Day 197 through 200

The Accidental Exhibitionist:  Unlocking Victoria's Secret while giving the neighbors the Full Monte.

A miracle has occurred on this the16th day of September.  If you have been following along, we have been struggling with internet connectivity for going on two months now and I am proud to say that with a little stress and strife, we are now connected back into the information super highway and I can once again focus my passion on this project.  It has been a busy few weeks, so the inability to connect, while inconvenient has been a bit of a blessing.  We have been able to focus on the first weeks of school and balance our new life here in the country.  There have been twists and turns along the way, but this post finds us happy and healthy with grand plans for the future.

It has been a week or so since my last post, so I will dispense with the pleasantries and get right to it.  Life has been full and at times rather comical for old Jack Butler.  While my wife will not entirely approve of the content of this post, there are three highlights of the past week that I want to share.  By now, you should need no warning as to my lack of an edit button, so sit down and enjoy the ride.

In our continued adjustment to the boys' new educational experience, we have had to run back and forth to the store to pick up those supplies that were either not on the list or simply not obtained due to our linguistic maladies.  The most notable of these trips put me in a nostalgic frame of mind.  My eldest has entered the fourth grade, and my weakening memory holds but two pearls from this period in my own life.  The first was Mrs. Johnson.  My 4th grade teacher.  She was an absolutely foul woman, whom I detested.  She was in fact the worst teacher I had growing up and while her treatment of me was unfair, what she did to a boy named Noah will live in my memory for the remainder of my days.  We had just returned from Christmas Break and we were asked to describe to the class, one by one, what we did on our vacation.  Our classroom was of the typical old school composition . . . individual desks with attached chairs lined up in neat rows of 6 facing the black board.  This is a foreign concept to my children as the "new" way of doing things seems to be more communal with large central tables and accompanying chairs.

That being said, we were two or three children deep into our discussion of the holidays when a young man by the name of Noah raised his hand out of turn.  He was not due his turn for at least a row or two and his interuption of the proceedings was not well taken by Mrs. Johnson.  She gruffly asked Noah what he needed and he replied that he did not feel well and wanted to go to the nurse.  Not one for compassion, Mrs. Johnson told Noah to put his head down on his desk and sit quietly.  Theory being (I guess) that when one has the stomach flu, laying your head on a hard plank of wood will cure what ails you.  Two more girls describe their barbie dream houses and shared stories of stockings hung by their chimneys with care before Noah's hand was once again raised with a more urgent plea for medical attention.  Again he was dismissed by Mrs. Johnson and the show and tell continued.

By this time, Noah's coloration had changed to something more akin to pea soup than the normal rosie glow that all children have about their complexion during this joyous time of the year.  Noah's next request was handled on foot.  He stood and made his way to the teachers desk at the front of the room.  This time old Mrs. Johnson's reaction was more terse indeed and indicated that Noah was to keep his mouth shut and return to his desk.  Unfortunately, Noah was unable to keep his mouth shut during his short walk back toward his desk.  He mouth was quite open actually.  In an exorcist fit of epic proportions, Noah's lips curled and his mouth dropped agape revealing the splendor of a column of projectile vomit that I had not, nor have I ever since experienced.  Perhaps it is my youthful mind that remembers this so dramatically, but I swear to this day that not a drop of his carrot filled regurgitation hit the ground before it splashed down in the isle between the seats six chairs back.  Amazing.

Now, I am no dummy, and I knew that I didn't want to stick around for the reflexive vomit fest that would surely occur once the rest of the children caught the fragrant aroma of Noah's bounty, so my hand was the first to be raised when the class was asked for two volunteers to go summon the Janitor.  Lincoln was his name, and to be honest, the President met with an easier fate than this poor fellow did on this cold January day.  Noah was finally granted leave to the nurses office and unfortunately had a head start on my fellow classmate and I as we made our way to the Janitor's office/closet.  Poor Noah was staggering down the hall like a drunken sailor vomiting on everything in his path.  Floor, walls, wastebaskets . . . younger children . . . no one seemed safe from his spray.  My classmate and I kept a liberal distance and made our way to Lincoln, dodging puddles of vomit to the best of our ability.  Lincoln, unfortunately, was busy with another task, so he couldn't be along with his Folgers can full of saw dust (the method for cleaning up vomit back in the olden days) for some time.

