In the analogy of the pimple, the ensuing goop that splashes all over the mirror is the culmination of a week worth of poking and irritating redness just below the surface of the skin.  Once the damn breaks and the puss springs forth, you instantly feel on the mend.  In the example of the volcano, the outside seems calm and tranquil, while inside there is trouble brewing.  Eventually the majesty of the tower erupts in a swirling sea of magma which destroys everything in its path.  Yup, that's me alright.  A volcano of a pimple . . . or something like that anyway.

You pair that with the physical maladies created by a severe nicotine dependancy and what you have is TROUBLE.  I am now completely "clean" so to speak.  Without a single vice in my life to lean on like a crutch, I have become one surly son of a bitch that I am sure my poor children will be glad to be rid of as soon as Mom returns from Paris.  My mood was so foul and my overreactions so frequent that at the end of the evening on Wednesday, I felt it necessary to gather my two young fellas and apologize for my behavior and speak with them both about addiction.  Though mine is slight compared to many, its physical and emotional effect are still felt by all.  The addict never suffers as much as those who surround him.  Those that love him are always the first to suffer.  I thank God that my addiction is only to smokeless tobacco rather than some other drug or alcohol, for I have seen the devestation that this can cause and I would not wish that on my worst enemy.  For now, my children must only bear the weight of a grumpy and demanding old man and they will have to endure this for only a little while.  They will soon enough have their happy go lucky Dad back and I will be free.

Now, I had an entirely different entry planned for yesterday and today both, but my mood and my demeanor have prevented the flow of possitive energy and thus I must leave you will this final thought.  If it weren't for the bad days, how would we ever know when a really good one came along?  Tomorrow shall bring a better day . . . this much I am sure.  Since the posts have taken a turn, so too has my musical selection.  I had something else in mind, but given the topic of addiction, I treat you to a song by Joshua James entitled "Tell My Pa".  This isn't my favorite song of his, but the topic is sobering.  No pun intended.  His stuff is fantastic and you should also listen to "Crash this Train".  Since it was observed that my musical tastes are a bit dark and because this post is a 2fer, I am going to post another song.  Without light, there is no dark, so I give you Garfunkle and Oates.  Their name alone makes me smile.  The song?  "Running with Chicken".  It will serve nicely as the negative to "Tell My Pa".  Enjoy them both.  Talk again soon.

Day 81

Better than Duct Tape.

Our usual morning routine does not always allow for the breakfast dishes to be completely cleaned before we we pile ourselves in the 206 for the morning commute.  Unfortunately, this usually means that there is a cornflake or two tack welded to the silverware upon my return.  Have you ever tried to dislodge a dried cornflake from the inside of a cereal bowl?  It's damned near impossible.  I swear that if you dip a cornflake in milk and stick it to the ceiling, you could easily hang a chandelier from it.  It is that strong.  It's a fast acting adhesive as well.  Give it a good 15 minutes and it will have created a bond that even a plasma torch can't touch. I think that the good folks at Kellogs have missed a marketing opportunity here.  Perhaps however, folks would stop ingesting this stuff if they knew is was akin to eating a bottle of superglue.

After a long day of education and domestic matters, I am dog ass tired, so I am probably going to keep this one short and sweet.  The systematic demolition of our home by the 8 and 3 year olds had to finally be put to a stop and I rallied the troops to pick shit back up again.  My castle is now back in a fair amount of order which leaves only a chore or two to complete tomorrow before I focus my full attention on the swamp that we call a pool.  To be honest, I am not all that jazzed about tackling that job as I am now fairly certain that "Nessy" inhabits the deep end.  It could have been drift wood, but I am pretty sure I saw something surface for a moment only to immediately dive back down into the murky depths upon my arrival at waters edge.  I may have to set up some motion sensored still cameras in hopes of catching some compelling stills of this beast.

Speaking of beasts, the White Whale returned to my life today.  For those of you that have been following this riveting tale, the fat, spandex clad road warrior with stuffed animal heads glued to his bicycle has evaded capture for far too long.  He has now gone to great lengths to disguise his appearance.  To add to the mystique, he now has a heavy growth of facial hair in the shape of the handlebars on his bicycle.  In addition, he seems to be playing both sides of the fence.  He was fraternizing with the local police this afternoon and seemed to have them on his side.  I am not fooled you Rogue.  I will have my revenge and Benji's soul will soon rest easy with the proper burial that he so deserves.

