F.U.B.A.R. at Shawshank with Peter Cottontail

Fucked up beyond all recognition.  It sort of defines me.  Or perhaps I define it.  No matter how you split the orange a piece seems to have gone missing.  More than a piece really.  All I seem to be left with these days is the bitter peel.  The juicy interior . . . the really good stuff . . . gone.  How did I get here?  Where did it all go wrong?  My life as it was at the beginning of this project seems a fragmented dreamscape that I only now catch glimpses of in the distant reaches of my memory.  Sure, I could ramble on in self indulgent prose for many a paragraph as I am oft to do.  I could blame it on societal differences and the WalMart quality of the yarn used to weave the American fabric.  And . . . I would be right of course.  There is some truth there, I am convinced of it.  In the end, however, it would all be a distraction.  Smoke and mirrors meant to blind myself from the truth.  I am lost . . . having taken  a wrong turn I find myself wandering the wood.  I look around and everything looks the same.  In every direction, dense and formidable forest. The kind that pushes out the light and plunges everything beneath into its shadow.

How to break free?  How to find the light?  Beginnings and endings.  Rebirth, renewal.  Something that has eluded me for sometime now.   Passion, possession, obsession . . . life.  What would the fox do?  Chew his leg off to remove himself from the trap of course.  It seems time that I start chewing. Figuratively of course, I rather enjoy my extremities.  So, where to go from here . . . think Jack, think!  Easter . . . resurrection!  It hit me like a bolt of lightening on my way home tonight in my beloved 206 er . . . Honda Fit (more on that later).  How does one bring themselves back to life?  To endure the beating that life often offers and find enlightenment from the lashing.  Save me the religious propaganda and bible thumping sermons.  Faith is too often a passive crutch.  Don't get me wrong.  I am not denying its strength or its necessity.  I believe, however, that while faith will hold you up when everything seems intent on knocking you down, YOU must propel YOURSELF forward.  And forward I must go.  Reluctant though I am to bear weight on a leg I recently chewed from a trap, it is time to limp on.  Get busy living or get busy dying.  Andy Dufresne and Brookes Hadley knew it, and I guess I know it too.  By the way, did you know that is how it was spelled . . . "Dufresne".  Even more interesting still is that the name comes from the French topgraphical name from Old French meaning "ash" as in Ash tree.  But where on Earth does that leave us then?  F.U.B.A.R.  Faith ultimately begets a ressurection . . . and as I look around the forest now, I see the mighty Ash and curse not the shade but stand in appreciation of its cover when the rain begins to fall.

Hang in there folks tomorrow is a new day.  Today ends the past, tomorrow begins the future.  I will see you all then.

Jack.

I have dreamed a dream, but that dream is gone for me now

I am awake, and all too aware of that fact as it turns out.  My absence from this project is a mixture of neglect and self-indulgence.  As our life has done so many times before, we have turned outside to in and inside to out, we have reinvented what we call reality and I can hardly place my finger on how.  In the end, the "how" matters not.  The "when" is of even less significance.  It is those details found in the "what" that I find truly fascinating.  "What" have we become, "what" will come next, and "what" (in the hell) were we thinking? The highlights come so fast and furious these days that they seem to flicker like a strobe light flashing to a techno-pop beat.  Like some drug fueled hallucination, the colors are so vivid that my dilated pupils are having trouble adjusting to the light.  Through squinted eyes, I can see some vague outlines.  Some familiar themes.  Characters that look familiar even if only in silhouette.  It is time to come down, time to sober up.  The light show has ended, the crowds have gone home and the house lights have come up once more.  The fog machine has belched out its last cloud of ambiance and the empty beer bottles have found their way to the trash.  What is left behind is a reality that only Johnny Cash could capture in words more eloquent than my own.  Its time to settle down, settle in, and somehow find the middle.  Normal, for normalcy's sake . . . if there even is such a thing.  And so, as we now make this transition toward the mundane, I find myself reminded of where we have been by way of the odd flashback or two.  We have indulged, over-extended, glutted and gobbled our way back into American life.  Piles of debris give way to stacks of lumber and stacks of lumber give way to a home.  With this rebirth, I find myself in need of an outlet.  A place to jot it all down.  So, I will make the time.  I will pick up my paper and pen, unpack my easel and paints and get back to the work I left in pieces when we left those far and distant shores.  A year to recap and what a strange year indeed.  If you are willing, follow along.  If not, then go to hell . . . I am writing this shit down anyway.  Until next time.  Jack

A Hooker’s Vagina: Promises of the past haunt the realities of the present

It has been more than a month of Sundays since last we spoke and like all things in our lives at present, the blog is in a state of flux. Giving you my best Forest Gump, it must be said that MY momma always said, “Life is like a Hookers Vagina . . . you never know what you gonna get”. These days, it seems like I am living my life in halves. I am sitting on a collection of half-written blog posts about half-witted ideas, written in such a half-hearted manner that I am embarrassed to call them my own. As I sit here staring at a half-eaten sandwich, I wonder where it all went wrong. About half the time, I am half as good as I once was. It could be age, it could be stress, it could be I just don’t give a fuck any more. I have grown weary of the recurrent theme littering the landscape of the last several posts. I make well intentioned vows to continue my work on this project only to let weeks go by without a single written word. Well, no more my friends. No more half-measures driven by half-truths. It’s time to go all in. It is time to really let you in on the World According to Jack. I will no longer be witty, I will no longer be kind. I intend to continue this on my own terms and it ain’t gonna be pretty. I am taking the phone off the hook and firing the editorial staff. It is time to get real. This may end up being more Richard Pryor than Captain Kangaroo, but who gives a shit anyway. It isn’t like anyone actually reads this crap. Except of course my wife who knows me well enough by now that it was really only a matter of time before I went completely off the deep end.

This is going to continue as sort of continuous rant about my day to day travels through life with no script or necessary theme. It will consist of whatever comes to mind and will be written at odd hours. There may be posts of single phrases or thoughts, or lengthy dissertations about nothing at all. I guess it could be said that I am simply “Twitterizing” this bitch, so get ready for a bunch of non-sense wrapped up in sentence fragments. What can I say, it’s the new me baby! So, without further adieu, let’s get started. At present, the wife is working, the kids are learning, and I . . . well, I am sitting . . . yeah, mostly sitting. Sedentary is my state and to be honest it isn’t all that bad. Oh, I guess I get the house work done and the kids picked up and an occasional job application out the door, but really what I am doing most is sitting. Boredom has set in. Life, though horribly busy, feels stagnant. Could it REALLY be just a long shuffle to the grave from here? That thought made me cringe, so I decided to do something stupid, which as you know is often my way. Since the kids won’t miss my cooking and the wife . . . well the wife can fold her own damned socks, I am setting myself to the task of running a marathon. Not just any marathon, but an “Ultra-Marathon”. Why “Ultra-Marathon” you ask? Cause it just fucking sounds better, OK? Geez. I plan on running a local Marathon in October, then continuing to train for the “Ultra”. Don’t know what an “Ultra” marathon is? Technically speaking, it is any distance over the standard Marathon distance of 26 miles and 385 yards. The most common are 50K (round about 31 miles), 50 miles, and 100. I am crazy, but not clinically so, so the 100 is out. Since 31 miles is hardly worth the additional effort, I have settled on the 50 miler.

Why the hell would anyone want to do that you ask? Cause they don’t have better shit to do with their lives, that’s why. Since nobody seems to want to hire a middle aged stay at home dad who has been out of the workforce for two years, I may as well spend the extra time running. It is that or masturbate, and frankly I’m too bored to masturbate. Yes, it is a stupid thing to say one is bored when they are in the process of re-patriating, building a new house, shuttling youngsters to a growing laundry list of sporting activities all while trying to find a new career and keeping the rental estate somewhere on this side of squalorous. And no, I don’t think “squalorous” is a real word, so put your fucking dictionary down. I think you get the point. The bottom line is, the one true affliction I picked up while in France is a pathological need for adventure. Truth be told, I have always had it, it has just gotten more defined. So, there it is . . . The Ultra Marathon. Check.

Personal accomplishment and goals out of the way, let me catch you up a bit on family life. The boys are growing at a steady rate. The eldest is reveling in his pre-pubescent glory with all that entails. There seems a steady stream of girls texting him at inappropriate hours which demands more of his attention than it deserves. Why they have such interest in this dude is beyond me. His temperament has turned a bit to the sullen and moody and to be honest, he is generally a slob. How disgusting must the other boys at school be that my eldest is garnering so much attention from the opposite sex? I shudder to think. Piss poor attitude and general malaise aside, I guess he is a pretty thing. Arm candy for the status seeking female. Takes after the old man (wink wink). I would have argued that the interest comes from that element of mystery that the “new” kid always carries which is only intensified given the fact that he is not REALLY the new kid and he comes to them by way of France. Oooh la la! No, the newness has worn off and it seems to be something else. Something his time in France helped concrete, but ultimately something his parents have demanded of him . . . Self-respect. Paired with a dump truck load of self-confidence and you can see the attraction. It was actually pointed out that he is the only boy in his class that takes care of his appearance. He cares about what he wears and styles his infamous locks to perfection EVERY time he leaves the house. So, in the end, it would seem that he will be a real ladies man or completely gay. Either way, I think he will carry it off with a class and refinement that only he can muster.