Lingering as long as we could, my classmate and I made our way back to the classroom to face the music and inform Mrs. Johnson that Lincoln had been summoned and would be along after he had completed his current task.  What we returned to was chaos.  Children crying and gagging.  Everyone begging for relief from the odor that had taken control of the eastern wing of the building.  Mrs. Johnson, however, was having none of it.  We walked in on the tail end of a lecture on how the smell was not that bad and those that attempted to hold their noses would be punished for their weakness.  The only one to receive any compassion at all was a boy by the name of Alex who was the unlucky one to be sitting at ground zero (6th seat back) where the vomit finally came to rest.  Poor Alex was fairly coated with chunks from about the waste down.

The trauma of this event rests heavily on my mind as my child enters the fourth grade.  My hope is that his instructor was cut from a different cloth and that he will get to enjoy his fourth grade year.  That being said, this event in my life was somewhat overshadowed by a milestone that I have still not recovered from and it is an indignity that my son must endure as well.  In my school system, 4th grade marked a special time in every child's life.  It was this year that the curriculum mandated that everyone learn how to swim.  We were put on a bus and carted to a local public indoor pool for the sake of keeping us all from the inevitable drowning that would have certainly killed us all had it not been for these school sponsored lessons.  Now, I have always been a very athletic lad, but swimming was never my strong suit.  In fact, at that age, I was was terrified of water and my parents could scarcely get me to put my head under water to wash my hair let alone make freestyle laps across an Olympic depth pool.

This pill was difficult enough to swallow without the humiliation that these lessons were to be conducted in a rental Speedo.  We were not allowed to bring our own trunks, and what we were forced to wear has left a permanent scar on my self esteem.  They were neatly arranged in piles on a table at the door.  They were arranged by color as memory serves.  Light blue for the Ectomorph crowd, Navy blue for those of us with average build, and a lovely Maroon for those with an expansive waste band.  Unfortunately, they were all well used and had faded over time.  They were always steaming hot and fresh out of the autoclave that I presume they used to disinfect these spandex beauties.  This too, I presume, caused them to change a bit in color.  While I was depressed to be clad in my grey-blue (formerly navy) mediums, there was nothing more humiliating than having to be the one fat kid in class who would have to suffer the indignity of parading around in a pair of rose colored panties.

If this was something I could spare my eldest child, I certainly would.  Not two years after I endured this humiliation, our public pool was condemned and shut down, thereby ending the swimming program at my school.  This curriculum is alive and well, however, at my children's school here in France.  Fortunately, my eldest is allowed to have his own bathing suit.  Unfortunately, it must also be a Speedo.  And to add insult to injury, (despite having a hair style very close to his father's) he must wear a swim cap.  Poor bastard.  He does have an advantage that his old man didn't have . . . the kid swims like a fish and loves the water, so if he can handled the harsh reality of wearing plumb smugglers in public, he should have a smashing good time.

The subject of dainty garments proves to be a good segway into my next observation for the week.  My wife returned home from her business trip a bit tattered and torn, but overall  no worse for the wear.  On the trip out, they lost her bag.  This required an emergency trip to the market for some essentials, not the least of which being new underpants.  Now, when she described this event, I had a picture in my mind of what Bulgarian underpants would be.  Fortunately, I was quite incorrect.  I must admit that I am a bit of a sucker when it comes to underpants.  Perhaps the fact that I have to wear man panties has given me an appreciation for well made undergarments or perhaps it is because I am a guy and I like chicks in lingerie.  Maybe it is a combination of both.  In keeping with the Christmas theme, I would say that I am a "wrapping" guy.  The thrill of the gift is not knowing what is inside.  Tearing open the paper to discover the unknown prize inside is what makes Christmas exciting.  I would suppose that the same can be true for me when it comes to the fairer sex.  A clothed or semi-clothed woman is much sexier in my mind than the alternative approach.  It is probably why my wife and I always argue as to whether the gifts from Santa should be wrapped or unwrapped.  I'm a "wrapping" guy.