All else remains the same.  Children are well, wife is out of town, and I am doing my best to maintain my sanity and gurlish good looks.  As a fairwell, I am dedicating today's musical selection to my wife.  It is a time tested favorite that I have in my playlist by a couple of different artists.  Tyrone Wells, however, applies his chops to it like no other.  Plus, I kind of favor the guy because we have the same barber.  This is of course not to take anything away from Buddy Guy and Tracy Chapman who do this one as a duet that is also a must hear.  I hope you enjoy . . . and baby, if you are readin this . . . THERE AIN'T NO SUNSHINE WHEN YOUR GONE!  Until tomorrow.

Day 80.5

I am breaking with tradition and adding a second post for the day.  I so enjoyed sharing the David Ford song, I have decided to add a musical component to the blog.  I will add a bit of a "What I am Listening To" section for those that would be interested.  The first selection is from a band called Mumford and Sons.  I have damned near worn out the album cover to cover.  If you haven't heard of them, in my humble opinion, you should have.  I will now do my part to further their career.  I hope you enjoy as I have.  Take care.

Day 80

I pee with my weenie and mommie pees with her butt.

Yup, that pretty much sums up the day.  I would argue that nothing more needs to be said, really.  My daily life has become the art of managing too many f_ _ _ing irons in the fire.  Between part time student and full time Dad my energy reserves are beginning to become dangerously low.  Between the mental exertion of learning a new language and the daily grind of raising proper young men, I am freaking tired.  Je suis fatigue!  That much French I do know.  Mom left for Paris this morning and I can already tell this is going to be a LONG week.  We did our usual schooling thing this morning and I crashed after serving the youngest his traditional peanut butter sandwich and banana.  There was just enough time to close my eyes for about 5 minutes before I was on the road again to pick up the eldest.

Once back home, I gave the lawn a shaving and fed the boys a late afternoon snack to spoil their dinner.  I would then endeavor to catch back up on the laundry and clean the never ending mess on our floors.  White floor and black dog equal disaster.  Did you know that they never stop painting the Golden Gate bridge?  I always thought that this was a depressing thought for the painter.  As soon as the final brush stroke is made, you have to return to the beginning and start again.  It is the very same reason that postal workers have a questionable rep for going ballistic at the drop of a hat.  It just never freaking ends.  The mail just keeps coming and coming.  That is the way of our floors.  It just never ends.  No sooner do I finish sweeping and mopping than I have to start all over again.  STUPID DOG.

Laundry is just about as daunting.  Being caught up on this task is a falicy.  You are never really caught up.  That is unless of course you are a nudist.  I am beginning to see the light.  As you fold the last towel, you know with a certainty that you are soiling more garments to be removed in the evening only to find themselves in the laundry basket.  Monotony.  I hate it.  It causes one day to bleed into the next and before long you can't even tell what month it is.  This is my rant for day 80 and I feel cleansed.  The only concern I have is that I seem to have misplaced my vaccum cleaner.  I know that sounds weird, but it is a small cordless affair that is of the exact same make and model as the one we had in the hotel when we first arrived in France.  It is just a glorified dustbuster and at the rate of abuse is likely to need replacing in a month or so.  It is so small that each room requires 1635 passes before it is clean.  That is a whole bunch of work in a house with a dozen or so rooms that require cleaning.

I may force a move to the neighboring village just to rid myself of the white tile flooring.  Lets not forget that once the sweeping is done, one must mop and their standard sponge mop has a head about the size of that wich is on a match.  Enough about the cleaning though . . . I am starting to get depressed.  I recently ordered some items off of the internet and the site I ordered the items from seems to have a fraud prevention system that requires me to give up the title to my home and bequeath my first born son to them before they will complete my order.  If it wasn't all in French I would just cancel the order, but since there is still such a large language barrier, I haven't a clue if it is even possible.  Who knows what will happen at this point.  I am going to assume that my lack of response will cause them to simply cancel the order, but at this point it is hard to say.  All I do know is that if ordering online here is this much of a circle jerk everytime, I am going to start buying everything outisde of the country and paying to have it shipped here.

