Day 132

"My" GOD is a Traffic Cop.

I am deeply religious and not at all religious all at the same time.  You will not likely find me in church on any given Sunday, nor will you hear me speak of my religious beliefs.  They are "my" beliefs and I am not a big fan of those that try to force their own belief system down your throat.  That being said, I think it a universal truth that a majority of the world believes in a higher power.  A moving force.  Whether that be based upon faith or fable, it is found in all "religions".  I am not going to remotely delve into my own belief system here, but I do want to share my biggest news of the day.  It is in fact the only news of the day.  I often find it to be the simplest things in life that have the most profound impact on you.  You might not realize them at the time, but upon reflection you can't help but wonder at the meaning of it all.

The day was spent in the laborious fashion that all who have relocated can appreciate.  Packing boxes and dismantling furniture.  With my mind busy and worried with the growing laundry list of details that must be tended to; wondering if I could possibly accomplish them all before Saturday, I found myself at a red light.  Waiting my turn in traffic on my way to pick up my eldest at school I took a long look at the traffic light and "my" God spoke to me.  The traffic lights here are at roughly face level with the driver, giving the first car in line on a very narrow road a good view of the signal.  Another, more typically American style traffic light sits higher and out of the first cars view.  It is not my usual manner to stare at the light.  I keep an eye on it out of the corner of my eye, or glance once and awhile awaiting it's change.  On this day, however, I gave it a long stare and realized that upon the face of the very small red light, someone had drawn a frowning face.  With the light illuminated you could see it well, but I would imagine it to be very difficult to view when not illuminated.

As I stared at it, my mind continued to roll through my todo list and my heart grew heavy.  In an instant the light changed as as I reacted with a swift shift into 1st, I caught out of the corner of my eye, that the green light was also embossed with a symbol.  This one, a smiling face.  I had not noticed it at a stop because of the attention to the red light and the troublesome thoughts on my mind.  Just as quickly as the light had changed, so had my attitude.  Half way down the following street, I came to this conclusio:  Movement, of any kind, is a positive. The truth of the matter is, that sadness and in the end, death, comes to us all when we "stop".  So, why would one fret those things that keep us overly busy, but constantly moving forward?  Don't mistake my comment as an argument for movement, just for movements sake.  Just to the contrary, I am a big fan of staying still.  Staying still, however, is not the same as stopping.  Even when my life has seemed to be in stasis, I realize now that things have only been at pause.  Not stopped, but waiting for the next move that will inevitably come to those who are patient enough to wait.

It is on this bombshell that I bid you all a good day and hope that the story of my day, simple though it may have been, will let you creep further into an understanding of me, my life, and the reason for this blog.  I hope your reward for waiting at the red light will be as great as mine has been.  Take care.  R.

Day 130 and 131

When you're hot, you're hot; and when you're cold, it's Tuesday.

Time is a precious commodity that I seem to be lacking over the past several days.  Buttoning up the last minute details before we move has taken up a fair share of my limited resources.  Monday and Tuesday could  not have been more different from the standpoint of climate.  Monday was a sizzler.  Well into the upper nineties.  My continued battle with an algae filled pool leaves us with little relief.  To add insult to injury, I was forced back into the Jumpy for another lengthy drive East to pick up a garden table my wife had purchased but was unable to fit into the Renault.  She was home this day, so we had a little outing together sans mon fils.  We don't get time alone much these days, so even though it was a sweltering drive, we enjoyed our adventure together.  Back home we finished the usual school pick up routine and quickly realized that the temperature of the house was not going to be suitable for sleeping, so the wife ran to the supercenter for some fans while I stayed at home with the boys filling our t-shirts with sweat.  Her return offered sweet relief and we were finally able to get some shut eye beneath the gaze of our new oscillating beauties.

A front moved in off the ocean, a common occurrence here, which turned Tuesday's thermometer into jacket weather.  The fans were shut off and the windows were opened.  It was a lovely departure from Monday's frying pan and I much more toward my liking.  Unfortunately, the skies were grey which usually has a detrimental effect on my mood.  Perhaps that is the reason for my wife banning me from attending parent teacher conferences.  The truth is probably more toward her knowledge of my proclivity to unpleasant discord at these events.  The eldest received his usual high marks in the substantive categories, which is all I really cared about.  However, at the hippie commune we call the International School, they grade social behavior and the marks there were less than stellar.  He was graded down quite severely for his willingness to co-mingle with students of other nationalities.  I don't know how they make this case since he is the only American student in his section, but once again, I digress.  I know what they meant.  He was not putting forth the effort to get to know the French children.  After reading the comments, my internal temperature exceeded Friday's external temperature and the colorful nature of my dissertation on the failings of this academic institution had my wife a bit concerned that I would be ejected from the building, so we agreed she would go it alone.

There is a bit of a back story to our history with the International School that I won't bore you with, but suffice it to say that I presume the French students DID NOT receive similar low marks for their poor treatment and lack of kinship with my son.  International cooperation, if that is their aim, is a two way street and must be facilitated in some way by the institution itself.  I am going to stop there, because I can already feel the rage building and like Bruce Banner, don't nobody want to see me angry.  When the wife did finally return on Tuesday evening, it was confirmed that my absence was for the best.  She is typically much more gentile than I when she gets agitated.  She maintains professional decorum when I tend to throw civility out the window in favor of full on verbal warfare.  When she got home, she was a bit hot under the collar, so I know I would have "gone round the bend" as they say.  It all matters not in the end, for both our lads will be fully immersed in the French system come the Fall term.  This will be a conversion that will be quite natural for the youngest, but a bit difficult for my first born.  I know the strengths of both of these lads and am certain in the end they will be just fine.  The youngest is already well on his way to being perfectly bilingual and now knows his numbers in French as well as he knows them in English.  He even converts how he counts on his fingers when moving from one language to the next.  His accent?  He has none.  He sounds as French as a native speaker and as American as the rest of his Kansas bred brethren.  It is amazing to watch and is indeed the reason we came.  My wife shared something that had been presented to her, that really made me take a step back.  A colleague commented on the uselessness of learning a dying language.  Why worry with French for it is only spoken by a handful of people globally and is centered around a VERY small country.

