Post Party Depression

In the waining hours of my eve, I find my mind drifting into reflection.  Or perhaps these are the “waxing” hours.  Either be the case, I can’t help but feel a strange melange of sadness, confusion and elation.  A chapter feels as though it is coming to an end and with it a bit more of my former identity.  On this day we hosted a “thanksgiving” dinner for those that really defy proper description.  My hosting got the better of me and a sentiment that I wanted to convey got lost.  As the sands slipped through our hour glass, I found myself clinging to our last few guests.  I can honestly say, I care little for the pleasantries of Thanksgiving.  The moment when the conversation turns to the sentimental and we are each in turn expected to recite that which we are thankful for gives me heartburn.  “Thank you for my friends, thank you for my family, thank you for this meal . . . etc, etc, etc.  This year, however, I think perhaps the word “thankful” means more than it ever has in the Butler household.  This year we find ourselves truly blessed with what I believe to be our “family of friends”.  My intent was to propose a toast to those that gathered with us on this day, for it has been their loyalty to us over the past year that has made our lives in this new home possible.  They have been there in good times and bad.  They have been our shoulder to cry on and an extended hand to help pick us back up whenever we have fallen.  They did so, not because they felt a duty born of blood kinship, but because they wanted to.   For this I owe a debt I can never repay.  And so I spent the afternoon memorizing their faces and praying the clock would stop for just a moment or two so that we could take stock of where we are, where we have been and where we are going.  As we grow older, the latter of these seems less fixed than in our youth.  Expectations change and living with uncertainty carries with it less of a burden.  Instead, a clarity is given to the past and sense is made of the present.  As the moments of our celebration slipped away and our home once more grew empty and still, I was reminded of all those thoughts and even speculations that had heretofore consumed my soul.  Soon we will return to the land from which we came and in doing so I wonder how they will find me.  Will they recognize the man standing before them?  Will I recognize them?  For the first time in this adventure that we know as our new life, I find myself torn between two “homes”.  In returning to a place once called “home” a dear  friend of ours who is a brilliant author in his own right and a fellow ex-patriot once wrote, “Everything feels familiar, like putting on an old shoe, formed to one’s foot from the years of service, instant comfort and a receptacle for my dry socks”.  There have been many restless nights over the past year when I have longed for that feeling.  And soon it will come to pass.  Yet tonight I find myself restless for a different reason.  The hardest fought battle for those that do as we have done is to find that sense of belonging that we leave behind when we board the plane for parts unknown.  It wasn’t until this day, day 278 (give or take) that I realized this battle had been won.

As I looked across the table at each of our guests, a feeling of insignificance washed over me like a bucket of cold water.  Had we never made landfall on that grey February day, now months removed, they would have never been the wiser.  Their lives would have gone on as they had before and their extraordinary character would have remained untarnished by our needfulness.  We, on the other hand, would have lost as much as we now gain for having known them.  It is for this that I give “thanks” this year.  And so I know, many months from now, when and if I again return to my home on the western side of the Atlantic I will be just as sad to say goodbye to my family of friends as I was to say farewell to the friends in my family back when this journey first began.  This changes not the ache that remains from the loss we have already endured, but is a reminder that your home is not your house.  Within your house you hang your hat, within your home you hang your heart.  It is my great fortune that my ‘home” stretches an ocean wide without bias for cultural heritage or national origin . . . and that is worth being thankful for.  R.

My Thanksgiving Apology

I must begin this post with a hearty apology to all.  My intent from my last entry was a multi-part post that unfortunately never made it to print in favor of a very ill 9 year old in our home.  It seems the lad picked up a stomach virus that has kept him homebound for most of the week.  Playing nursemaid has not allowed time for much else.  Those that have children will understand my absence.  He is home again this morning but seems to be on the mend.  It is Thanksgiving day, and though we are not festive today, the weekend promises different.  Not willing to let it go uncelebrated, the wife decided it would be a keen idea to host 20 or so multinationals for a traditional Thanksgiving meal.  With special order turkey (2 to be exact) and a care package from home, we are able to construct the traditional meal for all our guests to share.  Wish us luck.  I could cop out and spend the remainder of this post reciting all those things I am thankful for, but the list is too numerous to count.  And so I will treat this as any other day and share some random thoughts.  Perhaps I will in turn make up for the lack of content from my prior post and clear the jumble within my head.  With the holidays at hand and a child’s needs dominating my days, I am put in mind of all things past and a novelty or two from today.  Since underpants seem a recurrent topic in my world, I think it worth a comment relating to the youngest in our home.  A need arose not so long ago on an outing into town which called for a purchase of some new underpants for my 4 year old.  In desperate need and with few options, we sprang for a pack with a Spiderman theme without really reading the label.  Once opened, they turned out to be a set of three very racy bikini briefs that unfortunately are his favorites.  He is so proud of them in fact, that it doesn’t take him long at home to shed himself of his jeans and parade around in just his unmentionables.  Now, this is cute enough when they are your kids are little, but these things would make Ron Jeremy blush.  As a side note, if you know who the “Hedgehog” is . . . shame on you . . . pervert.

I am far too tired at the end of a long week for a witty segue from one topic to the next, so we are going to be all over the map on this one.  In one of my last entries I alluded to my disdain for awarding medals for mediocrity and at that time I was not obliged to do much more than scratch the surface.  My eldest is . . . well . . . a jock.  He is a poet saint, don’t get me wrong, but athletics are a big part of what makes him tick.  As such, I have been to more than my share of matches and games in an effort to cheer him on while my fat ass consumes some real estate on a sub-arctic metal bleacher.  I was an athlete once too, and I remember the sting of defeat.  I remember the sorrow of watching another team take a trophy that I was certain I deserved.  In the end, however, one side must win and one side must lose.  That is the way of competition.  Or at least it used to be.  What are we doing to our kids these days?  I can tell you we aren’t preparing them for the world ahead of them.  It seems that we are far too concerned with hurting Timmy’s precious feelings rather than teaching him that even on his best day, there might be someone better still.  Any gambling man will tell you, no matter how skilled a player you are or how much luck you have in your favor, the house will eventually take a hand or two.  But “losing” might make Timmy cry!  GOOD.  The little fruit cake needs a dose of reality.  So what is the current answer to the tournament of life?  Give everyone a fucking metal.  Not only does this make little Timmy apathetic to the concept of real accomplishment, it devalues the pursuit and achievement of excellence by those so inclined to pursue it.  I for one demand excellence from my young brood.  I am as unforgiving as they come when the work is not put in to be the best.  Not fair you say?  Well, let me explain.  I don’t expect my children to be the “best” at everything, but I am tied to them at the hip and know their potential.  I set the bar just out of reach so that the next endeavor will have them reaching higher still.  The key to guiding your children is to make sure they know that anything less than their maximum effort is a shameful disgrace.  Not to me, but to them.  Pride in yourself and what you have accomplished will heal any wound that might be inflicted when that day comes that someone does it better.  No apologies are necessary when you give it all you have and still come up short.  What cannot be forgiven is to fold your hand when the chips are down and the deck seems stacked against you.  Little Timmy doesn’t care about that though, he knows he will get a trophy anyway.