Finally, the decision to move the children to a different school was a decision well made.  The report from school today was interesting.  Since this was to be an English day and the English teacher was absent, apparently nothing was actually taught.  Seems as though it was just a free day.  Now when I was a kid, we certainly took advantage of having a substitute in the even the regular teacher was gone, but the curriculum was followed none the less.  Perhaps less was accomplished, but teaching still transpired.  Apparently in the school my boys now attend, no teacher means no education.  What a trip.  And so concludes this days events.  A new bedtime routine this evening gives me hopes for an early exodus.  We shall see.  Bonsoir.

Day 79

Happy Mother's Day indeed.

Well, it had to happen . . . and unfortunately it did as it always does.  Sunday rolled around and we prepared to bid mom a farewell to yet another week of travel.  This promises to be the last until August, however, I am not holding my breath for fear of permanent brain damage and incapacitation.  Given Mom's Monday departure, we gave it our all the share an enjoyable day together.  We gathered the troops and loaded all of the bikes onto the Renault and were off to the park for a pleasant afternoon ride.  I have to admit that I am relatively surprised that there weren't any incidents that need reporting.  No dramatic crashes and very little strife from the youngsters.

I would imagine the youngest of our crew had the best time.  He was a lucky passenger on the "Dad Express".  The preferred way to travel by bicycle with your youngster is the childseat attachment that allows them a perch ride behind the cycling parent.  Since I am a bit more comfortable on two wheels, my wife pawned this duty off on me.  There was a slight concern with this on my end however as there are some features of my bicycle that are somewhat less conventional.  It is a fixed gear bicycle.  A "fixie" for those in the community is a single speed bicycle without breaks.  Stopping is done in a very delicate manner using only the strength of one's legs.  This is not a coaster break like we all had on the Schwinn of our youths, but rather a direct drive mechanism.  If you pedal forward the bike moves forward.  Conceivably, the opposite is also true.  If you had the balance and the desire, you could pedal backwards and the bike would move backwards.  No free wheel at all.  Always pedaling, never coasting.  As a result, the bicycle is tremendously fast on flat ground.  It is afterall, a velodrome bike.

I am one of only a few crazies I have seen piloting these through the streets of town, but the trend is picking up and becoming more and more popular.  Now, you add the weight of a shifting child to the back of the bicycle, you make a relatively precocious machine into a deathtrap.  Everything went swimmingly though and I was proud of my cycling prowess and enjoyed the knowing looks from those who could appreciate the type of bicycle I had chosen.  Regardless of the type of bicycle, the rear seated child has some drawbacks.  With my hindquarters within reach, it wasn't long before my youngest realized he could prod me to go faster by slapping my ass cheeks.  He took great delight in this and anytime progress slowed, I got a swift slap on my ass.  Nothing like spending the afternoon as a horse on the front of a stagecoach.  The continued thirst for speed meant that I didn't get to plod along and socialize with my wife as I had intended.

The ready access to my sensitive hind end soon took a turn for the worse.  Soon the slapping subsided and the younglad grabed a firm hold of the wasteband of my pants and well . . . you guessed it . . . the world got a show.  Being depanted while atop a deathtrap to the cackling laughter of a three year old is not my idea of quality family time.  That being said, I appreciated the comedy in the situation and now had to pilot said deathtrap with one hand.  Thank God for the countless hours I have spent riding a bicycle in my life because if it hadn't been for this skillset, the youngest and I would have certainly met our maker this day.  We didn't, but unfortunately, the fact that one's ass can make an appearance has probably cemented the deal in Mom's mind that he will always ride on my bicycle rather than hers.

We finally called it an afternoon and returned home to tend to a little gardening.  Day by day, the garden is becoming less feral.  I can't say the same for the pool however.  Within a day and a half, she has gone from being blue as the carribean to as green as a bull frog infested Kansas pond.  I have nuked it with every chemical known to man and it doesn't seem to be giving in.  I have one or two tricks up my sleeve yet and I pray that I don't have to drain the damned thing, but if it weren't for bad luck, I would have no luck at all, so look for a future installment focusing on the draining of said pool.  That about wraps up the weekend and soon we will be back to the grind and I will be back to my solo duty as Mr. Mom.  Take care.

Day 78

East Bound and Down:  The Greatest 1:30 seconds in Musical History.