Anyway, this is a very long way of saying that the French, and all European folk seem to do this better than we do back home.  My man panties are quite comfortable and durable.  Stylish if there can be such a thing in men's underpants and the same is true for the ladies.  Victoria's Secret is that underpants are done better in other parts of the world.  Not only are they just as aesthetically pleasing, but they are made with comfort in mind.  Unfortunately for those single fellas out there, chances are, if you are lucky enough to unwrap one of these gals, her pits are likely to stink so terribly bad that no amount of beautiful wrapping in the world is going to keep your interest.  I am still struggling to find a deodorant that works . . . can you tell?  Anyway, a hearty apology to my wife for discussing her underpants and a nod goes out to the folks at Air France for replacing the piece of luggage that they destroyed in transit back home.  The gorilla that handled this bag, tore our hard sided bag to shreds like it was made of tissue paper.  You win some and you lose some.

Finally, perhaps the most humiliating news from the week comes at my expense.  The discussion of underpants and lack there of once again serves as a nice transition into this final tidbit of news from overseas.  Despite my generally weak will power in recent years, I have mustered enough mental fortitude to make something of my quest for physical fitness.  I have continued to run, ride and lift weights at a rigorous pace.  I don't know that it is paying any physical dividends, but it has helped improve my mental state tremendously.  That being said, my domestic duties intermixed with a workout or two means that I end up showering somewhere in the middle of the day.  Most usually right before I head out to pick up the kids at school.  This unfortunately backfired on me a day or so ago and I haven't been terribly comfortable to speak of it until now.  It should be noted that in my shower there is a medium sized window that lacks covering.  The typical shuttering has long since been removed which makes for a lovely view while showering.  Not a big deal as, as everyone in the house except for myself is of small enough stature that they couldn't be seen except for the  top of their head.  There is also a heavy tree line along the adjacent bike path and not another house for miles, so the odds of being seen in the evening or the morning are slim to none.  Unfortunately, this is not the case at mid-day.

This is a living place.  A business.  A working vinyard with people coming and going with some frequency in the toil that is the agriculture of the region.  For my part, I am a tallish man.  Standing just a pinch over the 6 foot mark, my frame is not obscured from view out of our bathroom window.  The stars aligned and as I commenced my post workout shower, I peered out of the window as the water warmed a bit.  In doing so, I noted the neighbor (owner's) dog milling about in our side yard.  She is out with some frequency, so I thought nothing of it.  I watched her for a bit and she stayed in the area for some time.  This is not her usual pattern of behavior.  When not with her owners, she generally passed through our yard with a smell or two along the way and then disappears into the far reaches of the property.  As she made her way stage right, I realized why she was lingering.  The owners (Mr and Mrs) were standing next to my home examining the property next door for renovations to be completed for the next tenant.  With them were two gentlemen that I presume were hired for the job.

As I quickly scanned the group, there was no indication that the gents had noted my presence in the window.  When I got to the Mrs., however, it was clear that I had been duly noted and she was doing her best not to look by shielding the corner of her eye with her hand.  I nearly slipped and cracked my skull as i leaned hard against the shower wall in order to remove myself from the picture window.  I waited an uncomfortable amount of time before I dared look again.  I was trapped.  The only way out of the shower was back past the window.  I waited until the water was starting to become intolerably cold and I took a peek.  They were gone and so was my humility.  I finished what I had started and made for a quick exit.

And that my friends about sums up the week.  Hope you have enjoyed.  I will be posting with some frequency now, so stay tuned for more misadventure in days to come.  Take care for now.  R.