Having found myself once again upon my soapbox, I think perhaps another change in direction will bring things back down to earth.  There is something that weighs heavily on my mind these days.  It seems a likely occurrence sooner rather than later, and I look forward to it not in the slightest.  While my wife assures me that all is well, I am skeptical.  You see, we have been here awhile now and it seems that somewhere along the way we are supposed to relinquish our American driver’s license in favor a French one.  Not really a big deal.  We are, after all, fairly lucky in our plight.  The French don’t recognize the licensure from all the States in the Union, but we are fortunate to hail from one that they do in fact provide reciprocity for.  According to the wife, we have a year grace period during which we need not make application for the French license and that our bigger problem is that we haven’t yet changed our home address on our vehicle titles.  Truth is, when coupled with my lack of linguistic perfection, both are likely to land me in the slammer.  As I have mentioned before, law enforcement doesn’t really have a “patrolling” presence like we are used to in the states, so you are unlikely to speed past a cop on the motorway and find yourself in a hot pursuit.  What they do have however, is the impromptu traffic checkpoint which is a sight to behold.  Basically, the police line up at a known area for speeding (20 or so of them) and use a handheld speed gun to catch offenders.  Once you finally reach them, they simply wave you over and you are obliged to stop.  They also do this on occasion for simple spot checks for identification and the like.  I have passed these checkpoints at a growing frequency and am certain I am due to be the one flagged down.  I received some humorous advice from a friend who recommended using my foreign status to my advantage and simply pretend I don’t understand any French.  If the traffic cop doesn’t speak any English, it seems they too are obliged in their duties.  They are obliged to drag you down to the station to locate someone that does speak your language.  This is obviously a pain in the ass and the theory is that they will simply let you pass to avoid the headache.  I don’t know that either is true and being a relatively law abiding lad, don’t really want to test the waters.  Still, the bureaucratic ass whipping that is usually involved with matters of the DMV don’t have me jumping to action just yet.  I don’t think there is anyone in the world that enjoys red tape, and for a culture that is really expeditious with their healthcare you might presume that a trip to the DMV, or their form there of, would be a cinch.  Unfortunately, that part of life here doesn’t differ all that much from home and it would seem that the fine ladies that man these counters are cut from the same cloth all over the globe.  Now I could write a book on how this plays out in my mother tongue and most of my readers know what of I speak.  It would be a relatively humorous little jag about going from one office to another, only to be told that you must return to where you started . . . no closer to an answer than you were 8 hours ago when you walked through the doors of this governmental wasteland.  What is perhaps more humorous still is this same scenario playing out when only every other word is understood and you end every conversation with an angry “what the fuck did you just call me?”

So, in the end, I found a way to regain the content that I lost a week or so back and feel I can move forward with a clean slate.  Sometimes these are just a way to clear the cobwebs and rejuvenate the creative process.  Sometimes the random stuff floating around my grey matter blocks efforts at my best work.  Sorry you have to live through this housecleaning, but if you don’t like it, take it up with our complaint department . . . you are customer 9,325.  “Calling customer number 327 . . . NEXT!”

Red Tape, Holiday Cheer and learning to live with Second Place a three part series.

Part 1

As often happens in my life, way leads on to way and the screw or two I have loose upstairs keeps me moving from one topic to the next.  And so, after my last post, I found myself lost in reminiscence.   From this sleepy daydream I extracted a bit of the old and will endeavor to rehash it as something new for all you crazy kids out there.  I was reminded of a pair of presentations I gave while at the University and given recent events in my life I think they are due for a re-release.  In addition, I am going to add a short discussion on a topic I mentioned briefly in my last post.   It appears that we have a lot of ground to cover, so let’s get started.

It is that time of year again, a time for family and friends to gather in celebration of thanks.  Thanks to those that made our lives possible in the colonies and thanks to the one who gave his own life for our collective sins.  There is a certain gluttony, however, to this time of year.  An ugly dark undertone to the festive surface of candycanes and mistletoe.  I personally like to lump Halloween in and consider the three to be what I like to call the “Holiday Hat-trick”.   Somewhere in late October each year, we decide that it is time to lose our sense of self-control and begin a long journey of waist line expansion the likes of which I shudder to contemplate.  As Halloween approaches, the leaves begin to fall and a crisp freshness takes to the air.  Homes are decorated with the dead and kids gleefully banter about the goulish nature of their garb for their upcoming pilgrimage.  Streets are soon lined with the sweet smell of gooey caramel and the soft warm glow of candlelit faces adorning every porch.  In the distance, the howel of children laughing is a reminder that this night feels safer than the rest.  The romance of my childhood rest firmly on this particular eve.  Perhaps it is as they say . . . “the night belongs to the poets and the madmen”.  I could write pages of semi-eloquent prose about this particular holiday, but that isn’t why we are here.  It is the nights before and after this joyful evening that I want to focus on.  You know the one.  The moment when you realize that you are going to have to go back to the store before Halloween to re-stock your candy supply because you thoughtlessly consumed all the mini-snickers while watching Family Feud.  We begin our siege on the hoidays, dessert first.  We in fact consume so much that in the end, all we have to give the children are those crappy ass orange and black peanut butter things that have been recycled year after year to those who don’t have the will power to leave a bag of candy unmolested before Halloween.  Like fruit cake at Christmas, there must be a warehouse full of these peanut butter beauties simply awaiting the opportunity to disappoint a neighborhood full of children.  I am a firm believer that these items are no longer manufactured, but rather are warehoused in a mountainside bunker somewhere inside a no fly zone.  I am not certain that they are even from this planet as it would seem that their shelf life is infinite.  That being said, with teeth full of cavities, we bid Halloween fairwell and focus on the next stop in the Triple Crown of Holidays . . . Thanksgiving.