Should we stay or should we go?  That has been the debate for some time now and the decision is one that is weighing heavily on our hearts.  Since the whole crew was together this Saturday, it was time to do a bit of exploring.  Since we have made the decision to remove the children from the International School and throw them into a proper French school we are no longer tied to Madame Cabou's house of horrors.  Don't get me wrong, I have now done enough work on our maison here to make it quite liveable, but it is far from wonderland.  I suppose if the decision is to stay in town here, it suits us just fine and I would not endeavor to move within the city.  The real question is whether we uproot from the bustling metropolis for a more rural climate.  We would spend the morning exploring the village where my wife works.  Her commute back to our fair city is terrible and has her home close to 19 or 20h every evening.  This clearly does not allow for much family time.  This is a precious commodity these days given her busy travel schedule.  In fact, we are facing yet another week of absence as she will be spending the coming week in Paris.

The village in which she works is actually a fair sized town in and of itself with a very nice Centre Ville.  Good shops, nice cafes and a bit more laid back lifestyle.  The day was somewhat overcast, but the visit was pleasant all the same.  The bonus of being closer to her employer is strengthened by the fact that our current rental payment would pay for a MUCH nicer home.  The draw back?  Well, it is perhaps not as culturally diverse and full of activity.  The town is . . . sleepy.  It is nestled into the heart of wine country and surrounded by the chateaus that make the region famous.  It is also spitting distance from what I measure to be the most lovely town in the region that is a wine lovers dream.  With all the checks in the Pro category and only one or two lingering doubts, I think it time to consider a move.

We have explored the schooling options in our current locality and there is a very enticing option right down the street from Madame Chabou's.  My wife and the eldest ran down late in the day on Friday to check it out and upon their return, the eldest was sold.  Two reasons . . . Chicks and an open campus.  No more school lunch!  He could ride his bike home for lunch and then back to school for the remainder of the afternoon.  The other reason had him blushing a bit.  His appearance in the school yard had him instantly surrounded by a throng of young ladies who were quite eager to make his acquaintence and basque in his American accent.  With the improved prospect of chow at Midi and more female attention than he can shake a stick at, I can certainly see why he was so keen.  That being said, we still must consider the commute that keeps my wife tied to her desk of an evening.  So, the question still lingers, do we load up BANDIT 1 and head east or do we stay put?  Time will tell.  House hunting will likely crystalize the decision and we will keep you posted.

Since it would appear that Mothers day is not recognized here in France, we would celebrate on our own and our gift to Mom would be a brand spanking new bicycle.  The last of our crew to obtain a two wheeled steed, it was a long overdue purchase.  I am also pleased to report that we were able to convince her to free up an additional bit of change for a decent and proper bicycle.  Our hope is to take a family ride to celebrate Mom's special day on Sunday.  I hope it is a pleasant affair as I can foresee some scraped knees and elbows in our future.  I'm not talking about the kids.  Watching my wife wabble around the store on her new purchase made me think that perhaps we should purchase some additional safety equipment.  At present the only one with a helmet is our youngest and we can't afford for Mom to take a severe blow to the mellon.  We will see how things go because we all know from childhood lore that all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put humpty dumpty back together again.  I hope we survive the ride in one piece for my marital status is likely to depend on it.

My final thought for the day is this . . . I am very influenced by music and if I had any talent at all, it would be my chosen profession.  Alas some of us are born without talent.  It does not stop me from appreciating a well written piece of music.  While finishing my administrative tasks for the day, I ran across what I measure to be the greatest 1 min and 30 sec in the history of music.  Given my background and current circumstance, give it a listen and I think you will understand why it speaks to me.  The song is "Missouri" by David Ford.  You will find it on i-tunes and there is a great live version on youtube that appears to have been shot in someone's livingroom.  Enjoy and take care.

PS.  For ease of listening, I just added the youtube video to the blog.  The sound quality is somewhat poor since the video was taken on a blackberry, but I actually kind of like the distortion.

Day 77

At my wife's request.