The “Butler Swagger” has not been lost on the youngest. Perhaps three fold more confident than his already uncomfortably cocky older brother, my youngest can absolutely steal a room. Moxy . . . that’s what this kid has . . . Moxy. Keeping in mind that this kid is only 5 years old, it was only yesterday that the door bell rang, and when I answered, before me stood a gaggle . . . yes, a gaggle of girls of an age proximate to my eldest. I turned to call for him at which point these young ladies announced that they were seeking my youngest. Now, I don’t know what this kid has been doing while I wasn’t looking, but I have never seen any of these girls before and haven’t the slightest clue how they know my young son. Be that as it may, I summoned him and out he went. Not wanting to be a real “cock block” and cramp his style, I simply watched the events unfold from the kitchen window. They played in the street and sort of lavished him with attention. Soon enough, he pulled a page from the “Players Handbook” and came back to the house looking for a wingman. Before long, both of my boys were outside trying to out charm each. Apparently the youngest won the battle if not the war, because in parting, the eldest of these girls made a “second date” with the youngest. If I had hair, it will be grey by now.

Speaking of hair, as most of you know, I have given up on the idea that the troops might return to the field of battle. The front line has broken and the soldiers are in full retreat, so I did what any self-respecting man should when face with this defeat . . . I began shaving my head in earnest . . . like, with a razor. The comb over is an abomination, and clinging to the halo that rides just above the ears is more decoration than hair. That being said, one would think that making such a switch would be freeing. Nothing could be further from the truth. True, I no longer need a brush or any exotic hair treatments, but now I spend more time shaving that I do sleeping. Holy shit this is a lot of work. Unfortunately, I am not sure the wife is completely on board with being married to Mr. Clean. From the outside, it doesn’t appear there has been a big change. I “clippered” my hair so short to start with that it looked bald all along. At this point however is really a bit of a texture issue. You know how some people don’t like sushi? Not because of the taste, but because of the slimy texture in their mouth? Seems the same applies to my scalp. Since the wife is the only person in my life that would have occasion to cling to the back of my head (giggle, giggle), her assessment of its “creapy” texture has been duly noted. Be that as it may, the look is here to stay and I had really better wrap this post up soon, because it is about time to shave . . . AGAIN.

As for the wife and I, life is busy with the realities of house building. Every day we are faced with a burning in the pit of our bellies that can only come from trying to wrangle a budget for this money pit that wouldn’t make Donald Trump gag. In addition to the mounting cost of every bell and whistle that we simply can’t live without, there is the small matter of the sheer volume of decisions that must be deliberated and ultimately made in a fairly timely manner. This process is not for the obsessive-compulsive. Killing yourself over the color of a fucking door hinge will lead to a padded cell or at the very least a build that will take YEARS to complete. Nope, you have to love it and leave it at some point. Pull the trigger and move along. And even though the wife and I are as decisive a pair as you will ever meet, the minutia is starting to wear us out. The color and style one can choose from for something as simple as the knob on your toilet is dizzying and every such box must be reviewed and checked off in a never ending buffet of decision making. Someday I will be emotionally ready to go into further detail, but right now, I think we can call it quits since we are at a nice place to segue into a pre-written post that is want for publishing. That and I really need to get back to my daily ritual of sitting around with my thumb up my ass while the dishwasher and washing machine gurgle and pop in a two part rhythm of domestic plenitude. If I set them for a second rinse cycle, maybe . . . just maybe, I will have time to shave . . . AGAIN. See you next time. R.

Creativity in a Cardboard Box

If I were the sort to point fingers, I rather suppose that I could create an impressive list of reasons why I have neglected or maybe even lost interest in this project. I could blame the change in latitude and longitude for the snow days that have kept our children under my keep instead of inside the halls of academia. I could blame the nearly 600 boxes of shit that have amassed themselves in the garage of our rental home in what could possibly be argued as the worst move in the history of moving. I could even blame the demands placed upon me in trying to sort through the impressively daunting task of building a new home. The bottom line is, these would all be half-truths or perhaps worse . . . whole lies. True, we are indeed busy in the aftermath of our transfer back to the Continental United States, but between portaging the children, sending out resumes, housekeeping, tending to the plethora of details necessary for building our home, and on occasion sweating off some American blubber on a treadmill, there is a moment of silence here or there that one could pen a word or two if they were so inclined.

Absent a diagnosis of encephalitis lethargica, there doesn’t seem to be a justifiable reason why I have been so content with this lack of creative activity. As we busied ourselves sorting through boxes of ruined tchotchkes from our life “before France”, it hit me . . . I need to write again. With my canvases and paints packed away in a box that time seems to have forgotten and all other creative outlets barred by an otherwise very hectic existence, writing may well be the Levadopa needed to awaken me from this slumber that is starting to frankly bring me down. I fear that it may take some time to get my “mojo” back. As I sit here clacking away at my keyboard, I wonder if this writing will be as good as it once was. The content is there, I just worry that I somehow packed my creativity away in one of the boxes from France that has yet to be unpacked. We have been removed from our adoptive home for 3 months now and I personally am starting to feel some of the aftershock. Aside from the fact that I can’t get a decent baguette, an agreeable cheese or a bottle of wine that doesn’t curl my nose, it is the smallest of things that make me miss our time in France. It gets under your skin. It leave a mark. A void that, even though filled by the bounty that is our life in the US, is somehow lacking all the same. To be honest, I don’t miss the place as much as I miss the people. I miss my friends. I miss the bustle of life in the air. I miss the passion and the mystery. Was this France or simply a symptom of following the road less traveled by? Hard to say. Maybe a bit of both if I am to be honest.

Be that as it may, there is much to be appreciated here at “home”. Before we left France we had been told that we would be amazed at how quickly life seems to return to its “pre-expat” status. How quickly things return to “normal”. At the time, I didn’t take this as it was surely meant. It was a warning. One not to be dismissed by those who choose the life we have chosen. In time I have no doubt that my longings for the exotic will ebb, I only fear that it will somehow be buried or soon forgotten. I guess in the end, it is the adventure that I miss. The unknown . . . the magic , if you will. Perhaps the biggest lesson to learn here is that there is “magic” in life no matter where you reside, you simply have to look for it. It might be more difficult to find in your own back yard, but it is there. I hope that when I go digging, I will find it, or more importantly it will find me. It is with that hope that I will continue with this project and maybe . . . just maybe . . . you might want to come along for the ride. Until next time . . . Jack.

Honey Boo Boo and The Amish Mafia: An American Love Story

Yes indeed sir, you are back in ‘Mereeka. That’s how we hillbillies say “America” don’t you know. We have yet to truly settle and most days I have a want to check with the airlines to see when we should check in for our flight back across the pond. Having shuttled our way through the holidays, we are residing (reluctantly) at an extended stay hotel. Life out of a suitcase is not unfamiliar to our crew, nevertheless, the pressure it creates within the family dynamic is enough to steam a turkey. Sharing limited space and seemingly limitless resources means that keeping this place tidy is a full time profession. This is something that I seemingly had much more time for while I was in France. Forcing myself to the brink of re-employment means that job applications and self-indulgent cover letters replace a load or two of laundry that is now piling up faster than rats abandoning a sinking ship. Pair that with my moonlight gig as my children’s chauffeur, and it seems I have little time for anything else. I have racked up enough miles to qualify for my CDL, so perhaps Truckmasters should receive my next resume submission.

Activities are on the rise and there is little time for boredom. Birthday parties and sleepovers have resumed as has our thrice weekly endeavor back into the martial arts. Other sports are soon to begin, so the wife and I have already committed ourselves to the divide and conquer approach to child rearing. Along with the intense confusion , frustration and toil involved in re-building a house, there is scarcely enough time to pour myself into bed for an hour or two of slumber. This is not to say that of an evening I don’t let the gentle glow of the moving picture box wash over me in cascading high definition. This return to apparent “normalcy” is somewhat bittersweet as my return to the land of my birth should surely alleviate the pressure felt when living with a sizable language barrier, RIGHT? My return finds my favorite television channels awash with “reality” based programming that has taken a turn toward the bizarre. I am now forced to watch television with a frenzy of subtitles as I am only able to make out every other word on any given program. I wish this was said with tongue in cheek, but it is the God’s honest truth. Spoken English in this country has become so poor that subtitles are now needed so that those of us who still have a full set of working teeth can follow along. The days of the Hollywood starlet are seemingly at an end. Their curvaceous figures have been replaced by the Gurning masses of rotundity we have apparently become known for. With crossed eyes and banjo in hand, we are making James Dickey proud . . . one television program at a time. 23 programs about logging in every known region and climate, 74 programs about panning for gold from the Kondike to the Bering Sea, 32 shows depicting the graceful art of “noodling”, 15 or so crazy bastards “rastlin” gators, and one or two delights that still have me scratching my head. We have “Auction Kings” and “Pawn Stars” by the drove. Buying, selling and trading the absurdity that has become our American culture.