My mind, working the way it does, began to trace language back to its origins and I wondered why from the birth place of the world had our languages become so different.  Why didn't language remain universal?  Was it an attempt to set one's self apart from their warring neighbors or was it an attempt to create a social identity that drove people to adapt a different tongue.  More importantly, who comes up with this shit.  Why do all of these languages have to be so damned complicated?  The cave men got along just fine with simple grunts.  Are we so different?  When I am at the dinner table and want more corn, I traditionally have my mouth full and simply grunt and point at the bowl of corn on the table.  It would be impolite after all to speak with my mouth full.  The truth is that, life is much to complicated for grunts and gesturing, so I guess we are stuck with a more complicated form of communication.  I do think, however, that the world would be a much smaller place and it's nations would get along much better if we all spoke the same language.  I would of course vote for English, but that is pretty ethnocentric of me.  Maybe we can come up with something new.  Something we can all agree on.  Since that will never happen, I guess I will continue my efforts with Rosetta Stone and for the most part, keep my fat trap shut.

Since my time is at a premium and I have furniture to disassemble I will leave with this final thought.  I have unwittingly found myself through this crazy experiment we now call our lives and I realize the artistic side of my personality is far more important to me than I had first imagined.  I am torn now, with limited time, between writing and painting.  I dismissed it at first, but having traveled down this path far enough, I find myself transformed from a guy who scratches down his thoughts in a journal to a full blown writer and from a fella who completes the occasional doodle on a notepad to a semi-legitimate artist.  These are skills that seem to come a bit more naturally to me than my selected vocation.  I am certainly not arguing that my 7 years of higher education were a waste of time.  My journey through education, leading ultimately to a Law degree has made me in large part who I am, and I wouldn't trade that for the world.  My brother, recently sent me a book, that I am now a fair way into (surprising in that I have a general distaste for reading, funny I know for a writer, but I think so many years in school has a way of doing that to you) which is an account of a Shepard boy who finds himself on a quest for treasure.  In the beginning of the story you are introduced to a King and the author, through this character, presents a profound theory on life.  We all have a "Personal Legend".  It's that thing we want in the simplest of terms.  It's that dream you had when you were a kid, uncolored by the "realities" of life that seem to inhibit us from chasing what we truly desire.  The King puts it quite simply indeed.  It is the fulfilling of our "Personal Legend" that is the most important thing in our lives.  It is the purpose for our being.  I know think that perhaps this pursuit of the arts is my true purpose, and my wife has been gracious enough to indulge my quest to fulfill my legend.

For now I will continue to write when I can and paint when time allows.  I hope one day to share this story, and perhaps illustrate it's pages in kind.  For now, I will be content with the journey to fulfill my Personal Legend.  Until we speak again.  R.

Day 129

I scream for Escrime: Breakfast with a long nosed fellow and a little crotch pot cooking for dinner.

Day 129 would be a day full of history and an excellent day of exploration. We had made plans to meet another one of my wife's colleagues EARLY on Sunday morning. The day would start at 6 am or so and we would load our little ones in the car for a 2 hour drive east. The colleague is the French family I have mentioned in prior posts and their son is fairly accompished at Escrime. Back home, we call the sport "fencing". Now, after a full day of education, there is quite a bit more to this sport than meets the eyes. The event we would be watching involved the use of the Epee. This is the traditional fencing "foil" that you have seen on television, but apparently there are many different types and the sport is interesting enough for further inquiry.

The truly special part of this day was that the competition would take place in the streets and courtyards (place) of a town by the name of Bergerac. Sound familiar? It should. That is of course, if you paid any attention in school. Yes, this is the home of one Cyrano De Bergerac. Fairly well known in history for his ability with the sword and a remarkably long nose. The village of Bergerac, is spectacular. It is nestled in the Perigueux, which is a region that is reminiscent of the Ozarks of my youth. You replace a grove or two of mighty Oak with a rolling vineyard of grapes and you have the Perigueux. We didn't even travel the picturesque portion of the region and the views were amazing.

This would be a day where my youngest would find another sport for which he would seem to have a passion. The fighting arts come natural in our family. The eldest and I have a growing history with the martial arts, so it is only natural that the youngest finds himself drawn to a combat sport. During the days events, we couldn't help but indulge a request to purchase a wooden toy replica of the Epee for our youngest to play with. He is very keen on the sport and would spend the afternoon imitating what he had seen using his tiny wooden sword. The pictures are priceless. As an aside, I would be interest to here how many of those reading this crap would like me to include photos. I have been hesitant to do so in the past, but I have received many a request for the addition of this feature and am uncertain as to its impact on the project as a whole. Feel free to post a comment to let me know what you think. I have removed the editorial feature of the comments as well, so when you comment, it will immediately post onto the blog. Keep it clean . . . this is a family joint . . . sort of.

Back to the day. It was a wonderful morning full of sword fighting and story telling. A wonderful walking tour of the city had us delighted with the idea of a return trip to explore further. Our friend's son would do well and it seemed that the tournament would continue on well into the early evening hour. We would leave after lunch, but that in an of itself is worth a description. Given the sporty nature of our family and particularly our eldest son, we have had many opportunities to spend a weekend or two in the pursuit of a tournament trophy. In the US, lunch usually consists of a quick sandwich or picnic lunch in between matches. Sometimes a concession stand is available for the purchase of a candy bar or two in the event you came ill prepared. Lunch at the fencing tournament would be a different experience. It would be a semi-formal 5 course meal served under a canopy of trees in one of the city's central plazas. The meal would start with an Aperitif for the adults and small snacks for the kids. The starter would be a salad of greens and duck stomach. Main course would follow full of an Au Gratin potato dish and Duck breast. Red wine would of course be served with the main dish. We lucked out a bit as the table I was at was filled with youngsters (surprise), so the bottle of wine was only split 3 ways. The meal ended with fromage (goat cheese) and a nice apple and rhubarb tart.

By the end of the meal, the temperature had become fairly uncomfortable. 38 degrees to be exact, so the cup of hot coffee that I dumped in my lap didn't do me any favors. Since lunch ended somewhere around the 2 hour mark, we decided that we would not push our youngest any further. The fact that he spent lunch asleep in my lap and only narrowly escaped being scalded by hot coffee help the decision along. We wished our friends well and the best of luck then retreated for home. We had one last stop to make for the day. Our friends had graciously offered the use of their work van to aid in our upcoming move. On our way home, we stopped back by their home to pick up said vehicle. It is a fair sized vehicle by French standard and goes by the name "Jumpy". A Citroen Jumpy to be exact. There is but one draw back to the Jumpy that made itself known on this afternoon. The Jumpy is NOT equipped with an air conditioner. With the fam resting comfortably in the climate controlled Renault, the old man spent the next hour and a half commute back home rattling through the Jumpy's gear box in the blazing heat with the windows rolled down. The highway breeze would have made it tolerable, however, it would seem that the electronics in the aging Jumpy make for a Gremlin or two. When I rolled the windows down, the heating system spontaneously engaged and I spent the entirety of the ride with the heater blowing its full force in my face.