From a digestive standpoint, Thanksgiving is perhaps the King of this Royal Court.  The entire basis of this holiday is the feast and unfortunately our consumption knows no bounds in more ways than one.  Yes, these days, we try to rationalize and sugar coat the irony of the holiday by “giving thanks” for everything in our lives, but the truth is somewhat less attractive.  The origins of the holiday are innocent enough.  Giving thanks to God for allowing the pilgrims to survive their first year and the bounty of their harvest.  A harvest that was made possible with a little (no a lot) of help from their Indian friends.  We will turn a blind eye to the fact that we later captured and enslaved them as a follow up to the “thanks” we gave.  We consumed their corn, their land, and their souls.  Peachy, ain’t it?  Kind of makes you all warm and fuzzy inside.   


These days we lose sight of it all in favor of gravy laden “everything” and a massive nod to the god’s of commerce.  In truth, we seem to collectively consume and in the end waste enough food to feed the starving nations of the world for the coming year and then follow that up with a trip to the mall.  Black Friday, oh how I love thee.  It is on this day that we consummate our neverending downward spiral.  The name is appropriate enough, however, there is some conjecture as to its origins.  These days, it seems to commonly have an economic flair and refer to the day in which sufficient gains are made by retailers by which they transition from operating in the “red”, to actually making a profit.  That alone is a troublesome commentary on our economic strength, but you add to that the underlying commentary on our social order and it makes for an uncertain future.  The beginning of the Christmas shopping season is really the inspiration for this entry.  Over the weekend the wife and I gathered the kids to run to the city to make a few purchases of our own and we encountered the all too common theme one experiences in the days leading up to Christmas.  I will focus on how this plays out back home as I don’t have enough personal history here in France to make an educated assumption, however, it would appear that we have much in common.

If you are brave enough . . . no scratch that . . . dumb enough to remove yourself from your home at the crack of dawn to join the teaming masses waiting in line outside your local retailer here is how it will go.  You wake early and splash some cold water on your face to clear the cobwebs for you will need all of your mental faculties about you in order to get that “good deal” that is waiting for you on those store shelves.  Perhaps a cup of coffee and a warm scarf before you hit the road.  Its early.  You remark to yourself that you haven’t been up this early in ages.  The streets seem busier than you remember for this time of day.  As you make your way toward the MegaMart, you realize you should have left earlier.  The parking lot is full to the brim and people are circling like vultures looking to swoop in on the first available spot in sight.  Oooo, there’s one, and it’s close to the door . . . damn . . . handicapped.  As you pass it by, a minivan pulls into the spot and you watch in horror as the “handicapped” person waddles their way toward the door.  They appear to be terribly afflicted with the most common of American handicaps . . . obesity.  These days, most parking lots are equipped with so much blue zoned parking that it staggers the mind.  Sit in a parking lot on any given day and see how many of the patrons that utilize these spots are actually in wheelchairs due to a malady that wasn’t self-imposed by pounding down years of French Toaster sticks in a single setting.  You won’t be surprised to note that most of the residents of these spots are simply fat, NOT handicapped.  I believe there should be some beige (the color of pork fat) spots reserved for these folks at the back of the lot, for it appears they are the ones that could use the exercise.  And I bet ya they would use them too, if it entitled them to a coupon for a free scoop of Cherry Garcia.  Anyway, if you are persistent enough, perhaps you will be lucky enough to find a parking spot in the same postal code and begin the long march through the parking lot to wade into the mass of fat bodies waiting at the commercial feeding pen.  By now, you are already questioning your sanity and every car you pass that has opted for a make believe parking arrangement seems like a good candidate for a “keying”.  Keeping your lady like demeanor, you opt for the highroad as this is the season of giving and the sacrifices you make here will certainly pay dividends when you hand that perfect (read as reasonably priced or discounted) gift for that special someone in your life on Christmas day.

And so you wait patiently in line and slowly begin to become comfortable with the pork bellies around you, only to be trampled in a stampede the moment the doors open.  You would be amazed how quickly a fat person can move when there appears to be a bargain to be had on that deep fat fryer they have had their eye on.  Picking yourself up off the ground and clutching to the remaining scraps of the garments that have been torn from your body, you make your way inside.  Once inside you realize to your horror, that an even fatter set of people were sent a flyer letting them know that if they arrived at midnight on the night prior, they would get first dibs on all merchandise at twice the discount.  The shelves are empty.  That perfume you wanted to by your wife?  Gone.  All that is left is a gift box of Jovan Musk that has already been opened and fixed back together with duck tape.  A tear falls from your cheek.  All hope is lost and the holidays ruined.  With your tail tucked between your legs you return to your car, to find the paint thoroughly removed from the driver side door because they were all out of handicapped spots and someone was too fat to exit their vehicle without pressing their car door against yours and squeezing themselves through the narrow gap to the sound of a popping cork.  You are beyond being angry.  You simply shrug your shoulders and sink into your driver’s seat hoping against all hopes that maybe you will find what you are looking for at the store down the street.  This drama plays out for days on end, all the way to the night before Christmas when all through the house, not a creature is stirring . . . not even a mouse.  Oh well, all is well that ends well.  As it turns out, your wife didn’t get to the store any earlier than you did to pick up that thoughtful gift she had been planning and what you open on Christmas morning is a beautiful Real Tree Snuggie embossed with the words “I’d rather be fishin”.

So it goes with the holidays.  The meaning seems lost and the romance I once had for each seems to be waning.  I will always remember the smell of that beautiful spruce tree, covered in lights;  the warmth of the fire and the smell of fresh pumpkin pie; staying up past your bedtime to sort your sack of candy and the discomfort of that Pilgrim costume worn at the school play.  All punctuated by the hours spent listening for pattering reindeer hooves overhead.  In the end, that is what I want my holidays to be.  As my gift to you all this year, I will endeavor to put together an entry of what I remember these holidays to be and what I hope to share with my children before their father’s cynicism steals their childhood.  Part 2 will be along soon so stay tuned.