Truth be told, the display is so disgusting that it is enough to make a grown man cry and a weak man vomit. Complete degradation . . . and I CAN’T LOOK AWAY! That’s right, I am contributing to the decay of the American cultural landscape and I simply can’t help myself. Whether it be Moonshinin or Amish warfare, I am tuned in. My mind is numb and a steady stream of drool is forming at the corner of my lips. Shameful really, but why deny it? Abrupt depictions of illegal activity with no consequence, all for the sake of bringing it to our living rooms . . . live and in dazzling color. Titles and catch phrases of pure American poetry. Everything is labeled with either “War”, “Hardcore” or “Extreme”. There are “Bad Girls”, “Real Housewives”, “Swamp People”, “Gator Boys” and something called a “Honey Boo Boo”. We have “Propery Wars”, “Auction Wars” and even a little “Hardcore Pawn”. One is truly forced into a life of DVR madness in order to keep up with it all. I mean, heaven forbid I miss the next episode of “Hillbilliy Handfishin” while I try to consume the bounty that is “Doomsday Preppers”. That’s right, programs about outdoor survival come in the thousands. From one man’s pseudo “real” fight against the elements to a barefooted hippy and his sidekick blundering their way through one of our national parks. And yes,the eventual slide down this digital scree slope amounts to a bunch of half-wits preparing for the end of the world.

If all of this “reality” is too much for you to take, you can always turn to one of the countless channels providing the insatiable public a liberal dose of brain eating Zombie dramas. Being morbidly fat is fashionable and the mullet is back in style. Having come this far in the short two years I have been absent, where will we possibly be two years from now? A show about Swinging or BDSM on the Oprah Winfrey Channel? Too Late. So, what is a guy to do? READ? How about “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter”? Or maybe I could join the 65 million or so degenerates who found “50 Shades of Grey” to be a literary masterpiece. Can there honestly be that many people out there that like spanking the shit out of each other? Weird. I know what you are thinking. This is all making me seem quite prudish and uptight. Those that know me, know that this couldn’t be further from the truth. I mean, if you derive sexual pleasure from sticking a lamp shade up your ass . . . by all means, carry on my good man. Just because it’s not for me, doesn’t mean I judge. In fact, I am all about exposing the dark underbelly. Sometimes the best stuff resides in the “ahem” cracks. What I don’t like, however, is hypocrisy and drawing lines in the sand. Who chooses what is now glorified and what is to remain frowned upon and hidden. Let your freak flag fly I say, or maybe we should just keep it to ourselves for the sake of social decorum.

It all stinks of our society’s complete lack of creativity. Sensationalism for the sake of sensationalism. It wouldn’t bother me one bit if they sold bondage supplies at Wal-Mart so long as I could turn on the television and see something actually thought out or pick up a book that was actually well written. What I am trying to say is this . . . I miss France. Not for the magnificent baguette or the delightfully complex Bordeaux red, but for their sense of dignity. They don’t pretend to be prudish or offended by the realities and grotesqueries of the world. In fact, they seem to accept them without a single misstep. If Whiskey, Weed (for prescribed medicinal purposes in a jurisdiction where such things are legal of course), and Women are your thing . . . go for it. I quite prefer life WITHOUT taboos. Taboos, not illegalities. Some things are illegal for a reason and should stay that way. These two concepts are quite different indeed. Other than that, everything goes. The issue is, there is a time and place for everything and the French, nay, Europe as a whole has that figured out. No need to glorify it. Just let it be. So let’s strike a balance here America. Life isn’t all or nothing you know. There is in fact a middle ground. How about a nice trip to the movie theater with your significant other (male or female, genitals pierced or un-pierced) to watch Lincoln as something other than a Vampire slayer followed up by an equally nice evening of consensually degenerate sex acts in the privacy of your own bedroom with whips and chains you purchased at Bed Bath and Beyond . . . WAY BEYOND (they really do have EVERYTHING). Nobody has to know . . . REALLY! Again, just keep it legal. Not since Mister Ed has a horse been able to tell you if he was up for a night on the town. Besides, I heard Mister Ed couldn’t actually talk and only moved his lips to try and get at the peanut butter they smeared on his nose, but I digress. See, now that is life in balance. So, let’s get it all out in the open and out of our system so we can all move on with life . . . whose with me? No? Oh well . . . I tried. Until next time, I gotta run . . . Honey Boo Boo is about to start . . . hope I didn’t forget to set the timer to record the Amish Mafia! If you can’t beat em . . . join em. R

Flight of the Mouseling and a Cure for Literary Constipation

As pressure mounts from the outside to continue with this project I find myself terribly blocked and despite a diet heavy on literary bran muffins, I still can’t squeeze out a single word worth publishing. Indeed it has been some time and we are long overdue, but words don’t really do it justice. The depth and breadth of the change we have undergone over the past month or so has, in fact, left me speechless. Oh, I gave it the old college try a time or two, but to be honest it was a bunch of crap. Tedious paragraphs about packing and unpacking, shuffling about in a mindless fog of logistics. It was all just about as dry and lifeless as a popcorn fart. The longer I sat staring at a blank screen the more perplexed I became as to what, if any, direction this project should take. With an absolute gold mine of experience in the palm of my hand, why waste a single breath on the mundane reality of yet another international move. To be completely honest, it was fairly uneventful. Certainly, there will be memories that last the test of time, but are unlikely to translate in my broken prose. Still, I felt uncertain where to start and then it hit me . . . MOUSELINGS!

Anyone have the slightest clue what you call a baby mouse? Perhaps this is nothing more than my final break from reality under the burdensome strain of a life in flux, or maybe it is simply my way of getting back to where we started . . . back to the usual unstable meanderings of my mind. As I spent yet another mindless hour on the road, portaging my children to and fro, it struck me as odd that in all my years on this planet I had failed to learn what a baby mouse was called. A cat . . . kitten of course. Dog . . . a pup. I even am acutely aware that a baby Alpaca is called a Cria. Hatchlings for Aligators and calf for most of the larger hooved varieties of mammals wandering the hills and valleys. A deer has a fawn, a horse has a foal and some fish have fingerlings . . . but what in the hell does a mouse have? As it turns out they have pups, kittens and something called a pinkie. WTF? Stumbling across the answer to my query on the interwebs, I became hopelessly quagmired in some intensive research that eventually led me to an even more interesting topic. As if the English language isn’t fascinating enough in its oft times counterintuitive nomenclature for our offspring, the conventions for naming groups of things is more interesting still.

A group of mice, for example, are known as a “mischief”. And though I have never seen more than one owl at a time other than in a zoo, a group of these nocturnal predators is known as a “parliament”. Everyone knows a “troop” of monkeys and a “pride” of lions, but have you ever seen a “business” of ferrets or a “coalition” of cheetahs? Bears come by the “sleuth”, badgers by the “cete” and peafowl by the “ostentation”. That last one actually makes a great deal of sense in my humble opinion. Between the “rookery” of penquins and the “crash” of rhinoceri, I found my head swimming like a “squad” of squid. Human beings are worse yet. We come by the boatload or the busload; in a crowd or a gang. We come as a mob or even a tribe. We are known by the mass or a huddle and some have even come as a horde. There are multitudes and legions, families and flocks. Hell, we even come in something called a “dispora” . . . whatever that means. We congregate as troops and create a rabble or scrum. It seems there is no limit for how we combine, by the throng or the wave, we come just the same. The noise of it all would silence a “murder” of crows.

So, for better or worse, these are my thoughts for the day. Maybe tomorrow I will have something meaningful to say. The best I can hope for now is that this contrivance will have the desired laxative effect and I won’t again be absent for so long. See you next time. R

Bats in our Belfry . . . Taking a “Blogcation”

Like a pimply faced teenager taking his first gangly steps into manhood, I am going to do my best to settle back into this project, but do bear with me if I trip over my feet a bit. Pitiful really . . . the amount of time I have put into this project only to let it slip through my fingers like sands through an hourglass. The truth is this little “Blogcation” (Blogging Vacation) was a long time coming. I use the term “Blogcation” as my own personal jab at the sickeningly mundane way we seem to abuse the English language these days with stupid terms like “Staycation” and the like. Don’t know what that is? Good for you. Not wanting to turn this into one of my usual rants on my irritation du jour, lets get right down to the good stuff. For the simple sake of keeping connected to those of you that are still holding onto a thread of hope that I might post an update before the end of the year, let me catch you up on life in the Butler household. For those that know me best, it can be said that I have more than an idle hatred for the Junebug also known as Phyllophaga (genus), a genus of beetles in the subfamily Melolonthinae of the family Scarabaeidae according to the good folks inputing such nonsense to the interwebs via Wiki. Who really knows if that is correct. It was the first thing I came to after a brief Google search. I have an epic story that I hope to someday commit to paper that some of you may already know that relates to these hateful little creatures. To my knowledge, they are the only insect in the world that holds a grudge. At any rate, as much as the mere thought of having one of those little bastards dive bomb my head seems to make my skin crawl, it cannot nearly compare to a run in with Pipistrellus pipistrellus (also known as the Common Pipistrelle Bat).