For those of you that aren't math geniuses out there, 38 degrees Celsius works out to roughly 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit. Certainly not the type of weather you want to be running your heater. Finally arriving at Madame Chaboud's, I was not well cooked, but a bit over done from stewing in my own gravy for an hour or so. I brought the old Jumpy to rest and sort of melted out of the driver's seat and onto the side walk in front of the house. Dehydrated and somewhat delirious, I spent the remainder of the day in a sweaty fog attempting to recover a bit for the week ahead. Things are moving fast and furious these days, and I find it difficult to complete my usual daily posts. Remain patient with the process. I will get them all posted, it just may remain on a day or two delay. The weather has turned quite hot and the lack of air conditioning in our home has us spending most days fairly still with the windows drawn shut in an attempt to shield ourselves from the heat. We would be enjoying our last few days in Madame Chaboud's pool had our pool boy not gone on strike leaving it to once again turn somewhere short of Kelley Green. I have set about rectifying this problem, but for now we will just have to sweat it out, so to speak.

The moving process has already played host to a number of follies, so stay tuned for the next few installments.  They promise to be full of adventure.  Until we speak again.  R.

Day 128

Houston, we DON'T have a problem.

A colleague of my wife's invited us to the beach on Saturday, and we were happy to oblige.  We spent the morning in the Centre Ville in the never ending quest to update our sad American wardrobe.  Not a terribly successful outing, but we managed to avoid major incident, which is often considered a success around our house.  Back home, we quickly fed the kids and hit the road for the beach.  After a gridlocked drive, we finally joined our hosts and let the kids splash in the water for the afternoon.  The reason for the trip was to introduce our eldest to a young man whose mother is dating my wife's colleague.  He is a nice young man from Houston, I think.  The boys seemed to get along famously, and my eldest enjoyed himself so much that he wanted to stay and camp with this family.  I think the familiar dialect made him feel more at home than he has in several months. Unfortunately, our weekend's dance card being somewhat full, we could not indulge the request.  Nevertheless, we spent a long afternoon, well into the evening hours with some very pleasant company.

Unfortunately, the boys (both) and I have found another recreational passion.  Body boarding.  Even my youngest seems to have a thirst for this sport, which will in my case, and my eldest's as well, likely lead to other board sports such as surfing.  My wife's colleague seems keen on kite surfing, which he indicated he might have a go at.  I may join him for the schooling if I can get approval from the wife.  At any rate, it would seem that there are at least 4 new body boards in our near future.  Fortunately, the boards aren't so expensive and the beach we now call local is very tame indeed.  The youngest would acutally find his way into several sports this weekend.  I am pleased to see him focus a bit of his energy in a positive direction and will encourage his endeavors as I have his elder brother before him.

The long drive home had me praying for sweet slumber, but the children that had slept for most of the drive had different ideas.  We would finally coax them to bed as the morning would come very quickly for day 129 and we would have a full day indeed.  For now, I am relishing in the pride a father has when raising "sporty" kids and the new opportunity to explore new recreational opportunities with my youngest.  Day 129 was full indeed, so I will bid you all farewell for now in hopes to have the energy to recap the entirety of the weekend before I go to bed.

Day 127

How my children pissed on a perfectly good day . . . literally.

Ever have one of those days where you are whipping its ass?  Today I kicked Friday so hard in the nuts that Thursday felt the ache.  Everything was falling into place.  Like Midas, everything I touched turned to gold.  Getting way more done than I should have and accomplishing so many tasks on the list I was certain that the weekend would allow for a little R&R.  Cleaned the house from top to bottom, wrote a couple of blog entries, studied French, and began painting my first masterpiece.  That's right, I am an artist now.  Don't worry, despite my current location, I have no intention of cutting off one of my ears and sending it to my lady love.   Christmas came in June this year.  A care package from home contained more goodies than I can shake a stick at.  Most notably, art supplies and a replacement pair of sunglasses.  All was going well, that was of course until my youngest woke from an impromptu nap.  Apparently not quite awake yet, he mistook the hallway and my cleanly mopped floor for the toilet and let loose just outside of his bedroom. He came and found me, of course, and indicated that he had peed some on his pants when he was going to the bathroom.  He made no mention that he went to the bathroom in the middle of the hallway.

I rounded the corner on my way to his room to obtain a replacement pair of pants in my bare feet, and quickly realized the bounty of his efforts.  Father turned Olympic figure skater, I eased my way into a slippery triple lutz, unfortunately I failed to stick my landing and ended up needing a clean pair of pants for the both of us. Since my own pants seemed to have soaked up a fair amount of his urine, mopping up was a cinch.  I decided it was time to open a bottle of wine and call it a week, which is exactly what I did.  The wife got home, we went for a bike ride, had dinner, I washed my feet and went to bed.  Sometimes just surviving is good enough.

Day 126

. . . 6'4" and full of muscles.  I asked, do you speak my language.  He just smiled and gave me a Vegimite sandwich.

Thursday just didn't go as planned . . . for anyone.  The day started out a complete mess and ended in much the same way.  In like a shit storm and out like a rectal exam.  I arrived at the school house to drop off my children and advised that the youngest had a school outing that required my attendance.  This was not at all in my plans for the day.  I was meant to be at home waiting on the arrival of a crate of goods that could not be delivered to an Australian family we have befriended.  What's worse is that this crate contained a bicycle that was on a deadline.  Remember the Australian physicist?  He was due in Switzerland on Friday with said bicycle for a down hill mountain bike event.  Some frantic phone calls had things settled, I THOUGHT.  After spending as much time as I could at the park with my youngest for his end of year festival, I ran back to the 206 some 7 or 8 blocks away so I could fly back to my house to be there for the delivery.  Fortunately, our Australian friends beat me to the scene, but no crate to be found.  We waited and waited.  Still no crate.  Finally, the noon hour arrived and I ran back to the school to pick up the youngest, leaving our Aussie friends to fend for themselves.  Upon my return . . . still no crate.  We were fast approaching the golden hour which the decision must be made whether or not he will make his originally scheduled flight.  He opted to stay and wait.  I had no soon rejoined the watch party than my phone rang.  School calling.  Eldest is sick and needs to be picked up.