Easy as ABC and 123

As you can well imagine, scholastic pursuits are never too far from our dinner conversation.  With two children valiantly attempting to conquer a second language, we continually pour over dictionaries and school books in an effort to help them deal with the dismal truth that they are stuck with immigrant parents.  Until a certain age, all children believe that mom and dad know “everything” and trying not to burst their bubble with our ignorance is a full time job.  Our eldest’s intellect is frightening, and trying to keep up with the cornucopia of philosophical questions coming out of that kid’s mouth is beginning to give me heartburn.  It is hard to accept sometimes that he is but 9 years of age.  His personality grows by the day and his ability to call bullshit on an answer is truthfully painful.  Now, I am generally an absolute font of completely useless information and am able to hold my own with the best of them in a solid game of Trivial Pursuit.  I also pride myself on thinking quickly on my feet, so I am seldom stumbled by one of his brain teasers.  The wife however, was the unlucky recipient of one of his recent queries.  He wanted to know why the grading scale in school is A, B, C, D and F.  What about “E”?  The wife admitted defeat and advised him that she wasn’t sure.  She later asked me the question and I of course didn’t miss a beat.  F is a Freaking Failure.  D is Deplorable, C is Crappy, B is Better and A is Amazing.  So why not E?  It's simple, E isn’t used because of a lack of available negative adjectives to describe scholastic imperfection.  The only one I could come up with was Excrament.  Telling little Johnny that his school work is Shit seems a bit worse than a simple failure.  Now, I would of course never give my eldest this half-assed explanation as he would instantaneously see right through the charade.  It is a brilliant question, however,  and unfortunately  the best answer I could find seems ambiguous at best.  It would appear that some educational systems do in fact use the “E” standard for a conditional failure.  Some would seem to argue that the “F” is used only as a throw back to an antiquated pass/fail system, leaving “E” out in the cold.  I myself have always hated the term “failure” as it isn’t appropriate in all scholastic contexts.  My most recent scholastic endeavor, now years in the past, being my triumphant passage of the Bar Examination is a grand example of what I am talking about.  Graded on a pass/fail, it is a terrible blow to one’s self confidence to be called a failure when you fell just a point or two short of success.  The truth is, you don’t FAIL, you just don’t pass. Beating your psyche to a pulp over such an arbitrary label is ridiculous.   And so, I believe it is time to rise up against the establishment and shake off the traditional grading system for something that is a little less ethereal.

I believe we should get back to the county fair for an appropriate answer to this dilemma.  An “A” as we now know it should be listed as “First Prize”.  A “B” would then be called the “Runner Up”.  The average “C” rating could be a nice “Honorable Mention”.  A woeful “D” would get the “Participation” award.  And finally, “F” . . . a bit tougher, but perhaps a “Disqualified” would do nicely.  Ok, maybe this isn’t workable afterall.  It all sort of stinks of the softening of our culture that plays out in youth athletics these days.  Not everybody should get a ribbon or a trophy.  You know what second place is?  FIRST LOSER.  That right, lets quit sugar coating the world and get down to it.  There was an old saying in law school that “A” students became teachers, “B” students became judges, and “C” students became rich.  Perhaps not a lesson for the “real” world, but maybe there is something here we can hang our hats upon.  Maybe we can attach professions to the letters to give them some weight and provide some reasonable expectations for those receiving said marks.  How about  “A” for Anesthesiologist or Aerospace Engineer;  “B” Bartender or Bellhop   ;  “C” Cosmetologist or Cab Driver ; “D” for  Dancer (of the Exotic Variety) or Drug Dealer; and “F” for Fry cook.  No, that isn’t going to work either I am afraid.  True, the generous skew toward the top would certainly make many strive for top marks, but stereotyping strippers is unfair and I for one appreciate their hard work and dedication.  So, where does that leave us?  Drop the ABCs entirely and go for the truth.  E, A, S, D, I:  Exceptional, Average, Simpleton, Dullard, Idiot.  If you have a preference for dumbing it down and rating a “C” student as “Average” then we can modify this to E, C, A, D, I:  Exceptional, Competent, Average, Dullard and Idiot.  If anyone has any better ideas, I would be glad to hear them.  For now I guess we will continue on with the meaningless A,B,C s of achievement and skillfully dodge those questions from future generations with a swift “because” and leave it at that.  But dad, why is the sky blue?  “Because” son, now shut up and eat your vegetables.  That is all I have for today and God willing this will get the wife off of my back since my lack of recent activity has not gone unnoticed.  Pray for me.  R.

I’m a monger, he’s a monger, she’s a monger . . . wouldn’t you like to be a monger too?

Happy Armistice Day!  Don’t know what that is?  I can’t say as I am surprised.  For most of us, our high school history lessons fell short of the mark in more ways than one and that of course is presuming that you were paying attention to begin with.  Let me enlighten you if your memory is a bit fuzzy.  On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918, an armistice (cessation of hostilities), was declared between the Allied nations and Germany in the First World War.  So why don’t American’s care?  Why are you all working today when your fellow brother’s in arms are taking the day off?   That is a very good question.  One for which I think I have an answer.   Armistice Day actually became a federally recognized holiday in the United States in 1938.   So what happened to it?  Do we not care about the global impact of the First World War anymore?   Are all those that died no longer of national importance?  Sadly, the answer may be yes. 

The truth is, the United States is a country of “mongers”.  Don’t know what that is either?  Geez, were you paying attention in school at all?  A “monger” is a dealer in a specific commodity.  In the history of our great nation, short though it may be, that commodity has sadly been WAR.  Armistice Day was replaced by what we call Veteran’s Day in the aftermath of The Second World War and the Korean War in an effort to consolidate the recognition of those who have died for our country into a single day.  I guess the theory being that we have simply been in too many wars to recognize each on their own special day.   As such, we treat the young men and women in our armed forces like cannon fodder and lump their accomplishments and sacrifices into but a single day that hardly seems to do a single one of them the slightest justice.   In my humble opinion, if your ass presumes yourself to be a flag waving American patriot, you should know about Armistice Day and why we no longer recognize it.