Now, my appreciation of typical bat behavior is limited to that which I have seen on the Discovery Channel and of course the much beloved genre of films concerning vampires. I have neither a fear of the creature for its mythical ability to transform one into a blood sucking fiend or a necessarily warm and fuzzy feeling requiring me to get to know one better. That being said, being locked in intense battle with one of these little blighters in the confines of one’s own boudoir certainly makes for a lively evening. I don’t know if the creature was harboring the same sort of malice for mankind that seems evident in the Junebug or if it was simply disoriented, but the damn thing seemed dead set on landing on my face. I suspect the latter to be more likely. Sort of like a GPS losing its signal in a parking garage, I imagine the poor things echo location sensibilities were being overwritten by the complete cacophony of shrieks and wails coming from my wife as she cowered in our bed beneath whatever covers she could find. Her screams of terror were soon replaced with angry accusations of abandonment when she realized I was no longer in bed next to her. I, however, am a man of action. It went a little something like this:

As we laid restless in our bunk with an open bedroom window and liberal application of fan driven breeze, we attempted to chat ourselves to sleep while cursing the miserably warm weather and lack of modern air conditioning. From the darkness, I hear my wife exclaim “THERE IS SOMETHING IN HERE WITH US!” Within an instant her head was buried beneath the covers and I was left sort of dumbfounded and asking a lot of stupid questions. “What do you mean something is in here with us?”, I asked. “I don’t know, a big bug or bird or something” was her hesitant reply. Chuckling at her apparent fear of what I presumed to be a moth or something of the kind, I strained to adjust my eyes to the darkness. It was to no avail though, so I resorted to a little echo location of my own and soon found myself upright at my bedside as something the size of what seemed to be a Volkswagen Beetle strafed past my face like Tom Cruise buzzing the tower in Top Gun. I knew my only chance was to retreat, which I did in haste . . . or fear . . . whatever. My mind was immediately preoccupied with arming myself. By this time my wife had resumed her screaming fits of terror which didn’t help my opponents mental state, his flight pattern had become increasingly erratic as we danced around the room bobbing and weaving like a sparring session between Rocky and Apollo Creed. I saw my chance to escape to the hall and made a break for it. The bat beat me there and took up post in the door way. Like mortar fired from a cannon it took one last shot at taking my face off. A deft spin move evaded the attack and I was soon in the safety of the now lit hallway. Time to save the wife. Nothing was apparent within arm’s reach to assist me in this battle. I made for the stairs and as I made my way down our creeking stairs, my wife once again changed from screaming to cursing. She accused me of leaving her and called me everything but a white boy. No time for small talk, I made my way toward our utility room where I thought I might have the best chance of finding a weapon. By this time the wife had made her own screaming break for it and was making her way down the stairs.

Now joining me in the utility area, we did the best we could with the implements available. It was decided that our badminton racquets would have to do. And yes, we are geeky enough to have a badminton set. Even geekier still . . . WE USE IT. Don’t worry, it’s a French thing . . . you wouldn’t understand. Anyhow, soon we returned to the stairs and crept our way upward like a SWAT team entering a crack house. Immediately we made tactical sweeps of the children’s rooms to confirm their safety and secure their doors. CLEAR! We now returned to our doorway to find our winged foe swooping furiously to and fro in hopes of freeing himself from this most unfortunate circumstance. Truth be told, I think he was just trying to get away from all of the screaming. One pass, brought the fella a little too close to the door way and I went to make my retreat only to find the wife with a 20 yard headstart, slamming the hall door behind her and trapping me in with our adversary. She in fact stayed so far from the action that the Badminton racquet was more of a decoration than an effective tool. No way was she going to get close enough to this thing to take a swing. Still, she would have to steady her nerves to play a very important role in this seek and destroy mission. She was to be my lightsman. With flashlight at the ready, I convinced her to rejoin me at the doorway to our room. In room breaching formation we stacked up and began our assault. I was in the lead with my racquet at the ready with the wife CLOSE behind tripping over my heals with a shaky flashlight darting about the room in her quivering hand while the other dug deeply into the nape of my neck. I am convinced that should something have jumped out at us, she would have torn my spine from my body and fled to the neighboring zip code, leaving my paralyzed body in a heap on the floor. Fortunately, nothing ever did jump out. In fact, upon our return to our room, there was no sign of Mr. Bat. Certain that leaving any stone unturned would lead to a second wave of screaming and cursing should the bat return, I climbed through the rafters and slid under the bed to ensure that every inch of the room was secure before closing the window. Reluctantly, we piled back into our bed and sunk into a sweaty exhausted slumber with badminton racquets clutched to our chests. Openly I admit to no fear, but it can now be said that I have an intense dislike for bats and junebugs . . . oh, and REALLY deep water, but that is a story for another day. Hope you enjoyed another peak into the saga that is the Butler household. Hopefully this won’t be the last. See ya soon. R.

Breaking the Silence: Re-Patriatism by Fire and the Elephant that Survived it ALL

Though I have yet to mentally or emotionally sort through the past few months of my life, it feels like it is time to clear my throat. I left for Spain with two posts in incubation and unfortunately they still haven’t hatched. I desperately wanted to have them published before moving on, but we will just have to take things out of chronological order for the time being. Our time here in France is nearly at an end and this final exhale feels a bit like dying. If I am to be honest, I wouldn’t have expected this to be the case. There have been times when this has felt a whole lot like a prison sentence from which we were uncertain we would ever be released. Now that life has, as it always does, thrown us the proverbial curve ball, we find ourselves skulking back to the dugout with our collective heads hung low. Perhaps we are nothing more than a case study in a more elaborate discussion of the “Institutional Syndrome” or perhaps this is something more. It feels as though we have been forever altered by this experience on a quasi-molecular level. Something has changed that one can’t quite place their finger on. Something has been in some way imprinted or perhaps even overwritten by our time here in France. One would be a fool to say that such a radical change in one’s life would not leave lasting effects, but the degree to which I feel in some way changed is so startling to me that I am having trouble formulating the words to describe it.

As our remaining days here slip through our fingers like grains of sand, there is the notable presence of an Elephant in the room. We each know it’s there, but dare not speak it’s name. It has been easy enough to ignore it given the busy nature of readying oneself for yet another international relocation and is perhaps one of the main reasons I have neglected this project for the past couple of months. Truth be told, I have been out of France more than I have been in it these last two months and now with only two weeks remaining I feel cheated. While I would argue that the mood around the Butler household is optimistic and filled with the euphoria created by the prospect of beginning a new chapter in our lives, the Elephant insists that we pay him his due. It must be said that from an administrative perspective, moving back to the US has proven to be much more challenging than it was to move to France to begin with. We are tasked with disposing of all small electronics and other such items that simply can’t be plugged back in when we settle back in the US. In addition, cars must be sold and new one’s re-purchased. Combined with the fact that we are functionally homeless, the stress of it all can be a bit overwhelming. All the items that we left in the US were damaged or destroyed by the fire and as such we have to go on a major retail outing right out of the box which doesn’t lend itself to good consumer decisions. I hate purchasing out of necessity and am almost never happy with the outcome. This is really just a whole lot of complaining to mask the fact that what is really bothering us is the LEAVING part.

We have friends here . . . we have a life here, and though it is not the one we have chosen as our final destination, it will be hard to say goodbye. I will miss our friends, my beloved 206, fresh baked bread and the dozens of other things we have come to love about France. It seems that for me, the only way to combat this is to dwell on the things I DON’T like about life here in France. I look forward to convenience, plentiful breakfast options and the ability to speak my mind without a dictionary and thesaurus. Still, the question must be asked . . . have we made the right decision? The destruction of our home forced our hand, but would it have been better to walk away and leave it all behind for permanent residence abroad? The boys would have benefited from additional time with the language that is no longer afforded, and though I am hopeless the wife is progressing well now. The Pachyderm of doubt weighs heavy on our shoulders in these final few moments amongst the vines. So, in order to wipe the slate clean, I feel I need to get back to where we started and I must purge my soul through this writing. After all, we have never spent a great deal of time in our lives looking back. Ever forward . . . MARCH. That is the Butler way. There are houses to build, friends to re-connect with, careers to re-kindle. No time for pouting over what might have been or our fears of what is yet to come. For now I will leave it at that and focus on the future by going back to the past. I MUST catch back up. I WILL finish the entries that were left unfinished, and in doing so, find the passion for life that seems to have slipped away in all this shuffling about. Hold on tight. Like the first pebble breaking free from the dam, there will certainly be a landslide to follow, so stay tuned. Until next time. R.

Spain, Spain Go Away. I Really Miss My Wife Today

Chester See - God Damn You're Beautiful by Kyzunx

Catching up...

Days 10-13:

I don’t know how he finds the time to write so often!  I let it go for a few days because I had no response and honestly I’m beat.  Now I know why he gets so frustrated when no one says anything!  Besides, this single parenting stuff is  a lot of work with no time left for yourself- including time to write…

So I’ll try to summarize a few days together to get back on track.  Day 10- boring. Got up, went to school, came home, had dinner, did the dishes and went to bed.  Day 11- repeat of day 10 plus a trip to the local sporting goods store.  Not only did we need to buy a soccer ball for the eldest to take to an upcoming birthday party, the youngest now needed soccer gear of his own.