I am beginning to think that this project is getting a little long in the tooth and it crossed my mind to discontinue the blog.  At the very least, I was going to curtail it to a once a week affair.  I mentioned this to my wife and she was none too happy with either idea, so for now and to maintain marital bliss I will continue my daily updates.  It isn't that I have lost interest, quite to the contrary in fact.  The truth is, this takes a fair amount of time and effort and life is becoming more complicated by the day.  It continues to evolve and I find myself using the edit button more than I think perhaps I should.  That being the case, I was thinking that if I was spending this much time writting, I might as well go offline and spend a fair amount of additional time polishing the product so to speak.  I have enjoyed the stream of conciousness route, but maybe if I am going to continue to write this it should be in more concrete terms.  I don't know, maybe I am just tired and need some rest to clear my head.

Friday was an unusual day in that my wife was home for the day.  She worked for most of it of course, but she did enjoy the opportunity to relieve me of my child transport duties.  I was to have a French lesson in the morning and my wife agreed to drop me off.  With traffic a nightmare, I bailed and made a run for it on foot.  Bad idea.  I promptly got myself lost and spent a half hour or so wandering around trying to find a street I remotely recognized.  When I finally got my bearings, I realized I had walked my way around in such a circle that I was further away from my school than when I started.  Pissed off and sweating profusely, I gave up and rang my wife or an emergency pick up.  I enjoyed the break from my usual schedule and spent the time making a few purchases to add a bit to my wardrobe that is now very limited indeed.  I have still not managed a pair of man panties, but it is next on the list.  The truth of the matter is, I have located a pair that have cupcakes on them and the humor in that damn near warrants a purchase.  Cupcakes are my favorite desert and my hope is the the underpants will appeal to my wife's sweet tooth.  Ok, that probably came out a bit racier than I intended it to, but I am going to leave it be.  In my purchasing, I did note an alarming fact and a reality that might explain the fact that there are so few folks that are overweight here.  On the sizing scale, I am an XL.  That's right, an XL.  Now perhaps my self image is out of whack, but I think of myself as generally thin and would trend toward the Medium/Large mark in the States.  So, the long and short of it is, there aren't any fat people here because they would have to be naked all the time.  Even though the beaches are topless, I think that public nudity is still frowned upon which seems to keep everyone on their diets.

I actually have a theory on the much debated "French Dichotomy".  How can a culture that eats so much cheese, bread and generally rich foods stay so thin?  Many point to the fact that they don't eat processed foods and perhaps in our processing of the food in the states, we add to its fat load.  Others argue that it has more to do with the amount of meat we consume compared to the French.  Still others simply believe we are lazy and take our cars everywhere, which is usually down to the fast food joint for a calorie fest.  I would argue that it is none of the above and I think my "XL" frame proves it.  My argument dates back to the the time of the dinosaurs and known fossil records.  It is well documented fact that when fossilized remains are located on lands that are now or were thought to at some point be an island, the creatures inhabiting that land are much smaller than those found to live upon larger landmasses.  I believe this to be true for human beings as well.  My frame is simply larger here.  American's are larger, because our wealth of land allows us to be.  Like the mighty T-Rex, we are not limited in our range and do not even have to have neighbors within eye shot if we don't want to.  The opposite is true here.  We are packed together like sardines in a can.  My "house" is quite traditional and shares a wall on either side with my neighbors.  I often comment to my wife that for a city of roughly 2 million people, it sure feels like a small town.

This is my theory and I am sticking to it as it makes me feel better when I pull on my extra-large garments to go out and face the world.  As I think I have mentioned in previous posts, do not mistake being thin for being healthy.  I wouldn't argue that the life style and stature here is necessarily a healthy way of life.  Smoking from the age of 6 and pounding expresso like it's water is not necessarily my definition of healthy.  That is my rant for the day and I hope you enjoyed it.  As for the remainder of day 77, we decided to spend it like a true Americans and took our youngters out to McDonalds to strap on the feed bag.  If I am going to be an XL, I can at least see that when I look in the mirror.  We spent the eveing eatin cheeseburgers and shoppin for bigger pants.  Actually that is not true, pants were not on the list, but what was on the list still has me disturbed.