I must admit that the remainder of this post hit the editing room floor at the request of my wife as I tend to lose control once I find myself atop my soapbox.  And yes, as you can also see, Jack is back for the foreseeable future by way of a not so subtle request from my lovely bride.  Truth is, we had a very nice hour long conversation on our way to tour a local castle (I know, weird way to spend your free time, but they don’t have a lot of castles where we come from).  From this conversation I came to a realization that I need the blog more than the blog needs me.  These days, I live my life in relative social solitude.  Long days spent alone in an empty house with very little contact with the outside world and a sizable language barrier to face when I leave my front door make for a feeling of relative isolation.  That being said, in a Chuck Noland epiphany, I feel perhaps I should once more endeavor to change the name of this project to Wilson 2.0.  It is Wilson who sees me through the loneliest hour and somehow keeps me sane when rough seas begin to close in on my deserted island abroad.   Perhaps you understand that metaphor and perhaps you don't.  Let's just say that I am thinking of taking a sharpy marker to the front of my laptop.  That is all I have for today.  If anyone would care to read my rather lengthy and somewhat raw outtakes from today’s episode, please leave a comment with your email address and I would be glad to send it along.  Take care for now.  Chuck Noland.

A Promise to My Wife

A PROMISE TO MY WIFE

But for you my bonnie lass


I would have quit, and this would have passed


In the greyest of light before the dawn


A line in the sand has near been drawn


From a pile of ash must the Phoenix yet rise


Else be cast aside without sweet reprise 

If not for you, the quiet would reign


Life’s canvas left empty of color’s pale stain


And so continue I will, without much lament


Hours of toil not yet eagerly spent


For in my life, the voice of one critic matters


It is for you my wife, that my silence thus shatters 

Forgive me this pause, for now I must rest


Tomorrow I shall work, but not at my best


And thus out of this retirement born


Words that were lost on pages once torn


This much I promise before the night


These words I have written will once more see light

                               - Jack Butler

Unbridled Enthusiasms: Secrets of a Contented Man

“A man becomes preeminent, he's expected to have enthusiasms. Enthusiasms, enthusiasms... What are mine? What draws my admiration? What is that which gives me joy?”. Without bludgeoning a henchman to death with a wooden baseball bat, let me tell you what I fancy. These days my eldest seems obsessed with “favorites”, constantly inquiring on a variety of topics as to what I believe to be my favorite things. The question always leaves me scratching my head. I have come to the realization over the past several months that this obsession with one’s favorites is truly the benchmark for contentment. For a well raised child, the world is good and it is safe. Unscathed by the rigors and realities of life, they can blissfully contemplate not just that which is good and makes them happy, but that which is “best” and makes them truly joyful.  Those of us that have been grinding it out in the cold, cold world realize that life isn’t always “good” and to contemplate the “best” seems a fools game. In fact, I would argue that if one finds themselves in such a place in life to allow them endeavor into such contemplation, they should stay put. It is the “you have arrived” moment that we are all seeking in life and is more precious than the Holy Grail. The ability to examine that which is best or “favored” is to acknowledge that “life is good”. That, in its simplest terms, is contentment. Knowing that I am unlikely to find true contentment in the near future, I am left to contend with the task of defining my favorite things in this world in an ever increasing effort to keep my kid off of my back whenever our conversations lead to the inevitable question, “Dad, what is your favorite . . . “.  Favoritism is a fickle beast and changes for many folks as often they change their socks. I have friends, in fact, that seemingly have a new favorite every other day. This is not the contentment of which I speak. Keeping that in mind, it is difficult for me to classify things as a “favorite”. For me, the concept must be time tested to make the list. Music, for example, is one that I dare not qualify in these terms. When the eldest inquires as to my “favorite” song, I honestly don’t have an answer. I love all types of music, so the best I can give him is that “right now” my favorite song is . . . As it does for most folks out there, my tastes and in turn favor for many things seems to change with the turning of the seasons. Some concepts are so fluid that I wouldn’t dare try to put them in such a box. After some thoughtful examination of my life, however, there are a few things that do stand the test of time and as such, I am very willing to call them my favorite things. The following is a short list of but 10 of those items. I favored them for as long as my memory serves and I see no reason for this to change in the foreseeable future. Perhaps one day I will sit down and create a more extensive list, but for now I am content in knowing that the journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step.


So, here is the short list in no particular order. Maybe you share in some of these passions and maybe you don’t. I don’t really give a damn either way . . . get your own blog.


1. Bacon


2. Naked Ladies


3. The last two hours of sleep in the morning or that feeling you get when you wake up thinking it is morning and you realize you still have several hours of sleep left.


4. Sneezing and Pooping (not at the same time)


5. The feeling of survival you get after you are done vomiting.


6. A good pair of shoes for my feet, a huge watch for my wrist and a hat for my bald head.


7. Hotel room service (closest thing I will ever get to having a Butler instead of being one)


8. Cold sheets at night when you first climb into bed and warm sheets in the morning when you don’t want to climb back out again.


9. Punching an opponent in the face without being punched back.  (fighting may be the greatest sport on earth)


10. Brown Gravy


Please don’t mistake this for a top ten list. I originally drafted a very poetic list containing items like Christmas Eve Snow and the smell of fresh cut grass, but it ended up sounding like the diary of a 13 year old girl, so I scrapped it in favor of this somewhat less artfully drafted version of the truth. In the end, I have determined that there are so few that actually read this anymore that the content matters very little. To that end, I have decided that the online version of this project has come to an end. I imagine I will continue writing, as it really IS one of my FAVORITE things, but I don’t necessarily need to share it with anyone to enjoy the process.  Perhaps I am contented after all.  It has been a good run, and I wish you all the best. Until our paths cross again on this continent or another. Jack Butler . . . over and OUT.

“I’m in trouble”: A case study in “HE said, SHE said”

Once again, I gladly take a back seat and let someone else do the driving. This time, the guest writer will receive credit for their contribution. We have joked about it from time to time, but now it is the wife’s turn to be heard, and here is what she has to say . . . Enjoy.

So it began as a normal day in my oh so boring life. Up at 7:00, out the door by 8:00 with two kids in tow breakfast round number two in hand. Dropped the kids off at school, successfully avoiding all the dog poo on the sidewalk, and then clocked in for another long day at the office. I didn’t have much of an exciting day planned- a few meetings and the to-do list that is too long to ever accomplish. Lunch was to be a nice trip to the local boulangerie with a few friends to practice my French. Other than the wrong choice of a sandwich for lunch, all was well.