The youngest had it in his head that everything had to be red.  So fingers crossed, in we went.  We found a red Nike dry fit shirt, and with the help of a store clerk had the smallest pair of red soccer socks they make (no problem our dryer shrinks everything to doll size anyway so they’ll fit after a trip though the wash.  Shoes were a bit more of a problem.  They had some he liked, but of course not in his small size.  I finally convinced him to go for a pair of Nike’s that fit but did notice that the tongue of all these cleats was paper thin.  I don’t remember the eldest’s cleats having this feature- wonder why?  Anyway, a matching ball, shin guards and we were set.

At home the first thing he did was try them on.  Thankfully everything fit, or at least the socks would after tomorrow’s laundry.  Immediately we were outside with him teaching me what a forward is supposed to do according to what his “friends” (read the other students in the eldest’s class) had taught him.  A long lecture later and I was finally allowed to kick the ball.  While soccer is not my sport and I don’t even understand the rules, I’m okay until he starts to figure it out then I’ll take a back seat to Dad yet again.

Day 12- Ahh, a Saturday!  Lately the boys have taken to quietly going down stairs and playing a game or watching British cartoons, letting Mom (and uaually Dad) sleep in a little on the weekends.  This was a welcome treat and I finally crawled out of bed about 9:30.  After a PB&J or nutella sandwich for breakfast, we lazed around doing house work and they destroyed more brain cells in front of the TV.

Then, 2 hours before the birthday party we headed out to pick up wrapping that would not give away the fact that the kids was getting a soccer ball and to be sure we could find the place.  Garmin said she could find it and it looked easy enough on google maps, but given our long list of experiences with this sort of thing we weren’t taking any chances.  And it was a good thing too.  After arriving where Garmin said the house was to be, we couldn’t find the correct house number or name.  30 minutes and a stop at the local Mason de Vin for directions we found it.  Then another 30 minutes of driving around as to not be early and viola!  The parents were quite nice and told me what time to come back.  I thought 2 hours was a short birthday party given they have a pool and these things normally take 4-6 hours here but OK.  So  again, it was back to driving to let the youngest finish his nap in the car.  The we visited the park for a while and showed back up exactly 2 hours later.  Now mind you they use the 24 hour system for time and I have difficulty understanding their spoken time in the afternoon anyway.  But I had double checked what they said with the eldest so I was confident I had it right.  Wrong.  I was supposed to show up at dix-huit heur trent, not dix-six heur trent.

I offered to come back in 2 hours but of course that was unacceptable.  Now Mom and little brother was crashing the birthday party!  We had gateau and glace (cake and ice cream) and “visited” with his parents for a while.  Then they got out the floaties for the littlest to swim with his friends.  He is convinced his older brother’s friends are his and they all absolutely love him so in he went.  In the end we have an invite for dinner when Jack returns and he now has a golf outing with the kid’s dad (I havent’ told him that part yet)

Day 13- I had suggested the day before we make one last run to the beach as it was 32 degrees the day before.  But when we awoke at 8:00 to beat the traffic, it was cold and cloudy.  Although Mom really wanted to go, the kids remembered our last outing to the beach in the cold and decided it wasn’t such a good idea.   I assured them the weather report said it would be warm and sunny later in the day but they weren’t buying it.  So in our PJ’s we stayed and watched 10 episodes of the Strumphs (okay, not really 10 but it sure seemed like it to me!)

 Later when it was hot and sunny like I said, I was yet again conned into going to the pool.  When we arrived at the pool we heard voices inside the 6 foot stone wall that houses the regular entrance, so I sent the eldest to run around to see if someone was in the pool.  Before he could return, the owners opened the door and insisted that we join them.  They are nice enough, but it was what you would call slightly awkward to invade them while she swam and he cleaned around the pool.  I tried to make it quick, but they didn’t help matters any by giving the kids noodles to use in the pool.  At least they had fun.

To round out the day, the eldest suggested we go for a bike ride.  I thought this was a good opportunity for him to practice his newly learned skills and agreed.  The youngest wanted to ride his bike and knowing his brother had a longer ride in mind, I suggested I ride Dad’s bike and when he was tired we would lock his bike up on the bike trail and pick it back up on the way home.  This made everyone happy, so on Jack’s bike I go with the kid seat on behind.  As predicted 10 minutes into it he was finished.  So we locked up the bike and put him in his seat.  Now mind you he is roughly 1/3 of my weight and it’s not easy to ride a bike that’s too big for you with this amount of weight on the back swaying ever which way.  We didn’t even start moving before we had problems.  The eldest had pulled up beside me and wanted me to look at his gear that was making noise, and as I turned to look as I was astride the bike I lost its balance.  In slow motion the youngest, strapped in his seat and the bike, went over.  There was no recovery.  He went down slow, but was seriously pissed at me for dropping him.  No tears, but “Mom, what did you do that for?!?” in a stern voice let me know I’d messed up.  With he and the bike upright, we were finally off.

Of course the eldest had to take us on the new found bike route through the nearest town that he and his dad took just before Jack departed.  Remind me to thank him later.  Now it’s the second time I’d taken this route with the youngest riding on back, but this time I was less confident which made it that much harder.  But back home we realized it didn’t bring us back down the bike path and we still had to retrieve the youngest’s bike.  He had fallen asleep on the ride and just wanted to go in and lay down.  But the drive to retrieve his bike via the road was too far and with some stern discussion we were off.  Of course the bike was about 300 yards up the path, but my angel of an eldest son had arrived on his bike way ahead of me and had unlocked both bikes and was walking them towards us. 

I had had enough for one day, and decided it was time for Dad to return.  Some things Mom’s just aren’t as good at…

-The wife

Day 14:

Its Monday. Yuck.  But today the little one decided he didn’t need to go to school anymore.  I told him I had to work so he had to go to school.  His response is that he thought his teacher would be sick.  Here if a teacher is sick, the class is cancelled for the day.  As there is no “calling tree” you simply find out when you arrive at the school and the teacher at the door is holding a sign with the teacher’s name on it saying there is no class that day.  It happened once last year and thankfully Jack was able to meet me to take the youngest for the day.  They are not exactly set up for two working parents for young kids, so I’m not sure what households that need dual incomes do.  I guess that is why women do not tend to have successful careers here and mainly do lower level work that lacks career advancement.  But don’t get me started… 

To top it off, I had a meeting that started before school did and the boys would have to go the guarderee that morning.  Thankfully, there were other kids already there and they went directly to play without further mention of the potentially sick teacher.

Day 15:

Soccer!   Given the location and timing of soccer practice we would have to go directly from school and have the youngest change his clothes in the car.  I had taken the water bottle to fill up, but of course forgot that along with a snack since I was to pick them up at the normal time.  This met woeful cries of hunger and thirst as soon as we got in the car.  There are no convenience stores here, only on the toll roads, so after a bit of quick thinking I remembered a small store of sorts in a town along the way.  Construction on the road for the second time this year that has taken 2 weeks to replace water line a quarter of a mile (at home they would get this distance finished in a day so I’m slightly annoyed with the extremely slow traffic light and their lack of a timeline) meant that I had to park and run.  There was nothing in the way of snacks.  I splurged for some cookies and an old bag of chips, water and a soda.  But of course this didn’t come to 10 euro that I needed to use me debit card.  So, more surly stale cookies and I was back on the run.

We arrived dressed, fed, and with a now full water bottle right on time.  Of course I was one of the first cars in the parking lot, but it turned out to be a good thing as I had paperwork to fill out.  With a mere Bonjour out of my mouth and the woman knew I was the non-French speaker my friend had called her about.  I filled out the paperwork, paid the fee and we were off- as long as I return with a passport sized photo and the permission slip signed by the doctor. 

With all the other parents filling out the paperwork practice started a little late.  There were about 50-60  kids on the field using the club provided balls, and my little guy with the only red ball so thankfully he was easy to spot.  When they divided them up, they only put them into 2 groups, tallest with one guy and the rest with the other.  30 to 1 is not great odds, and it is no wonder there was pushing, shoving, kicking, etc while waiting in line for a drill that took a minimum of 30 seconds for each kid to complete.  My little guy is one of the youngest in the group and I had to go take him away from the biggest kid in his group that kept throwing him on the ground at one point.  Oh for the days of one coach to 6 kids with only one hour practices back in the US!  You can’t keep a kid’s attention for an hour and a half at that age, no matter what you’re doing.  So by the end of practice he was ready to go as this was making him too sweaty.  Me too.  We haven’t bought lawn chairs here yet but it’s now on the list as I sat on the grass for an hour and a half in dress clothes. 

Day 16:  Its Wednesday, again

So with no school, the boy’s were off to my friends.  They love it there and were quite excited.  I’d love it too, but I didn’t get up on time so we had to stop by our favorite boulangerie for donuts.  Best part is they even had enough for Mom today!  Donuts are a hard find here, and when you do find them there are usually only 3 or 4.  They must have known we were coming!

Sadly for the boys, her son is now in College or the French form of junior high and now has half a day of school on Wednesday.  They were able to get their fix on PlayStation when he go home though so we were able to avoid the withdrawals.  On top of that, she even dropped them by the office on the way to take her son to Escrim or fencing.  He’s actually quite good and the one competition we watched was very interesting.

The boys had fallen back into the bad habit of not doing what they’re told when they’re told and had all games taken away so we were in for a cranky evening.  This can be a problem for anyone, but running this ship by yourself means all crew must do their part or we’ll sink.  After a few days, they thankfully realized it was Mom’s way or the highway.