It would seem that my eldest has noted a fair amount of moisture in his pits and in fact complained of an odor.  I am very sensitive to stinkin ass kids, so I would have been the first to notice, but he swears it to be true.  I gave him the old sniff test and sure enough, my little 8 year old baby is gettin a bit of man stink.  Again, since I am VERY offended when a kid stinks (and many of them do), we took him to the store to obtain a product to remedy the issue.  I don't remember when I started wearing deodorant, but I don't think it was this young.  I do know that I have run in to several kids not much older than this that stink enough to warrant a regular bath and a pass or two in the armpit area, so I guess we will go with it for now.  This purchase brings me to the next watershed event of the evening which will, as luck would have it, have an effect on me as much as anyone.  Since this doesn't seem to be a culture that is big on frequent bathing and deodorant, the selection is dismal and this may require a shipment from the states.  There are virtually no stick type deodorants on the shelves.  Almost all are spray on, which I didn't think anyone used anymore.  I just assumed that the Right Guard spray you see in the States was extras that they had laying around from the 80s.  In addition to the fact that the spray is all you get, none of the products do double duty as they do back home.  You are either going to get an Antipersperant or a Deodorant.  You can't have both in one product.  I found two spray deodorants that seem to have both magical properties and since I am on my last stick of deodorant from the States, we will see how the new product measures up.

So, now I find it quite late and so I bid you all a good night.  I will take myself and my fresh smelling pits to bed for a good night's sleep.  It may be one of my last, for when the spray deodorant stops working, the stench may make for a sleepless night.  One can't easily sleep when they find themselves gagging at their own funk.  Wish us luck and we will speak again tomorrow.

Day 76

Wisdom for my Eldest Son.

My wife and I are truly the "odd couple".  She is my Oscar and I am her Felix.  I was going to go with a Peanuts analogy in which she would be pigpen, however, I didn't know what to call myself . . . Peppermint Patty maybe?  I sure did like the way she used to make Chuck fall on his ass when trying to kick the football . . . no, wait . . . that was Lucy wasn't it?  Ok, Ok, too much time in the company of small children has my sanity wavering a bit.  At any rate, the pigpen reference would probably not be well received by the spouse and it isn't entirely fair as she is not dirty, she is just a bit messy and disorganized.  That being said, she has never once come home to a messy or dirty home.  I pride myself on that and know that the last thing someone who has been on the road for a week or so wants to do is wade through mountains of laundry or clean a messy kitchen.  So, while my house stays clean and organized, I do have a domestic item or two to attend to before she arrives at the house this evening to make certain it is as spotless as I prefer to keep it.  Even though I know without a doubt that she will make a mess of it as soon as she arrives, it is still nice to start with a clean slate.  Even though there is little to do, I still have to feed and bath younsters as well, so I am going to keep this evenings comments relatively short.

The day started for mewith sort of a strange Mafia-like car ride that I was certain was going to end with me wearing a pair of concrete galoshes.  After dropping my boys off at the school house, I was stopped by another parent who insisted on "giving me a lift" to my next destination so we could talk.  Not certain what we were going to talk about as they continued to call me "Bryan", I reluctantly accepted the ride.  Note to self, don't get in car with strangers.  The ride was actually innocent enough.  Simply a concerned parent that had noted my son's friendship with another boy at school and wanted me to know that this boy might be a bad influence.  I thought to myself that  . . . hell, I am a bad influence on my kids, why would I be concerned about a 10 year old.  Not wanting to offend, I kept my mouth shut and listened to what had to be said.  I have always preached to my eldest strenghth of conviction and individual thought, so I have never been concerned with him keeping questionable company.  This is especially true since I had a friend or two on the fringe when I was a kid and they would have gladly laid down in traffic for me if I would have asked them to.  The key here is the better part of discretion.  Make wise choices and lead when you are asked to follow.

Still, I am not one to turn a blind eye and so a post class interrogation of my son was in order.  Ultimately, the report was not all that good and there had been some behavior on my son's part that I don't approve of.  I could not, however, be more proud of my son and his candor when faced with a disappointed father.  His willingness to share with me the good and the bad made me appreciate what a fine young man he is and instilled confidence in me that he is in fact on the right path.  Everyone makes poor choices, the key is how you handle yourself when you discover the error of your ways that makes you a stronger and better man.  The infractions were actually very slight and would not necessarily be anything that warrants punishment, but I believed it to be a good time to strengthen his resolve and pass on something that my father shared with me.  It is this . . .

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

These are the words of Rudyard Kipling for those of you that have not encountered it before.  My father shared this with me as a young man and it had a lasting effect.  I, in turn, have passed it on to my heir and pray that it rings as true in his heart as it does in mine.