Then, during a meeting with a woman from another department my phone started to ring. In an attempt not to be rude, I just let it go to voicemail. But after the third call in a row we decided I should probably answer it. I have always told my family that if you truly have an emergency then call me several times in a row in the event of such an occasion. So I answer, and immediately hear a panicked “I’m in trouble!” Now my husband is usually the calm one of the group so I knew this couldn’t be good. Like most of you, I immediately started thinking the worst- arrested by the Gendarmes and now in a jail cell I have no idea how to get him out of, lost the son’s dog, or worse. I just simply replied “What’s wrong?” knowing I most definitely had an audience. “I’m in a ditch,” he replies. Ok, simple enough this is something I can deal with. The next logical question is “where are you?” Never did I think I would hear the family navigator say “I don’t know.” What do you mean you don’t know!?! How the hell can a person not know where they are?

I can tell you how. With too much time on his hands, and tired of making the same drive day after day my dear husband decided to let the British woman on Garmin show him a more scenic route to school. And scenic it was. In completely the opposite direction of where he wanted to go, Garmin was now trying to direct him onto the main highway leading to the town where the school is located. However she must have forgotten to take her “vit-a-mens” this morning, and her memory was lacking when she instructed him to turn right on a dirt road. It’s the rainy part of the year here in France, and we haven’t seen sunshine in over a week in a half. So the hubby quickly realized this was not a navigable path and would turn around in a grass driveway leading into a field. Good plan, if he hadn’t missed and backed the famous 206 into what he referred to as a “ditch.”

So now we have two problems, a lost husband with no means of transportation and the kids getting out of school in a short half hour when I usually have about 4 more hours of work left in my day. Since the hubby sincerely had no idea where he was, I decided maybe he should revert to the reason he got in this mess- the Garmin. With GPS coordinates in hand, I was confident all would be fine. So I brought up google maps to determine his location in order to formulate a rescue plan - but how the hell does a person find a place on the map with GPS coordinates while you have an angry husband on the phone and a French lady standing there waiting for you to finish so we can resume our discussion? Thankfully, a colleague who has helped us out on several occasions, came to the rescue. After determining his location, my colleague even offered to pull the hubby out of the ditch.

Great- plan formulated. I told the hubby I’d get the kids and then my colleague and I would be out to get him. It was at this point, that he says with all seriousness that he’s not sure he can be pulled out with another car. You see this “ditch” was more like a ravine. The 206 was sitting at a 45 degree angle. Oh boy. Well, we couldn’t send a tow truck to GPS coordinates so we had to stick with the plan. At school, the youngest was mad it was Mom picking him up and not Dad, but the eldest was grinning ear to ear when I told him we had to go rescue Dad.

A good 20 minute drive later, and we arrived to the place where we should have seen the hubby and the car. As I was calling to again determine his location, he calmly walks up a 30 foot embankment that supports an overpass. My first thought- you’ve got to be kidding me! Thankfully this was not the “ditch” that contained the 206. As we rounded the corner at the bottom of the embankment, there she sat. All you could see were the front bumper and the tires. The rest of the car melted off into the “ditch.” To be honest he was lucky the opposite bank was there to keep him from flipping over!

A few laughs later, and one good tug from our friend, and the 206 was freed from her resting spot. I guess I’ve just got the big kid to prepare me for the other two and the numerous “I’m in trouble” phone calls I’m sure to get in the future. Until the next time I get a heart stopping call…. The wife 

And now for the truth. While yes it is true, that this afternoon found me in a bit of a sticky situation with the trusty 206 somewhat perpendicular to terra firma on a back road in Western France, there are two sides to every story. I will skip with the pleasantries of the beginning of my day and get right to the meat and potatoes. Truth be told, I have on more than one occasion found myself fairly lost at the hands of our lady Garmin, but with an extra half hour or so of free time, I decided to let her do the thinking and deviated from my usual route to the neighboring town where the boys are to be collected from a long day at school. I knew ahead of time that she has a predisposition for the scenic route, so I thought it would be a nice way to see the sights and unwind after a day full of laundry and dirty toilettes. It all began innocently enough. Leaving the beaten path, I was initially quite pleased with my decision. She seemed to be leading me in the exact wrong direction, but the narrow winding back roads of French countryside made for an exhilarating drive. Coming up to a notable highway overpass, she demanded a right hand turn and I obliged. Almost immediately, she changed her mind and began to recalculate as I skidded onto an unpaved road leading to parts unknown. Inside of a quarter mile it was apparent that she wasn’t going to be able to get us out of this mess, so I called her a few names and began evasive maneuvers. In the end, perhaps too evasive indeed. In a hurry, and now certain that I would be late to gather the boys from school, I threw the old 206 in reverse for a nice batmobile turn about and promptly found myself teetering on the brink of disaster. The back tires sunk off into a bit of a ditch, so I quickly threw her back into 1st to power my way out of the undergrowth. Unfortunately, it was a little too little, a little too late.

In an excruciating battle of will, I punished the motor of my little 206, urging her to remember her rally car roots and forget the insurmountable force of gravity. It was a battle we were not winning and the moment I let off the throttle we began our unceremonious decent into hell. Upon later inspection, the wife indicated that it appeared that I slammed my beauty into the “ravine” at a breakneck pace. This could not be further from the truth. The process was slow and painful. Plenty of time for me to sit helpless in the driver seat and beg my little compact not to flip over backwards into to what was . . . well, ok, it WAS a bit of a ravine. She teetered for a moment and then the world became dark. With an unpleasant thud, I found myself facing skyward in what felt to be launch position. Ahead of me, gray skies. Behind me, darkness. It was time to bail, and bail I did. I threw open the door, grabbed the essentials from the car and in the end, found the bottom of the ravine to be filled will a mélange of water and what I believe to be open sewer. With one shoe, now very wet and uncomfortable and my legs torn to shreds from thorn bushes, I clambered my way back to the gravel road from which I came. 