Day 17:  Cleaning before the storm

The eldest was to have a friend over Friday night so I decided to move cleaning day up to ensure the place was free of the massive amounts of dog hair that “stupid” dog leaves everywhere he goes.  It seems I had forgotten that the mop had disintegrated into pieces last week and made its way into the trash.  With miles of tile I was not about to mop and besides the kid wouldn’t notice anyway.  Then off to put clean sheets on the top bunk.  This lead to the question who in the heck decided bunk beds were a good idea?  Obviously not the person trying to put a fitted sheet on the top bunk.  AND who in this house thought having bunk beds was a good idea?  In his absence, it had to be Jack.  He’s taller and it surely isn’t as hard for him- right?

Beds made, toilets cleaned I remembered I had to change the sheets in the guest room as well as a friend of mine said she may come stay with me this weekend while her husband was gone.  Upon entering the guest room the smell hit me.  There was something dead.  Great, now I have to deal with it.  I believe Jack mentioned in a prior blog that I don’t do mice- dead or alive.  I knew it was a mouse that that darn cat had killed.  Even though it was bed time, the eldest was called to the rescue.  He had to hold the flashlight while I pulled the luggage out from under the beds to determine the cause of this awful stink.  With each bag we opened I assessed its worth to determine if the whole bag would go or it a massive cleaning would ensue.  Nope, no matter what it was going.  Then he spotted it.  On the floor was a black goo.  Upon further inspection is was part of something the cat had eaten and then vomited back up under the bed.  Now she’s really on my list.  Since we weren’t headed back to the beach, I sacrificed the sand shovel and scooped up the rotting vomit and ran out the door.  Half a bottle of cleaner and a few candles later and the room was right as rain.  Although I was sure to remind my assistant that my friend would not think highly about sleeping in a bed when there was a once eaten rotting carcass under the bed the day before.  He thought it was funny, while I just cussed the hubby for not being here to do his dead thing in my house removal job.

-The wife

Day 18:  Plus one and a class meeting

A close friend of the eldest’s was to come home with us after school to spend the night after I attended the annual class meeting with the youngest’s teacher.  The meeting began with an explanation of the Green Project, which turns out to be a class trip for kids not even school aged in the US to the south of France for 3 days to learn about agriculture.  With 2 classes and 6 adults this was not a trip I was signing up to chaperone, even if I do think it was a good thing.  Other than that I got the general drift, yet I’m still not sure of the birthday party rules she spouted off at a break neck speed or what happens after the kids get their name on the board for poor behavior.  As the youngest’s birthday is in about a month this one will require a note to the teacher, for the other part we’ll just hope we don’t have to find out…

An hour and a half later, the now 3 boys were ready to go.  Thankfully I had packed enough snacks for 3 now that I was accustomed to the full meal sized “snack” that was required by the poor starved children each day.  I had previously suggested we go for pizza since we’d have a friend along, but the eldest wanted chicken breasts and burned broccoli.  I tried to explain that not all kids had the degustation of an adult, but my 40 year old in a child’s body wouldn’t hear of it.  So burned broccoli it was, well after a quick text to Dad to confirm the recipe that he brought home from his dad.  And guess what, the kid liked it and even wanted us to write down how we made it so his mom could make it.  I’m not sure how you translate putting enough oil in the bottom of a bow to sufficiently cover the broccoli in oil and shake.  That will be a question for my assistant who always has to help me with this sort of thing.  Don’t worry, I’ve share both of my Grandma’s Christmas candy recipes with her in return so at least I contribute to the French cuisine.

Day 19:  A frigid swim

We began the day with biscuits and gravy per the requests of my son who wanted to show his friend some American food.  It was met with a very polite, “C’est bizarre” and so a dry bowl of cereal served as breakfast at his request.  But otherwise this kid was a joy.  I did my best with my French, with the help of my eldest, and by the end of the day I had my very own built in French lesson every time I attempted to talk. 

Then it came, the request for the pool.  I knew it would.  But it was cold and cloudy, so my denial was at least justifiable.  Then in the late afternoon the darn sun came out.  I told them that 70 was not warm enough to swim, but the eldest wanted to show off the pool.  So I obliged warning them I was not getting in.  At the pool, the first jump in the pool took the eldest’s breath away and he had to immediately swim to the side.  Not to be out done, the friend was in next and back out in under 5 seconds.  Of course then the youngest jumped in with his life vest and screamed like he was being killed.  All in all, I think they each jumped in twice and Mom was left to fish the diving rings out of the pool with the end of the skimmer.  Problem was, two of the resident pool rings were the old style that lay flat on the bottom.  Someone had to go in after them.  With no volunteers, I kindly pushed the eldest in and told him he had to get them.  He manned up and with all pool toys put back in their places we were home in side of 15 minutes.

-The Wife

Day 19:  A brocante and a game of life

In our usual fashion, after sleeping in a little I offered to make a big breakfast.  The eldest had conned me into buying bacon from the meat counter as he is less than impressed with the bacon that comes in 7 slice packages and is paper thin.  It looked okay, but when I fried it the fat turned clear and it became extremely crisp.  I tasted it and while I’m not convinced it wasn’t cured similar to the jambon in Spain, it was easy to discern that the paper thin need 3 packages to feed your family packaged bacon was the way to go.  But you never know until you try.

My friend came for the afternoon and we decided to go to a brocante a few minutes away to see if there was anything we couldn’t live without.  Of course there wasn’t as there was mostly clothing and junk.  We did get to go into a fascinating church from the 11^th and 12^th centuries. It was wonderfully preserved, and the graveyard we had to walk through to get there was just as fascinating.  I’ve been wondering how the family plots work as it is apparent that several family members share the same plot but haven’t felt comfortable enough to ask anyone yet for fear of offending someone.  Also, I’ve never seen a hearse here, let alone a funeral procession.  Although my friend is Hungarian, I decided this was the perfect time to ask.  She wasn’t sure in France, but assured me there was enough room in each plot for individual burials and it was highly regulated.  By my math, and the fact that cremations are rare here, with no new cemeteries insight I’m still not convenience.  She did indicate that they don’t embalm people in Europe which I thought was interesting, and I now wonder why we do in the US in addition to what practices are used in other parts of the world.  But I’m quite sure my colleagues would be offended if I took a poll at my travel destinations so I’ll have to stick to google for an answer to that question.  Can you indicate on google that you don’t want pictures?  That may be a little much!

As evening drew near, I had high hopes of spending some time working.  At the youngest’s request to play a game, that became a fleeting thought.  So to the shelf of games we went.  His choice:  The Game of Life in Spanish.  I convenience him the English version was better, to which he responded “yeah, we haven’t played that in years.”  So after 15 minutes of organizing the money and all of the associated cards, we were set.  He and I played for a good 30 minutes.  I am so impressed a child of his age is interested in this sort of game and is even happy to play by the rules.  He loves rules, but tell him he needs to pay taxes and he simply says “it doesn’t matter.”  Wonder if I could try that?

Next we were on to Uno.  This time we had to play by his rules.  So we simply took turns laying down cards and saying I’ll give you a blue 5.  Amazing way to review his letters and colors!  Way to go Uno.  Now if they can just come up with one for letters we’re set! 

Day 20:  Evaluations

We were out the door on time, but with the still ongoing water line work, that has only moved the length of 4 pipes in the last 2 days, and the driver who would only to 50 in a 70 and 30 in a 50 (note that 30 km is around about 15 mph) we were late.  I decided with parking I would have to drop the kids at the cross walk or they’d be late.  Given the 3 notes I’ve received about being late to school and the process to get your kids into class I wasn’t taking a chance of breaking our perfect on time record.  The boys  jumped out and were off, right on time.  But when I got to the office I noted their snack back was still in the seat of the car.  Oh no, now I’m in trouble.  Ok, mental note to 1 remember to take the snack bag when I leave the office and 2 be sure to get out of the office early which is easier said than done.

I managed to leave only 5 minutes later than planned, but traffic was ridiculous!  It took me 20 minutes to make the normal 8-10 minute drive.  Of all the luck.  When I arrived at school there were no hi moms, it was simply you forgot our snack.  I assured them it was in the car and I had tried to come early, but the only response I got was from the little one telling me he had to eat baguette.

In the car, the eldest indicated he had evaluations today.  So I asked him how he did.  Okay.  What do you mean okay?  I did the best I could on my grammer evaluation.  Okay, that I understand but how did you do.  The little smarty pants didn’t know what they were exactly asking but easily figured out the verb and then successfully dissected the parts of the sentence perfectly.  I’m not even sure I could do that in English at this point in life let alone in a foreign language I’d been speaking for about a year with little instruction.  He also did well on history and math.  My little genius makes me proud.  But that reminds me, I’d better stop making donut runs in the morning and put the extra money away for MIT…  How much can you get for the sale of a kidney?

Hijacking the blog

Thanks to the hubby who provided the password, here are my "posts" from the last week...

Hijacking the Jack Butler Blog…

8/30/12

Well, I thought about hijacking the Jack Butler blog but given my lack of knowledge of blogger and the password I guess this email list will have to work.  While Jack is trekking across Spain I’m going to keep a brief synopsis of the goings on around the house.  I know it always makes me feel better to read what’s going on at home while I’m on the road so this is my attempt to return the favor.  Now beware that I am not the author that Jack is and I am not funny.  So sit back and get ready to read a dry, boring, memo-like account of the Jack-less Butler household.