Left the youngest under the care of the Aussies and jumped back in the tired 206.  Picked up the eldest and returned.  Still no crate.  A few calls back and forth to their agent discovered that the delivery driver was on lunch break and would not be available to after 2 pm.  More waiting.  My eldest promptly began riding his skateboard and enjoying his afternoon.  Knew it . . . got played.  Could tell something was afoot when I picked him up.  Seems he and a friend may have pulled a fast one on everyone.  My eldest indicating that he was ill, while his friend confirmed the story by telling everyone that my eldest didn't look so good.  Bad coloration or some bullshit.  Either way, it got the eldest a trip home and a free afternoon.  I questioned him to see if the following day, the scenario would play itself out in return to allow the friend a trip home, but he wasn't talking.  Cat must have got his tongue.  Re-focusing our attention to the pending delivery, the 2 o'clock hour came and went.  Still nothing.  Another call to dispatch.  Driver claims he has called house and talked to . . . ME.  Claimed "I" told him that he had the wrong house.  LIAR.  Hell, I hadn't been home long enough to receive any phone calls.  Our friend's trip of a lifetime was fading away before our very eyes.

The agent promised to continue to make things right and have the package delivered as promised.   Final verdict?  Package would arrive at 5 p.m.  This would be an hour too late to make the next available flight.  Things looked grim.  Perhaps a switch of airline and internet research might render an available flight.  No such luck I am afraid.  The package arrived, but there was simply no way to get our friend to Geneva by 8 a.m. in the morning.  The trip was gone, and I could see the sadness in his face.  My heart wept for him.  I think it is a guy thing.  He didn't want to go on the trip without his own gear.  Again a guy thing.  Then, to have it arrive a day late and dollar short  was a difficult pill to swallow.  Soon the crate would be unpacked and arrangements made to cart its contents back to their home.  Upon inspection of the goods, insult was added to our friend's injury.   The bicycle was damaged.  You all know by now that I am a bike nut, so it was kind of like watching a friend who had just had their dog hit by a car.  Nothing I could say would make his day better.  Missed out on a trip of a lifetime and now his noble steed is busted.  Shitty day.

I bid them a final farewell for the day and returned to my own worries.  Wife would not be home till late, so went ahead and fed the children.  Whipped up a little Chicken Carbonara pasta and everyone seemed pleased.  Can't go wrong with Chicken on pasta, particularly when the whole thing tastes like Ham.  With bellies full, we commenced with our evening routine.  Unfortunately, all the extra curricular activity of the day had me behind on domestic affairs and looking for the nearest pillow.  Mom arrived to mop up the last bit of pasta, then we all hit the rack.  Tomorrow is going to be hell trying to get my life caught back up to normal.  Wish me luck.  Goodbye for now.  R.

Day 125 Mark 2

Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division . . . My life as FILTH.


First off, I would like to apologize to all of you Marvel purists out there.  I used the movie version of the famous acronym because . . . well because it is my blog and I like it better.  As you can see, we are on our way into a second post for the day.  My mind is in overdrive today and I am driven, no, compelled to put it all down on paper so to speak before my cranium ruptures.  Jokingly referring to myself as a "trophy" husband got me thinking.  There is a well know acronym out there among young men with regard to an attractive mother.  "Mother I would like to . . . ", well,  you know the rest.  I wondered if there is such a thing in reverse.  I would rather doubt this to be the case as women tend not to be as crass and despicable in their thought process as men are.  Not really wanting to test these waters with a Google search that would likely yield results that I wasn't ready to see while simultaneously contracting a computer virus that would cripple my fragile communications network, I decided to make up my own.  I went with FILTH.  "Father I would Like to HUG".  Hug . . . not Hump . . . I know some of you out there went HUMP.  Get your mind out of the gutter.  Like S.H.I.E.L.D, maybe my acronym needs some work.  I wanted it to be a sentiment that is typically American.  We come from a culture where the hug is a common greeting among friends.  Not this kissing nonsense the French have adopted.  They actually find the hug quite intrusive here.  I have always thought this to be humorous given the intimate meaning we Americans attach to our faces getting close to one another.  Pressing cheeks and making kissy sounds seems much more invasive.  I can give a dude a modified hug and keep it completely on the level.  No room for that with the cheek kiss.  Truth is, I am comfortable and uncomfortable with the cheek kiss all at the same time.   It is part of a warm greeting between friends and is completely harmless on paper.  You couple it with the weird grunt that I almost always find myself compelled to utter and it all feels a bit perverse.  Kind of an MMMM sound at the start.  I doubt that anyone notices, but I almost always have to consciously prevent myself from the sound anytime I kiss someone hello or goodbye.  The last thing I want is to convey some underlying meaning to this cultural tradition.  Force of habit I guess, for when American's get their faces close and kiss, there is almost always some underlying meaning.


Being a FILTH is a difficult job.  I don't think men lean toward affection naturally.  Being a huggy, squeezy kind of guy doesn't seem to come naturally to men until we are grandfathers.  Holding your Fathers hand and giving him a hug is unfortunately a fleeting fancy.  Kids outgrow this quickly, leaving us Fathers relegated to the casual handshake.  So, in light of the recent Father's Day holiday, I am bringing the hug back.  Hug your dad, he deserves it.  He may not like it, but he deserves it.  This goes for everyone.  Even if you are an attractive young lady and the man isn't YOUR father, give that guy a hug anyway . . . I promise he will appreciate it.  Ok, Ok, lets not get carried away.  We don't want a little innocent hugging to lead to the unfortunate mess I make of the French kiss . . . oh hell, I just opened up a whole different can of worms . . . I have derailed.  Somehow this went from an innocent hug for a deserving father to tongue kissing and exchanging dirty emails.  That's not a good color on anyone.  Ask your local congressman.  Honestly, with a name like Weiner, what did you expect?  The jokes are too plentiful and common to soil myself with, so I am taking the high road.


I believe we all need to be a little FILTHy.  Our kids need to know we care and that we aren't always unpleasant and unapproachable.  I reserve that for about 90 percent of my parenting, but on occassion I wrap my arms around by boys and tell them I love them.   If I am lucky, this is a gift that I can give my grandchildren, a father willing to give them a hug. So for now, while my kids are still young enough to appreciate it, they will indeed remain FILTHy Rich.  Ok, that about covers the disgustingly sappy sentiment for the day.  I have now contributed my fair share to pop culture, so feel free to spread this around through social networking.  I fully expect to find this on Wikipedia the next time I check.  As for the male version of a MILF, I will leave that to the porn industry to sort out.  Although, FILTHY Rich would be a great adult film title, and if any of you run across such a film, I believe I deserve some royalties.  As for me, I will do with a hug even though my wife says I am more accomplished at the French kiss than I give myself credit for.  Should I edit that out?  No, lets leave it there.  Sometimes it is nice to see my wife's pained reaction.  The look of disgust is priceless.  


My aching skull seems to have passed and I can rest easy for the remainder of my day knowing that the wealth of insanity floating around upstairs will not cause and involuntary explosion of my grey matter all over the kitchen floor.  I will catch up with you all tomorrow.  Oh, and if you were wondering about the S.H.I.E.L.D. reference, my youngest thinks he is Iron Man.  Take care and good night.