 Gathering my senses, I called my only life line . . . the wife. “Pick up, Pick up, please Pick up” . . . shit . . . voicemail. Hang up and redial. Praying she was not away from her cell phone, I continued to redial. After three failed attempts, she finally answered. Could have been worse, I thought to myself. Not really knowing how to segue myself into this latest turn of events in my life, I thought the best approach was to be direct. “I am in trouble.” I commented. “Could you pick up the kids?”. “Ok, why?” she asked. And so began a short conversation as to how I Wiley Coyote’d my 206 into a ditch just outside of God knows where. She could have really made me pay.  She could have called me names, but she didn't.  The wife ALWAYS takes the highroad .  She simply asked my location, and yes, I was at a loss for words. I didn’t really know. Somewhere between here and there I thought to myself, but kept my big mouth shut. Believing that the stupid fucking Garmin might have a clue, I scrambled back down into the ravine to retrieve it from the dash. Almost immediately, the low battery indicator flashed and I did my best to describe the closest cross roads before the screen went dark. And so, I began walking. With my hands quite full of my phone, the GPS, a bottle of water (basic survival) and an IPad, I began to trek my way back toward civilization. Despite giving them the exact GPS coordinates, the wife and one of her collegues couldn’t seem to figure out where I was any more than I could. After walking a mile or so up the road I located a village sign and proudly advised them of what town I appeared to be in. Small problem . . . it didn’t appear on any of their maps. Finally I came across a mail box and street name so as to provide them with an exact address for the much needed rescue mission that they were about to embark on. Now, under normal circumstances and on my own, I would have simply walked up to the house and asked for assistance. Unfortunately, my French being what it is, I could hardly convey my circumstance in such a way as to not have them slam their door in my face. The fact that I was in the middle of nowhere and all the houses seemed equipped with a rather large German Shepard at the watch didn’t make this option any more viable.

With a proper address, my wife felt certain that she could locate me and would do so as soon as she had collected the children. There is a little something to note here as an aside. The shortest days of the year arrive here in France much earlier than they do back home. We are a week earlier into daylight savings and it gets dark fast this time of year. Night was nearly upon us and I felt a long way from any assistance despite the assurances from the other side of the line that help was on the way. I decided while I waited, it might be best to get my bearings in the event I had to Bear Grylls my way out of this predicament. I walked a fair distance in all conceivable directions in an effort to determine which direction was home in the event I had to walk there. I was confident I could make the journey by daybreak the following morning if so required. Not wanting to be hasty, I returned to my stranded 206 in hopes of waiting for a more reasonable escape. Now, Bear would tell you that every moment counts and to get moving. This kept running through my head as the minutes ticked by. I even began visually scouting the neighboring woods for rotted trees from which I might be able forage a grub worm or two in the event my hunger got the better of me. Thankfully, my phone did eventually ring again and the wife indicated that the thought they were getting close. They couldn’t see me, but I could see them. I told them that they had arrived and that they needed to take the next left. With less effort than I had anticipated, we soon had the 206 freed from her semi-watery grave. With a bruised ego, bloody legs and the beginnings of jungle rot on my right foot, I drove back home to call this one a day. Note to self, fix busted tail light and re-affix the rear bumper . . . all’s well that ends well. R.

Life aboard the S.S. Minnow with First Mate Betty Crocker

Well, it would appear that my transformation is now complete.  I can proudly report that I am “officially” the “lady of the house”.  I remember a time not so long ago when I used to lust after such boyish things as fast cars and high end electronics, but these days all I can think about is getting my hands on a really good tart ring.  The truth is, the wife’s terribly demanding career and tremendously long working hours means that more often than not you will find me in the kitchen come dinner time.  I spend my evenings puttering around doing my dead level best not to set myself, the house, or any of the children on fire while pouring over recipes in our Better Homes and Gardens Cook Book.  I have come up with a poor result or two, but usually the meals are relatively edible.  I seem to shine the most when my disdain for grocery shopping has a hand in the menu.  In an effort to avoid going grocery shopping (also one of my frequent duties) I will find any way I can to mix household ingredients (some edible, some not so) into some coherent dish that the children won’t vomit at the first sight of.  So far, the mystery casseroles have been a big hit.  It always comes out a little breakfasty, but so far, nobody has complained.  Now, cooking does not at all come to me naturally.  I know some fellas out there that are geniuses in the kitchen, but I am not one of them.  I keep it simple so that not a lot of thinking is required.  In accepting this new post as House Chef, I have found myself very fond of baking and in all actuality I am not that bad at it.  For the past week, I have been doing my best Duff Goldman and churning out as much cake as the family can consume and some they can’t.  I have never been one to lend just half my ass to a project, so don’t be surprised if you received a cake for Christmas.  Baking makes more sense to me I guess.  The palate isn’t complicated and the flavors are easier to sort out.  Perhaps one day I will actually cook as good as I bake, but until then, the family is just going to have to eat a light meal and hope for a sizable helping of dessert.

Someone recently indicated that I seemed to be tiring of our life here in France.  To be honest, I think perhaps I am tiring of life as a whole.  No, I am not on the verge of pitching myself off of a bridge, but I do feel a need for change.  I have come to an acute understanding about myself over the past several months.  I would never make it on an assembly line.  Doing the same job, day in and day out is a killer.  Repetition bores the shit out of me.  I think that is the main reason I seem so discontented over the past several days.  I am doing what I can to switch things up on a daily basis, but a recent conversation took a fair bit of the wind out of my sails.  We received news that they are looking at extending our sentence to the 5 year mark.  Perhaps I shouldn’t cloak it in prison terms and say “tour of duty” instead, but that somehow makes this seem like war, which it clearly is not.  There are certain realities that come with your wife chasing down a career as an international woman of mystery.  There is ultimately a definite emphasis on term “international”.  Travel seems to beget more travel, and that reality is never too far out of our thoughts.  There has always been the possibility that another transfer to parts unknown would come our way at the end of our 2 years here in France, but we had mentally committed ourselves to a certain expectation as to the length of our stay nonetheless.  When you do so, you find it very difficult to come to terms with a change in plans.  Adaptability has sort of been our bread and butter throughout our life together, so the wife and I generally take things in stride.  I think for me, I have always hung my hat on the idea that no matter how difficult the challenges became, we could survive most anything for a short 2 years.  In fact, at this point, we will soon be reaching the half-way point in our adventure if in fact that is our reality.  We have taken great care in maintaining our life back in the US, for it is there that we feel we belong, all the while knowing that life has a way of leading you in a different direction than that which you intend.  Please refer back to Robert Frost’s masterpiece from a few posts back and you will get the point.  Still, the realities of uncertainty can be a tough pill to swallow, even for those of us that desire constant change and follow that road less travelled. 

