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!”