Day 125

War of the Roses, The French Paradox and striking a balance toward Gender neutrality.

Ok, I am going to let my Redneck peek out from beneath my collar for a bit this afternoon, so hold onto your hats (preferably the 10 gallon kind).

Much is made over the French paradox.  I have certainly mentioned it in prior posts, but I think it worth revisiting for a moment because a visit to the local "supercenter" produced a moment of reflection that I believe is worth sharing.  The paradox is this:  How does a culture that consumes so much rich food, smokes so many cigarettes and drinks so much booze stay so relatively thin?  The answer is that this isn't in fact the "REAL" French paradox at all. The REAL French paradox is:  How does a "man" prance around a shopping mall in a pair of Wranglers while carrying a murse and not get the shit kicked out of himself in the parking lot?  Ever seen the movie "Broke Back Mountain"?  Didn't think so, but why?  It's because the world isn't ready for gay cowboys.  Where I come from, if you have the walnuts to wear a pair of Wranglers, you better have a can of Skoal about your person at all times and prefer fighting to shopping.  Why can't we leave the old west alone?  Don't get me wrong, I have no prejudice against the gay community.  In fact, they are generally wonderful people with an open and accepting outlook on life.  An outlook that I appreciate.  An outlook that more of us should emulate.  I can't stand blind hatred in the name of religion and come from a place where many that call themselves "cowboys" are uneducated pricks that aren't willing to accept another man's lifestyle when it has no bearing on his own.  I don't believe, however, that fellers ought to be sword fighting in the bunkhouse till wee hours of the morning.  There are chores to tend to for God's sake.  Cowboys are a dying breed and should be left to their ways.  No need to modernize it with matching accessories and a neckerchief.  Only guy to ever pull that off was Gene Autry and I will be damned if we soil his good name.  So, lets do those few still riding the range a favor and let them have their own brand of clothing.

This is all a very elaborate way of saying that I ain't gettin along with the Mrs.  Actually that is not true, we are getting along just fine, but being a family that has essentially turned traditional gender norms upside down I feel the need to keep some things sacred.  I am not of the opinion that a woman's place is in the kitchen and my wife and I are equals in every way.  That is not to say that my liberal dose of testosterone doesn't make me more suited for certain tasks.  I think my wife would agree.  Ask her when the last time she killed a mouse was.  She screams and retreats for high ground at the mere sight of beady little eyes.  She can't build a straight line of fence to save her soul and I couldn't put a hem in a pair of pants if you put a gun to my head.  That isn't to say that either of us is incapable of learning these tasks, we have just come to a silent understanding that we will each let each other believe that we need each other for these jobs and leave it at that.  Are they gender specific?  Perhaps.  They are so because of our history.  Not hers and mine, but mankind's.  She and I have blurred the hell out of the traditional lines but have still retained certain customs out of convenience.  I don't want to sew and she is terrified of mice.  It all works out quite nicely and we find that perfect balance in our daily lives.  She has a genetic need to feel feminine at times, and sometimes my DNA requires me to pound my chest like I have a say in the direction of our lives.  The truth is somewhere in the middle, but we each have an uncontrollable need to be a Woman and a Man and I don't see anything wrong with that.  Being Mr. Mom is a treat and carrying on with the domestic affairs rarely raises much of a fuss out of me, that is of course until my wife starts to try and place traditional labels on our life.

Over dinner, we had a discussion about certain tasks that needed to be completed for our pending move and I inquired as to why I was put in charge of appliance purchases, she commented that the "house was my domain".  After composing myself and wiping the mascara from my teary eyes I leveled the playing field a bit and asked why I didn't have a fancy new Audi SUV like the rest of the mom's at the school drive.  Their husbands love them enough to buy them a nice grocery-go-getter, so why didn't I get the same?  Once again we were back to 50/50, striking that awkward balance of "his and hers" duties in an attempt to teach our youngsters a life without gender expectations while still making them manly men.  If we can manage to keep it together, they will certainly chose a spouse that is their equal and if they are lucky will find that pairing that is the white to their black.  I firmly believe that opposites attract and the Yin/Yang component of our lives is what makes us work.  I am strong where she is weak and she is strong where I am weak.  Together we can conquer the world.  Apart we are lost and hopeless.  At least I hope that is the way she looks at life.  Can't be for sure though, that chick is crazy.  Fortunately I am quite sane, so it all works out in the end.  I would imagine if she is reading this, her cheeks are quite red in anger, so I will quit while I am ahead.  I love you dear, and I will have dinner on the table when you get home.  I promise!  Don't be late though, I have a mani/pedi at 6.  Until tomorrow.

Day 124

The appliances of life and linguistic perfection.

My day would be spent in appliance shopping hell.  Our hopes for a Refrigerateur Americaine fell along the wayside with the discovery that the new house was not equiped with a waterline to feed the upscale appliance.  Instead we opted for a dandy French style fridge with a self serve water reservoir.  The concerning part of this purchase was that it was from a retailer by the name of Mister Good Deal.  Life lessons have taught me that any time a business uses the term "Good Deal" in their title, it usually isn't one.  You throw a "Mister" in front and you have a recipe for disaster.  In fact, I heard that not long ago Mrs. Good Deal filed for divorce because she caught him cheating with the retailer next door.  Despite my reservations, the promise of "super savings" had me salivating like Pavlov's dog.  The truth of the matter is, it is hard to take any retail purchase terribly seriously when you know that its longevity is limited by the duration of your stay.  Presuming the potentially stolen goods I just purchased are in fact what they claim to be, I have high hopes.  I opted for the same brand in refrigerator as I have in a television set.  So far, the television has held up its end of the bargain, and "life is good".  I went for a safer route with the washer and dryer.  Made that purchase from a major retailer that promises free delivery.  If strapping a refrigerator to the top of the 206 is a bad idea,  adding the additional weight of a washer and dryer will certainly lead to an untimely death . . . for me and the 206.  I do have some concerns regarding the delivery as it would appear that we now reside at a mythical address.  Not a problem for the postman who is likely well familiar with the noble estates of the French countryside, but bound to be a cause for concern for the townie in the delivery van.  Apparently our address has no number.  Strange, but why ask questions you don't have the mental capacity to understand the answers to.