With all of this on our minds, we still find it possible to rest easy at night.  Why?  It is simply because we have learned over the years never to look at life from inside the box.  There are always choices to make, always alternatives to the current charted course.  Some lead to calmer seas while others have you sharing a sketchy looking hut with the Skipper.  The three hour tour didn’t work out so well for Gilligan.  The knowledge that we have the ability, mad though it may be, to simply pack up our shit and head home keeps our life in perspective.  We stay because we choose to stay and for no other reason than that.  Will it be 2 or will it be 5?  Who knows.  One thing in for certain though, I will make it off of the damned island before my show is cancelled.  And if for some reason the screenplay that is our life comes to an abrupt halt, I pray to God that it has a Scooby Doo ending.  That is about all I have for today and I apologize for the profusely nautical theme, it just worked out that way.  We will check back with you again soon.  Cheers.  Jacqueline Butler.

Oh Captain, My Captain, there is Mutiny on the Bounty

It should be noted that I am a big fan of letting the lunatics run the asylum and that I am truly a man of my word.  Today I will be taking a much needed break and turning over the helm to a guest author.  As promised, all guest submissions will be honored provided they are relatively family friendly . . . at least as family friendly as I get these days.  As such, you really have a great deal of latitude here.  I welcome any and all submissions and promise that this is not going to turn into a completely open town hall.  I will be continuing my usual submissions, but if you have something you want to get off of your chest, by all means, speak up.  I will be happy to voice your feelings, opinions or just general nonsense on your behalf.  The submissions will remain anonymous unless the author wishes to be given their due credit.  To that end, here is our first guest entry.  Please note that the views and opinions posted in guest submissions are not the views and opinions of the Jack Butler Show.  In other words, if you don't like what you read, it ain't my fault.


"Believe it or not, I am an American through and through.  I say this because I am so profoundly disappointed in my country that it’s hard for me to speak in her defense.  Because of Jack’s experience, I have been forced to see the other side.  I no longer see myself, or my country, as exceptional in any way other than it’s exceptional opportunity to miss an opportunity.  We have the resources, yet we have no national high-speed rail system, no alternative power system, only limited fresh-food markets, and certainly no sense of respect for civil institutions, or sense of cooperation to meet common goals.  In my town the store-fronts are vacant, but in France the store-fronts are full of small merchants. Our farmers markets are struggling, while France has one in every hamlet. I thought France was full of “socialists.”  What gives?

Here is my diagnosis.  When I was young I was taught that the common good is the highest good.  France seems to still understand this.  In our self indulgence, we have obviously forgotten what made us who we are.  “E Pluribus Unum,” yet just today, our elected “representives,” instead of addressing the common good, spent the day debating whether “In God We Trust” should be given higher station.  Is it not obvious what is wrong with us?  Do we not understand that there is more income inequality than there has been since the “Gilded Age.”  Are we so self absorbed that we have learned nothing from the French Revolution.  Are we, the sons of liberty, to “eat cake.”

France does not understand initiative and America does not understand cooperation.  Must it be one, or the other?  Have we so lost respect for history that we are no longer looking for the “golden mean.”  If we do not come again to respect education and intellect, then I wish to join you, Jack, in the world of the sane."

“Ated” and Abetted

Ask me how I am doing today . . . go ahead, ask.  I dare you.  Truth is that day “whichever the fuck” finds old Jack Butler a bit “ated”.  I realize that it has been days since my last post, but my give- a-damn is busted and today I am not one to be trifled with.  So what has me so “ated” you ask?  Or maybe you are scratching your head wondering what in the hell “ated” means.  You aren’t likely to find an official definition, even in Webster’s newest dictionary.  Yes, to some degree it is a commonly used suffix, but I personally use it to describe a state of being.  Today I feel agitated, frustrated, aggravated, irritated, exasperated, infuriated and yes, perhaps even a bit constipated.  With every moment that passes, I find my condition exacerbated.  I am sure you are thinking to yourself that this is all being completely exaggerated.  Before jumping to such a conclusion, listen to what I have to say, if for no other reason than to see me finally placated.  I am sure my explanation will soon find my feelings vindicated.  So what is the reason I feel so “ated” . . . well, it’s complicated.  It is upon this topic that this post will entirely be predicated.  I suppose I feel a bit suffocated by the confines of my home as the days begin to shorten and the weather begins to turn.  Being isolated from the world and alienated from my peers by nature of a rather large language barrier isn’t helping either.  And perhaps to a lesser degree, the inability to become satiated by a very limited diet is a contributing factor.  I just can’t seem to get motivated.   For that reason alone, I am going to leave this post somewhat truncated.  Abbreviated though it may be, I still feel I have a message to be communicated.  The problem is, I can’t find the proper words for it to be articulated.  As is my usual way, I will use this forum to cleanse my soul and once I have said my piece, I hope to be emancipated from the confines of my current condition.   I have decided that the only way out of this funk is to find a way for my creativity to be stimulated.  I have decided that the best approach is one that is somewhat bifurcated.   So, here is the plan I have formulated . . .

Today I will simply rest and allow myself the opportunity to become fully recuperated.  Tomorrow I will wake early and mend those things in my life that I have let become deteriorated.  I will not simply swallow my life, I will take my time to savor the flavor until every piece has been masticated.  I will go for a run or I will go for a ride.  It is in these activities that I become truly liberated.  And on my way out the door, I will remember to duck my head so that I don’t become decapitated or in some other way incapacitated.  It will be in this way that I become exonerated and from Dr. Jeckyl, Mr. Hyde will finally be amputated.  Please do wish me the best of luck, for if by nightfall my current mood isn’t obliterated, it could well see my glorious matrimony woefully separated.  And so, from this point on, to a new life I will be truly dedicated.  Another day like today will never be imitated.  Making the most of even the darkest days when the good cannot so easily be delineated.  And so my writing has done its job, for the weight upon my shoulders has now been alleviated. So this post ends just as it initiated, with little achieved but a great deal contemplated.  I know that by now you are neither entertained nor fascinated, but this is how my life these days can best be illustrated.  With a garden of thoughts fully irrigated, I will post again soon, undeterred and seldom intimidated. 

On a side note, if anyone can figure out a place to use the term “masturbated” in a tasteful manner, I will give you all the editorial credits.  Until next time.  R.