Thanks Dad . . . I love you.

Day 75

Addictions and Afflictions

It is relatively well established by now that my youngest son and I have addictive personalities.  Both of us seem to be orally fixated as well.  I am proud to say that my addiction to caffeine and his addiction to hotdogs have been defeated with the help of a 12 step program.  Unfortunately, like a chain smoker that becomes addicted to the nicotine gum, we too are addicted to a replacement substance that may be moderately better for our health, but we are addicted all the same.  He has not gone a day without a peanut butter sandwich and a banana in over a month of Sundays, while I have become rediculously addicted to a beverage called Orangina.  I don't know if they have this in the States, but it is delightful.  It is somewhere between orange juice (good so far) and sunkist orange soda (and then the wheels fall off the bus).  It comes in a number of flavor combinations but my favorites are Geisha and Indien.  Geisha has a shot of peach flavor and Indien has a hint of Grenadine.  While I have not put this to the test, I suspect both would be fantastic with a good Vodka.

Day 75 would be an academic break for me as I do not have permanent day care for my youngest and he does not attend class on Wednesdays.  So far we have been covering matters that I have learned in the past, so hopefully I won't find myself too far behind.  Since the eldest only has a half day on Wednesdays, we arranged for him to go to a friends house for the afternoon.  I think he was due for a break from his little brother.  The visit went well and I picked him back up at the school just short of dinner time.  As I parked my car I took notice of a vehicle parked along the narrow road leading to the school.  I took notice because of its grand size and the familiar badge adorning the back hatch.  It was a Jeep Grand Cherokee.  The plates didn't appear to be French, but it was clearly European.  You do see and american car every now and again, and as I think I noted before, they are usually Fords or Chryslers.  Of course the models are quite different, but it is a nice little reminder of home.  This vehicle however, was the exact variety as you would find at any American Jeep dealership with the exception that I believe it was diesel.  The most interesting thing about the vechicle is that prominently displayed on the back was not the "Grand Cherokee" name that I am accustomed to but rather the name "Tackleberry".

I have to be honest, if all the Chrysler vehicles are named after characters on the Police Academy movies, I am selling my 206 and will soon be the proud owner of a "Mahoney".  The wife can kiss her Renault goodbye as well, because I don't care how rediculous it may look on the outside, she will be piloting a brand new "Hooks".  I am going to do some further research and let you know what I find.  If this is just a coincidence, I may pull a Hudson motors and start my own auto company when I return to the states and name my models accordingly.  I think the Mahoney should be something of a crossover.  Maybe the demon love child of an El Camino and a Subaru Brat.  As for the "Hooks", I would like to see something similar to an AMC Pacer.  My "Tackleberry" will be a compact pickup truck like a Toyota Luv with a nice stepside bed.  It will come standard with rally lights everywhere and an optional flat bed upgrade.  I feel like the "Hightower" should be something of a luxury vehicle with suicide doors and dual rear axels, or maybe that should be the "Larvell Jones".  I still need a concept for the "Sweetchuck" and the "Proctor", so feel free to post a comment with your ideas.

Finally, on a side note, our youngest is completely potty trained but still sleeps soundly enough that on occassion he does not wake to go to the bathroom.  For such occassions, we keep overnight pants on hand to help him out and keep us from laundering his sheets to oblivion.  While shopping for French replacements for his dwindling supply of American overnight pants, I made a startling discovery.  They seem to come in two sizes.  The first is age 4 to 8 which is terrifying enough for I thought my little one was getting long in the tooth for this process at age 3.  The second size category has me wondering what the hell is going on with children in this country.  The next size up from what my little tike is wearing is 8 to 16 years old.  WHAT?  If my kid is still wizzing his sheets at 16 I am going to seek more immediate help than just jumping over to the market to buy him diapers.  No way I am changing the diaper of a 16 year old kid after an all night feeding frenzy of pizza and soda pop.  Sweet fancy Moses, can you imagine the number of butt wipes you would need to clean up that mess?

All else is going well and once again I look forward to the return of my lovely wife.  She should arrived Thursday evening sometime and perhaps this time she will stay for awhile.  Keep your fingers crossed.

Day 74

Living on the verge rather than the edge.