News came across the wire today that my wife's colleague that we had hosted over the weekend was quite impressed with my proficiency in French.  I just about fell out of my chair.  I would hardly consider my meager control of my mother tongue proficient, much less the stuttering mockery I make of the French language.  It did bolster my confidence, which is always in question when it comes to the still difficult task of communicating here in our new home.  Perhaps I am getting it after all, or at least I make it look good.  I still get that deer in the headlights moment anytime a conversation starts, but I do seem to be adapting to some of the commonly used vocabulary and I think my accent is getting better.  I do feel a sense of urgency about it, however, in that pride will not allow me into a situation in which my children can make fun of me without me understanding a word they say.  One thing is certain, I have learned ALOT over the past few months and certainly with a year or two of practice under my belt anything is possible.

Wanting to avoid an uncomfortable conversation at the mobile phone retailer in which I would stumble hopelessly trying to explain the problem with my phone, I hit the information super highway in search of answers.  The web is indeed a wonderful tool.  In addition to the copious amounts and variety of porn (reason enough for its existence), there are also some wonderful tech forums that will help you out of most any computer driven jam.  I did in fact stumble across the problem and it was an easy fix.  Fighting my way out of radio darkness, I realized I was still not off the hook with the mobile retailer.  We are, after all, moving and since my internet, fixed phone and mobile are all in one package, it would require a visit to the store to get things sorted out.  We were able to find an attendant that spoke a bit of English to help us with this rather technical discussion.  Even though our language skills are improving, I find that when things get technical, the basics just aren't enough to get you by.  It turns out that we are going to have to change carriers and that should be a hoot.  I will stay with the current carrier for mobile, but internet, television and fixed phone must go elsewhere.  I am hopeful that this change will bring about a better set of television programming than we currently have.  Most of our current channel selection is actually German, which does nothing for developing our language skills.  Plus, the programming on Germany's Discovery Channel leaves something to be desired. There are only so many times I can watch how bratwurst is made.

That about sums up our day overseas.  I will catch you up again tomorrow with another fresh installment.  Good night and take care.

Day 123

Even Steven . . . the art of raising Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Perhaps it is best described with Newton's Third Law:  For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.  For every day of grief your children give you, there is an equal bounty of joy.  Sunday was a disaster and Monday was a pleasure.  The children's behavior turned 180 degrees from the day prior.  So much so that I was greeted with a special comment from the youngest's French instructor that he had been particularly kind to others on this day as well as a congratulations on his progress with the language.  The eldest's day was equally stellar, and the evening proved to be a continuation of the same.  No fighting, no complaining, just sweet, simple silence.  Early bedtimes were adhered to and neither seemed bent on destruction.  If I knew the recipe, I would patent it and make a fortune.  There seem to be so many variables in the equation that replicating the result is nearly impossible.  Is it a result of too much sleep or not enough sleep?  Too much attention, or not nearly enough?  Whatever the "goldilocks" factor is, the planets aligned and caused Mr. Hyde to go into hiding and allowed us to spend some quality time with the Doctors Jekyll.

As for me, it was a case of the Mondays.  Attitude and energy at low ebb, it would be a relief indeed that the kids had such a wonderful day.  It boosted my spirit and gave me a renewed sense of purpose.  Our move is less than two weeks away and we have much to do, so the increase in focus was a welcome gift.  Once again we must endeavor into the administration of life.  Changing address and getting all the proverbial "i"s dotted and the "t"s crossed.  Once again I find myself in a telecommunications black hole.  My cellie has refused to reboot and will now require a trip to our local mobile retailer for a once over.  If replacement is required, Steve Jobs will be getting my business.  Bill Gates has failed me for the last time.  My loyalties and emotions are no longer his to toy with.  It is to be a big "SALES" week in the Metropolitan area, so perhaps I won't have to take out a bank loan to afford the upgraded product.  The week will likely see a great many Euros freed from our pockets as we must endeavor to outfit our new home with appliances.  Picking them out isn't likely to be difficult, but picking them up is going to be a bit sticky.  As sturdy and spacious as the 206 may be, I have my doubts that the roof will hold up under the weight of refrigerator strapped to it's lid.  We haven't yet figured out how to jump this hurdle, but something will work out . . . it has to.

We are looking forward to the move regardless of how exhausting the event is likely to be.  Big things are on the horizon.  The last day of school and my 11th wedding anniversary are just days away.  We will celebrate them with a slice of pizza and a trip or two in a moving van.  And my wife says I'm not romantic anymore.  For now, I am going to catch up on as much sleep as possible, for the coming weeks promise to be sleep deprived.  I will keep you posted.   I can't imagine I will escape from this fiasco without a juicy story or two to share.  Take care and talk to you again soon.

Day 122

Bonne Fete du Pere . . . "what one man can do, another man can do"

Happy Fathers Day to all.  When asked how I wanted to spend Father's Day, my response was simple . . . SLEEP.  The family indulged and allowed the old man to sleep in past the usual waking hour around our house.  Not wanting to take advantage and drive my wife crazy I didn't over indulge.  The children decided to thank their father for being such a wonderful guy by being as poorly behaved as I believe they have ever been since they have been born.  By the time the day concluded . . . quite late in the evening, I was considering ways in which I could insure that I would not have to celebrate Father's Day next year . . . or ever again.  I certainly didn't want to claim either of the two of them as my own.  I threatened to send them back to stay with their "real" father back in the States.  I know he is likely busy with his postal route, but he is going to have to step up and start fathering these two mongrels.

The day was spent at home which didn't seem to help the already cagey demeanor of our youngsters.  We laid low and didn't really do a damned thing.  I can't say however, that this was particularly restful.  The stress that our two home bound hoodlums put on their mother and father had our souls aching a bit for the effort.  We did survive and did our best to recover for the week to come.  Regardless of the outcome of the weekend or the fact that things didn't go exactly according to plan, I wasn't put off of my game.  I live my life by one simple rule . . . "what one man can do, another man can do".  Regardless of what I must endure or what challenges are placed in my way, I remain confident that if it is humanly possible to accomplish the task, I too am capable of accomplishing it.  I recite this mantra to myself every morning when I awake and every evening when I shut my eyes and go to sleep.  I believe this to be true of us all.  What one individual can do, another individual can do.  I have taught my children that this is their baseline in life which means that they are free to dream big and achieve big.  Greatness is found in those accomplishment that no other man can claim.  These are the things to strive for.  These are the details worth sweating.  The rest is all small stuff that everyone must endure.

That is all I have for day 122.  I will catch up with you all one last time this evening if you are willing to read on.  Take care for now . . . R.

Day 121

Foul Weather Friends.