We had decided I would drive Jack and his Dad to their starting point in the south of France.  On the day we were scheduled to leave I had to give a presentation in a town on the beach an hour and a half in the direction we were heading.  In order to maximize time, and kid duty, we decided they could enjoy the town and beach while I yapped and then we would continue our journey south.  I know he’s mentioned my Jetson-like car with its remote for a key before, but today it would be a source of irritation rather than convenience.  When they dropped me off, I turned off my phone and entered the building purse in tow.  As decided, I called them 4 hours later to come get me.  Well, they couldn’t.  It seems I took my key with me- safely tucked in its pouch inside my purse.  This means they could drive the car, but once they shut it off there was no turning it back on.  Their first, and last, stop was a local sporting goods store.  Thankfully, there was a McDonald’s across the parking lot and there is no fee for hanging out at the playplace all day.  Well, I arrived in my taxi just before they were put to work to find 4 guys as cheery as could be given the circumstances.  Great start- poor guys!

But we arrived to the little town on schedule and quickly found the Pilgram office.  With stamps and weather info in tow, the next stop was their hotel for the night.   After I, being the only woman of the group, did my womanly duty and asked for directions we found it.  The room was small but clean.  The place only had six rooms and the inn keeper explained the check out procedure was to leave your key on the hook labeled with your room number.  So it was actually a bargin for 50 euros a night.   After dinner at a local pizza place we said good bye wishing our men a safe and fun trip and the kids and I headed back home. 

Now as you know, Jack is protective of his little brood and was quite worried about us driving 4 hours back home in the dark in this strange country, even though we’ve lived here quite a while now.  He tends to forget the hours I’ve spent on the road and my build in translator in the eldest, but I guess he can worry if he wants.  Needless to say we made it home just fine with the help of both GPS systems screaming at me just in case one had a faster route.  Upon arrival, I dutifully send a text of our safe arrival and made the kids walk to their rooms.  Sad to say, but I can’t carry them up the stairs anymore.  I’d like to think it’s because their steep and winding- but in reality it’s because both are at least half my size!

Day 1:

It seems I’ve traded in my normal bed partner for 2- the eldest and his dog.  I got little sleep between feet in the face, the dog snoring and refusing to move despite the need to lay right up against you!  I guess this is where I say “stupid dog.”  Sleepily, we made the dentist appointment on time then discovered a store I hadn’t checked yet for serviettes – bibs.  The youngest is in his 3^rd year of school at the mighty age of 4 (almost 5) and the damn school still makes them wear bibs at lunch!  Now I appreciate them looking out for his clothes since they’re hard to come by, but really?  Have you ever tried to find a bib that is big enough for a 5 year old? Or one that doesn’t have baby designs on it?  Well, it’s damn near impossible.  Jack made me throw away last years, which I’ve been cussing him about for the last 2 weeks as I’ve been looking for new ones.  But the new store by the dentist finally came through.  Light orange is not exactly manly, but at this point I was considering making them out of a dish towel without a sewing machine.  Needing 4 this was to be an all weekend project, so light orange it is.  We still haven’t called them a bib, as its okay since it’s a “serviette” and all the kids wear them.  Wait until he’s older and sees the pict of me modeling one of last year’s- he’s going to die!

Other than that it was a normal day and we got word that Jack and crew made it over the mountains without the storms they were calling for.  They met up with a couple from Minnesota along the way, and then had to help the woman up from a fall down a steep embankment.  I didn’t get from the text if her hubby was there or not, but I did get the gist that she was rather large and really needed the help.  Guess we’ll have to wait to get the rest of the story in 5 more weeks…

Day 2:

Well, I had to work today so the kids were headed to a friend’s.  Without the other half, we’d have to have an army-like approach.  But, my little soldiers fell in line.  Up, happy, fed, dressed, teeth brushed and out the door only 3 minutes late.  Needless to say my friend had overslept and was still in bed when we arrived- right on time.  So while the kids played and were treated to McDonalds (I didn’t have the heart to tell her they spent the day there on Tuesday…) I worked.  Since all of France is returning from Holidays and realizing all the things that didn’t do themselves while they were away I think I would have gotten more done by going to McDonalds myself!  Oh-well, now I know why my friend chose this week to take off!

The evening went well and I even secured a trip to the neighbor’s pool for this weekend.  It seems our mighty hikers made it through the day, but are staying in a place where they have to share a bathroom with all other how did he put it- Dirty, disgusting, smelly Europeaners?  Well, you get the drift.  If you haven’t noticed by now, Jack is somewhat of a clean freak (and yes dear, we picked up our shoes so there isn’t a giant pile by the door yet).  So he’s in hell so to say.  I haven’t heard about dinner yet, but I can only imagine.  I’m sure it’s nothing compared to the noodles and yogurt he had for dinner last night… 

Well, if I can make room between the eldest and the dog I’m off to sleep in my nice CLEAN bed.  Unless of course the youngest decides my bed is the place to be too then I’m heading to the top bunk.  No one sleeps up there unless you’re a guest and right now the inn keeper’s away so the sign is off…

-The wife

Day 3:    Haircut gone bad

This morning we made it out the door on time, so I have high hopes for making it to school before the final bell next week.  The kids were off to my Friend’s- swim trunks in tow and I actually had a productive day at the office.  Over lunch I went to pick up their school supplies I ordered from the French version of the PTA.  After last year’s debacle of trying to translate and then locate all of the various items it was well worth the money to buy it from the “PTA” and just pray it was good quality stuff.  Of course I showed up right on time and was the second one there.  To my surprise it was actually quite organized.  Each child’s items were boxed with their name on them, segregated by class.  I consider this a small success as I had nightmares of how this could have gone and that I would be picking the items out of a box based on the list and be back to square one.  Now, I would say that they could have put the names on the side of the box so you didn’t have to move every box in the 3-4 stacks per class to find the right one, or had the classes in order but this would have been asking a little too much…

At home we opened their boxes and were quite happy with the quality of the supplies, and the ease!  Although I’m not sure why they thought the eldest would be okay with pink and purple scissors or a pink fountain pen.  Thankfully last year’s scissors are still in good shape and being the pen addict that he is he had already conned Mom and Dad out of a very nice fountain pen the week before.  So, all supplies labeled and packed away in their bags we’re ready for school.  Light orange serviettes and all!

As the boys have let their hair grow for the last 3-4 months they are looking a little shaggy (note they started from a ¼ inch so it is not even fully over their ears yet).  As the eldest is starting to care about his appearance he opted for a professional “coiffeur” while the youngest just wanted Mom to do it based on his very specific instructions.  At the appointed time we showed up.  I had prepared with the help of google translate and my assistant, but the eldest wanted to give her instructions on his own.  He told her he wanted a little off the back and wanted to be able to sweep the front to the side.  Somehow she didn’t listen to a word of his perfect French.  I knew it was bad when she moved to the other side and his hair was well above his ear but by then it was too late.  She must have noticed I was pissed so she asked him how long he wanted it in the front.  He said to just trim it, but she thought this meant take it almost all the way up his forehead and so she did.  In the car, he just said it was a little shorter that he wanted but it looked good so it was okay.  Whew- bullet dodged, or so I thought.  At bath time it was the youngest’s turn and just as I was preparing my barber chair the eldest went to the other bathroom to take his shower.  The sight of his hair in the mirror brought tears, as I was sure it would and rightly so.  He was so upset that his hair wouldn’t be long when we got back to the States and was certain he’d lost a month’s worth of growth (or 2!).  Then I felt even worse when I set about truly trimming his little brother’s hair so that it was presentable and even, but barely any shorter.  So, it is decided Mom is back in charge of hair cutting.  So much in charge I had to cut the naturally growing rat tail off the back of his neck since the scissor happy coiffeur seemed to miss that part.  

Dad had sent a text letting us know of another day successfully completed and after hearing of the incident saved the day by sending the eldest a text.  Our mighty hikers seem to be doing well, or are just leaving it out on the 2-3 texts per day.  They will be run through the car wash before being let back in the house however.  Last night’s accommodations were equally questionable to the night before’s but at least they had their own bathroom.  It seems they continue to meet interesting people from various parts of the world and I’m sure will have a lot of stories.