It seems these days that I am on the verge with everything I do.  I am on the verge of completing all the domestic chores on my list.  I am on the verge of learing a foreign language.  I am on the verge of having a spouse in the same postal code.  I am on the verge of going insane.  Always a bridesmaid but never a bride.  I am on the verge, but never quite make it.  My life has always sounded like a Country and Western Song.  "Ma feet stank, the youngens is screamin, the bills are piling up and SHE'S GONE AGAIN".  I think it's catchy.  I am still certain I have a future in song writing.  I am hoping that when I go on tour, Billy Ray Cyrus will be kind enough to open for me.  I am actually thinking a mega tour with Me, Billy Ray, Vanilla Ice and Milli Vanilli.  I think I will grow myself a killer moustache and a kentucky mudflap (mullet for those that don't know).  When they do the movie version of my life and recording career, I hope that they cast Mickey Rourke as the lead role.  Has anybody seen this guy lately?  What the hell happened?  His movie career seems to be taking off again and it sure ain't cause of his looks, but I digress.

I have noticed two things of interest this week that I would now like to share with you.  First, the French seem to be very fond of picking their nose.  Now this is not uncommon in the State either, so I am not being critical.  In fact, I am sort of in awe of the whole process.  In the States, we seem to try to reserve this activity for rush hour traffic.  I don't know why people think that they can't be seen in their car, but they can, and I see them.  I remember on pick very vividly from back in the States.  On my way to work I was stuck at a red light when the car to my right caught my attention.  It was a middle aged man and he was easily two nuckles deep and digging for ore.  I thought for certain he would soon reach his cerebral cortex, but eventually he removed his finger to examine his bounty.  Without hesitation he placed his finger in his mouth and sort of swizzled it around a bit, extracting every chuck of gooey nectar.  I nearly vomited when he actually began to chew.

The approach here is a bit different.  There is a certain social liberation to nose picking.  No need to hide the activity or be ashamed.  Pick in public, pick on a bus, pick with your friends, hell you can even pick in a crowded elevator.  There are no limits to the possibilities and I have seen them all.  It is amazing.  Nobody seems to try to hide this activity in the slightest.  This morning in fact, I passed a very well dressed gentleman on the street who I would have guessed to be walking to work and he was in full pick.  He even made eye contact with me and never skipped a beat.  Wild stuff.  It does make me think, however, that I ought to be a little more careful where I place my hands when I am out and about.  I would freak out if I grabbed a handrail and came away with a booger on my hand.

The other item of interst is that bumpers are indeed made for bumping.  I think I have mentioned this before, but I think it worth a revist given the auto collision that I was nearly involved with yesterday and the multiple collissions I witnessed today.  Parallel parking is a necessity here as the streets are quite narrow and on street parking is quite limited.  I am very careful to select an appropriate sized spot to nestle my little 206 into anytime I drive into the inner ring of the city.  I appear to be the only one.  The preferred method seems to be back up till you hear a crunch and then pull forward till you hear the same.  Continue in a back and forth calamity of miniature fender benders until your car is suffiiently out of traffic and then abandon ship as if nothing had ever occured.  I would flip out back home if I witnessed someone hit my car in any fashion, but here, it is just part of driving.  Amazingly, the cars seem to stand up to the abuse.  Perhaps our big three should start using the mean streets of my city as a proving ground for their vehicles.  If they can survive here, they can survive anywhere.

Since I do not have daycare arranged for my youngest tomorrow, I will be playing hookie from French class.  I feel bad for this fact, but since I am  the oldest in the class by a good 10 years, they will just have to understand that an adult has certain obiligations that they must attend to.  Things are still going well on that front and I really enjoy the class.  If I survive and become semi proficient, I think I will go back and dust up a bit on my Spanish.  If I can pull off three languages, I may go back to school for a fourth.  I do enjoy the educational process when my future is not on the line.  Takes some of the pressure off.  I don't have to worry about GPA, my only concern is actually learning the material.  Rather than storing the info in short-term memory for the purposes of a final exam, I get to really assimilate the information and use it in my daily life.

Hopefully by the time tomorrow rolls around, I will have enough time to get caught back up on those projects that have evaded me since beginning these classes.  Perhaps I will complete a project or two, but it is more likely that I will have to quit on the verge of completion and leave it for another day.  Until tomorrow.