That's what I call them.  That's what I call my "true" friends.  It is quite easy to be a friend to someone when times are high.  Not so easy when they are a pain in your ass and demanding that you give them time that you often do not have.  A "true" friend answers the call, time and time again, expecting nothing in return.  A "true" friend is content in the knowledge that when you are needed and the call is given, you will be there in like kind.  This has always been my measure of friendship, which may explain why I have so few "true" friends.  We have made friendships with two such families since we have been here in France.  Our American friends who you know well by now, and the French couple who helped us purchase vehicles to a lesser extent only in that we have not been afforded the luxury of developing that relationship further.  We would endeavor to build this relationship further on Day 121.  The plan was lunch at our house and then a run down to the Centre Ville to take in the River Festival that was going on.

Apparently there were going to be 500 plus brave/insane folks diving into the muddy (yeah, that's what we will call it . . . muddy) Garonne River to have a bit of a swim from one shore to the next.  I really didn't want to miss this carnage, and it was a nice opportunity to spend some quality time with our French friends.  The weather, however, had other ideas.  We made an attempt to head down to the river via public transit only to find that the bus drivers were on strike.  Returning to our home in order to pile into our respective cars for the trip down, the skies turned dark and rain set in.  Foul weather friends indeed.  Didn't intend for that to be a literal type thing.  Sometimes in life, even something as inconvenient as a public transit strike works out in your favor.  We decided to cancel the trip and made plans to get together again over the coming weekend.  We bid them farewell and spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening tending to pending move that is now only 10 days or so away.

With a busy weekend and continued focus on relocation, I was not able to write these posts over the weekend.  As such, I once again face the daunting task of catching back up.  Unfortunately, when I get this far behind, I also have my loving wife busting my balls and inquiring why I haven't posted my comments for the day yet.  It would seem she is somewhat addicted to reading my recaps of the day, even though she herself has lived through them.  Seems odd to me in that if she wanted to know what I think, she could just ask.  I think she enjoys the sneak peak into my psyche that I wouldn't ordinarily share with her at will.  Strange, I know, but with two growing boys in the house, we don't seem to have much time for daily reflection and adult conversation.  I will make every effort to update the remainder of the afternoon by close of business today.  Speak to you again real soon . . . R.

Day 120

Life Aboard the S.S. Minnow

As I recall, a three hour tour didn't work out so f_ _ _ing well for Gilligan and it didn't do me any favors either.  The plan for Friday afternoon seemed simple enough.  Load the youngest in the car . . . Check.  Pick up the eldest at the International School at 4 . . . Check.  Meet wife in the village where she works for an open house at the boys new school . . . SHIT.  I should have taken the darkening skies and sudden downpour of rain as an omen.  I turned my trusty 206 onto the Blvd, not a block from the International School, and WHAM . . . gridlock.  I would spend the next hour or so making my way to the Rocade (read as Freeway).  Once on the Rocade, things didn't improve much.  Traffic was at an absolute crawl, and suddenly I started to feel very sorry for my wife.  Dealing with this as a daily commute would be enough for me to want to put a bullet in my skull.  With a broken spirit and a cramping left calf from the never ending clutch work required to keep this snails pace, I almost decided to turn back.  Wish I had.  Very much wanting the kids to get an opportunity to see their new school, I pushed on.  Finally traffic broke loose and I let the little 206 stretch her legs a bit.  Pedal down and ears back, she sailed down the road doing her best to catch us up to our very tight schedule.  The open house was scheduled between 5 and 6 pm.  We had already burned an hour just trying to get out of town.  If my little "Tray" (The word I use for the 206's color . . . somewhere between Tan and Gray) Rocket could get us the rest of the way inside of 30 minutes we would be golden.

Try as she might, she simply couldn't close the deficit and we hit town at a quarter till 6.  My wife, having decided that she needed two GPS systems in the Renault, stripped my 206 from the only electronic equipment she has and I was without navigational aid.  I was pissed and now hopelessly lost.  Needed to call the wife and tell her to go on without us if she hadn't already.  Bad luck that, picked up the phone . . . dead of course.  Nearly sent the thing out the window for abandoning me when I needed it the most.  With it raining once more and my attention on other electronic matters, I failed to notice the line of cars stopping in front of me.  Fortunately, my good ole 206 is born from Rally bloodlines and when I demanded the breaks she broke into a dead sideward slide like she was winding her way up the Matterhorn.  With an inspired downshift and liberal application of throttle, I sent her drifting back in the other direction.  Finally running true, she skided to a dramatic stop with smoking breaks and a growling "umph" from the hunkered suspension.  Not even enough drama to awaken the now slumbering children in her back seat.  Assuming my wife had surely realized by this hour that I was going to be pulling a no show, I turned the 206 westward and headed back for the ranch.  I wish that I could say that traffic had eased by the time I rolled back into town.  Unfortunately that was not the case.  Another hour with my foot buried in the clutch had me roll back in front of Madame Chabou's over three hours after my original departure.

To add insult to injury, my wife managed to attend the open house, tour the school and get back on the road with enough efficiency to arrive home only 9 minutes behind me.  I opened the door to greet her with a "don't talk to me stare" and she knew not to ask.  Finally I quelled my frustration and carried on with our evening.  We spent the remainder of the day in relative familial peace and bid day 120 a goodnight.

Day 119

The School Play from Hell

After wasting a half year of my eldest child's education on the study of Samson and Delilah, the culmination of the International School's efforts would be displayed in all of its glory on this the 16th day of June, 2011.  We arrived early to ensure we got fairly reasonable seating to observe this spectacle.  Both of our children would participate, which is really where our day began.  The wife was off of work to deal with a number of administrative details surrounding our move which left little time for the creation of a "costume" for our youngest to wear at this occasion.  I have learned, and embraced, many domestic skills since transitioning from working stiff to stay at home dad, but sewing is not one of them.  I am however, fairly artistic and between my art skills and my wife's seamstress skills we managed to whip up a "superhero" costume for our little one.  The eldest was a bit easier.  Costume requirements were simply black pants, black shirt and colored hair.  We sorted the shirt and pants and left the colored hair to the folks at school.

Settling into our seats, the metal folding kind, I couldn't help but take note how this experience was going to be different from those we have enjoyed back in the good ole US of A.   First of all, the school is much too small to have a dedicated theater space, so the production took place on the playground.  The playground, so to speak, is actually just a paved courtyard in the middle of the school where they allow the children outside once or twice a day to play with hand-me-down foam balls.  I know that I make it sound more like a concentration camp than an elementary school, but we have become quite spoiled with the facilities and the level of education our children are afforded back home.  Anything less would seem uncivilized.  The truth is, in our time here, we have seen far worse than that which our children must currently endure.  My perspective has so changed that I now make my judgment based upon whether the school has indoor or outdoor restrooms.  Imagine how pleased you would be at the thought of your youngster using the toilet in sub-freezing temps.  At one of the schools we toured, the children actually hung their coats and bags outside under a lean to, but I digress.

The play began with a nice musical performance of  "Sweet Child of Mine" by a couple of the middle school boys.  Being fairly talented youngsters, this was probably the highlight of the show.  Not sure exactly what it had to do with Samson and Delilah, but it was delightful all the same.  The performance proper began with the early learning group of which my youngest is a part.  They were all dressed in some form of superhero garb and essentially danced and played on stage for a few moments while the eldest of them recited a line or two.  About what you would expect from this age group.  Cute, but not terribly organized.  They actually did a nice job in utilizing the middle school kids, each of them pairing up with the little ones so some level of coordination could be maintained.  Once the early learning group had completed their homage to superheros, the primary school kids took the stage to do their thing.  This group would be the main performance of the evening.  A rendition of Samson and Delilah that to be honest still has be scratching my head.  If I wasn't familiar with the subject, I would have no idea what happened when Samson's hair was cut based upon the meanderings on stage.  Part was in French, part in English (I think) and part in Spanish.

It was obviously an attempt to showcase how much they had taught these children in the language arts throughout the year.  The only thing it proved to me is that we were correct in our decision to move our kids.  Most of the anglo families attending the school at our children's age seem to be quite dissatisfied and this night would put an exclamation mark on this feeling.  The only children with speaking rolls seemed to be the French children.  Now, if you are to really show the world what you have done, wouldn't you have the English speaking children take the French rolls and the French children take the English speaking parts?  Or in the alternative, and for the sake of clarity, have the French children handle the French portion while the Anglo children tended to the English speaking parts.  Neither was the case.  The French children were the focus and due to their fairly poor English, I could understand a damn thing that was going on.  My sense of humor being what it it, I couldn't help but snicker at the use of "Barbie Girl" as one of the musical acts.  The song was sung by three 8 to 10 year old girls and it was clear that something had been lost in translation.

The meager understanding of the English language at this school reared its ugly head as these three gals danced around to a song referencing public sex, silicone tits and female degradation.  However you interpret it, I don't think it is a message you want to be sending to the young girls in your school, and I am not even a conservative!  I still wonder if anyone else in the audience picked up on the inappropriateness of it.  That's what happens when you learn your second language from pop culture.  I am going to include the lyrics just in case you don't know the song.  It goes a little something like this, and remember, these are 8 year old girls singing this tune . . . horrifying:

I'm A Barbie Girl In The Barbie World 
Life In Plastic, It's Fantastic 
You Can Brush My Hair, Undress Me Everywhere 
Imagination, Life Is Your Creation 

Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party 

I'm A Barbie Girl In The Barbie World 
Life In Plastic, It's Fantastic 
You Can Brush My Hair, Undress Me Everywhere 
Imagination, Life Is Your Creation 

I'm A Blonde Single Girl In The Fantasy World 
Dress Me Up, Take Your Time, I'm Your Dollie 
You're My Doll, Rock And Roll, Feel The Glamour And Pain 
Kiss Me Here, Touch Me There, Hanky-Panky 

You Can Touch, You Can Play 
You Can Say I'm Always Yours, Oooh Whoa 

I'm A Barbie Girl In The Barbie World 
Life In Plastic, It's Fantastic 
You Can Brush My Hair, Undress Me Everywhere 
Imagination, Life Is Your Creation 

Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Ha Ha Ha, Yeah 
Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Oooh, Oooh 
Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Ha Ha Ha, Yeah 
Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Oooh, Oooh 

Make Me Walk, Make Me Talk, Do Whatever You Please 
I Can Act Like A Star, I Can Beg On My Knees 
Come Jump In, Be My Friend, Let Us Do It Again 
Hit The Town, Fool Around, Let's Go Party 

You Can Touch, You Can Play 
You Can Say I'm Always Yours 
You Can Touch, You Can Play 
You Can Say I'm Always Yours 

Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Ha Ha Ha, Yeah 
Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Oooh, Oooh 
Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Ha Ha Ha, Yeah 
Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Oooh, Oooh 

I'm A Barbie Girl In The Barbie World 
Life In Plastic, It's Fantastic 
You Can Brush My Hair, Undress Me Everywhere 
Imagination, Life Is Your Creation 

I'm A Barbie Girl In The Barbie World 
Life In Plastic, It's Fantastic 
You Can Brush My Hair, Undress Me Everywhere 
Imagination, Life Is Your Creation 

Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Ha Ha Ha, Yeah 
Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Oooh, Oooh 
Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Ha Ha Ha, Yeah 
Come On, Barbie, Let's Go Party, Oooh, Oooh 



The one time they had an Anglo child speaking French was when my son's friend from the UK has a quick two line speech in the middle of the play.  An unfair attempt to take credit for his bilingual abilities that were obtained at another school that he attended for two years in the all French system.  I don't mean to rant and rave and put this place down.  It has been a nice transition for my kids, but is far from carrying forth the mission that it claims to be supporting.  The English children are clearly not learning French.  It would seem that the French children are learning a bit of English which is great, but they need to advertise this as such and the Anglo children can find a new school to attend.  To be honest, the educational experience here has probably been the most disappointing portion of our time here and we look forward to summer break and a restart of sorts in an all French private school that we now have both boys enrolled in.  The evening wasn't a complete and total drag though as we still had one performance left.  The middle school kids took the stage to put on their own performance that seemed to be written by the class.  It was disjointed and again had something to do with superheroes, but I give them an A for effort.  They had fun with it and even though it didn't make much sense, it was at least original.  The best part was the final act in which things went off script the the walls came crumbling down . . . literally.  After giving his final speech, one of the main characters stepped back center stage, lost his footing, tripped over a bench, tore through the elaborately painted backdrop they had painstakingly painted over the course of the year and plummeted to an unfriendly landing two or three feet below the back of the stage.

I damn near gave it a standing ovation, but the shock and horror on everyone else's faces reminded me that this probably wasn't the time or place for my sense of humor.  The kid was just fine, but the stage was ruined and after the fall, everything turned into mass chaos with children running this way and that without a clue how to finish out the play that clearly had a moment or two remaining.  It all just sort of fizzled out with a puff of smoke and screams of horror when the stage props were torn to shreds like the opening banner at a high school football game.  I took this as a sign to make a quick exit.  Not feeling sociable and up for pot luck afterwards, we gathered our lads and made a semi-inconspicuous run for the door.  And so ends our time at the International School.  Another chapter complete in our adventure.  One that didn't go according to plan, but ended as it began . . . a complete disaster.  Wishing you all the best for now.  Until tomorrow.  R.