-The Wife

Day 4:  Dinner and a play at the local Abby

Well, as expected when the eldest clammered out of bed this morning (and yes his own this time) the hair on his head stood straight up just as expected.  He is blessed with double crowns so this is an ongoing battle.  It had just been lying down under the weight of his thick hair for the last month or so, so I was sad to see our old foe return.  He was too.  But in all his wisdom, he indicated that his bangs would grow back before Dad returns and what does he care what his hair looks like- he doesn’t have to look at himself all day long.  I’ll have to remember this bit of wisdom next time I brave the coiffeur, as I haven’t had much better luck than he has…

After lazing around the house half the morning we decided it was time to take care of some chores and head to the grocery store and the cleaners.  Since I can’t fit our duvets in our tinny washer I decided I’d have to do like everyone else and have them professionally cleaned.  I’m normally used to everything being closed at lunch, but the cleaner takes a REALLY long lunch break.  My attack was to put the 3 full sized duvets and my bag of dry cleaning in the cart on my way into the grocery store.  Efficient, even if everyone was looking at me like I was crazy.  Then I realized why.  The damn cleaners was closed until 3 instead of the usual 2.  So back in the car they went.  We bought our groceries plus the 10 extra items the kids always “need” but never eat, but then realized we didn’t have room for the groceries AND the laundry in the car.  Ok, so just get a second cart and put the laundry in there and take it back inside.  Nope.  The grocery carts take either a token or a 1 euro coin.  I had every coin but 1 euro and didn’t have a second token.  Frustrated, I made it work using the front seat as my second cart.  But then became even more agitated when I had to pay 25 euros a piece for cleaning!  Note these are not high quality linens- we paid 40 for most of them so in the end I should have just donated them to the French version of the GoodWill and bought new and I would have felt better about it.  Oh well, now I know to either buy nice linens or give them away when it’s time to have them cleaned and start again.  They’d better look and smell brand new when I pick them up – in 1 week!

As I had stupidly promised we’d go to the pool today, we had to go.   I warned it would be cold given the breezy high of about 70 but you can’t tell a kid that and expect them to believe you.  Dawning our swim suits and pool toys in tow we made our way over to the gite next door.  Thankfully the youngest, who still can’t swim because by French standards he’s still too young for lessons, likes his life vest and gets along just fine under a watchful eye.  I did sit on the side with my feet in the water, but short of one of them drowning that was as far as I was going.  And for good reason.  After 5 minutes, the youngest was shivering.  5 minutes after that the eldest was cold too.  Checking to be sure we left everything in good order I noted one diving ring in the middle of the pool.  Unable to reach it with the skimmer the eldest was told he had to go back in since he was the one that left it there and a forgotten toy did not fall under my drowning rule of the day.  After a fair bit of whining and repeating my attempt with the skimmer, in he went.  Toys in tow we were back inside within about 20 minutes. 

Since we missed the Fete at the local Abby last year, we vowed to make it this year.  Unfortunately Jack isn’t here but given our great experience with a play on the 100 years war I conned the kids into going.  Amazingly they were up to the task and we arrived in the 206 (easier to park and the hubby told me to drive it every once in a while) just 5 minutes after starting.  This is an achievement as I had the urge to rush around but I knew we’d be early compared to the masses so I convinced myself it was okay.  Dinner was served- pork and vegetable soup to remind you of what they ate the 12^th century when the Abby was built, with baguette, cheese, apple tart and wine.  My princes sat perfectly and we made friends with the couple and their father who sat across from us.  They were nice and she spoke enough English to translate when her husband explained he worked for Bio (read organic) agriculture production.  So of course he had questions about the US and our “hormone” beef- which was all the more interesting since his father was a chef and we tried to talk food.  I only wish my son would be more proactive in helping me talk to people like this.  I do okay and he helps me pronounce words when people don’t understand my English accent but that’s about it.  The little devil!

Then the play began.  30 minutes late of course.  It was supposed to tell us about the history surrounding the Abby, but between the tarot card reader and the guy who was telling the story I was somewhat lost.  And they tried to make it funny by breaking out modern music every once in a while which the servants in the play disobediently danced to.  Anyway, this humor was lost on me and coupled with the fact that it was cold despite our jackets and that the youngest was asleep in my lap, we bailed.  We weren’t the only ones bored with the production and had more fun watching the drunken group we walked out behind.  Oh well, now we know.  But that won’t stop us from going to the next town’s fete as normally the French have wonderful theater and even if I don’t understand all of it, it is intoxicating to watch.  Besides, if I keep at it I may just convince these uncultured heathens I call a family to break down and go to a symphony with me.  I doubt it, but I haven’t given up hope just yet… 

-The Wife

Day 5:  A normal Sunday in France

We are bums!  We slept until 9:30 and didn’t get out of our PJ’s until noon.  But, since nothing is open on Sundays there really isn’t much else to do.  So with a clean house and a few games of tag, we opted for a nice dinner.  Pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, and carrots.  The youngest even broadened his mind and tried the mashed potatoes!  As long as they’re vegetables he’ll eat anything these days, convinced by his father that they will immediately make his muscles bigger.  This is good, but what do you say about fruit?  And better yet, how do you explain in a way he’ll understand what is the difference?  After the obligatory 20 questions (10 of which are repeated) he just eats them anyway.

-The Wife

Day 6:  A few last minute pick me ups

The day before school starts and the eldest is still without his coveted Croq Sportifis that are all the rage with the young people here.  It’s sad to see him check their website daily to discover the ones he wants are still out of stock.  Poor guy even broadened his choice of shoe and still can’t get them.  So, as Dad recommended before he left, he opted for a trip to town to buy a new pair of the same shoes he already has.  We were in and out in 5 minutes, then across the street to a clothes store to get a shirt for the new shorts he wanted to wear.  Of course we also came out with a sweater and a Ben 10 shirt for the youngest. 

Then it was time for lunch.  As Mom is boycotting McDonald’s out of sheer cheeseburger overload due to the limited variety of places to eat in a reasonable amount of time, we opted for KFC.  I think every Frenchmen in the world had the same idea.  So back in the car and through the drive through we went.  With our normal 20 chicken strip bucket in tow, we were off to our old stomping grounds to eat in the park.  After scaring off the geese who obviously had a flavor for KFC themselves, not realizing we were eating their cousins, we spent a good deal of time on the play ground. 

On the way out, the boys love to run down a hill next to the stairs.  It’s purely an erosion issue or broken leg waiting to happen however you want to look at it, but fun all the same.  Until they disobeyed orders to stop at the gate.  Running full blast across the parking lot they nearly got run down by an oncoming car.  A firm scolding later and a re-try to ensure they remembered to stop at the gate and we were underway.

As promised, gotta stop doing that, we were to BBQ sausages on the grill.  Determined to get the terrible excuse they call charcoal to light, I reverted to my days as a girl scout and made a stick fire on top to get it going.  After a lot of lighter gel, and yes it sucks too, we were good to go.

A few texts to Dad and the boys were bathed and in bed.  Now, if they don’t stop telling Dad about all the good stuff I’m cooking the cook is going to go on strike.  Poor guy is eating bread three meals a day and an occasional sausage from the store.  Although that is a little concerning as he had to text me to ask how to know if it needed to be cooked or not!  Otherwise they are doing well.  Their feet hurt, as expected, but continue to meet lots of people and have a good laugh finding housing accommodations.  One night all they could find was a room over a bar, which was sadly one of the nicer places they’ve stayed.

-The Wife

Day 7:  The Start of a New School Year

We were up and out the door on time with smiles on faces and the obligatory pictures taken.  This is despite the fact that Mom was dead tired.  The youngest decided he absolutely needed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 2 in the morning.  I dutifully slept walk down the stairs, made the PB&J, along with a glass of apple juice and headed back up.  Now it didn’t take 3 minutes for the whole thing and guess what- he was already back asleep! 

We arrived 10 minutes before school usually starts in order to find parking.  Note that there is no parking lot for the school and another school is just a block down the narrow one way street so this is a problem even on the ordinary day.  Upon arrival we were “greeted” by his teacher with a demand of if Cash was eating at the Canteen with no Bon jour.  Great.  And then we wait in the court yard. And wait, and wait.  I became concerned when a table with coffee, OJ, and pastries was set up.  I had a meeting at 9:30.  At 9:15 I emailed the guy to let him know I’d be late and started asking questions.  Of course no one knew, but at least the youngest was still excited to be there which was to my surprise.  The finally the directrice came and called each child by name, checking them off the list as they entered the classroom.

By the way, standing in the courtyard full of parents and their kids who are all socializing and bragging about their holidays when only one Mom will say 2 words to you, no wait it was 10 tops, is a little humbling.  I now know what discrimination feels like and will be damned if I ever let something like that happen to another living soul while I’m around even if I can’t speak their language.  Now my French is embarrassingly bad, but I can converse on general topics and I know a lot of them can match my French with their English so this is just bullshit.  I’m just glad it doesn’t happen to the kids, or at least not that they notice.

I did notice a few things myself though.  New clothes, especially shoes, are not a tradition on the first day of school.  Neither is picking up the kid’s supplies before hand and labeling them.  At least 4 of the kids in the youngest’s class of 27 had parents retrieving boxes, opening them and searching for a pen to write their kid’s name on their stuff with.  Also, there are a LOT more girls than boys in all the classes.  The eldest has 7 in his class of 30 or so, and the youngest has a whopping 8.  In addition to that, who in their right mind puts all 8 5 year old boys at the same table and expect them to pay attention?  Now granted, this new teacher is a stern, mean woman who had no problem scolding kids for running with their parents standing next to her, but still.  I’ll be interested to see if they’re still seated like that when I go for the class meeting in 2 weeks.  Last year one of the Moms complained about an English speaking boy in the class, so this year when I can understand 80% of what they say should be even more fun.

Upon picking them up from school it seems both boys had a good day.  The directrice, read principle, is the eldest’s teacher and he reported she was nicer in class than she seems in his casual meetings with her.  Even the youngest likes his teacher.  But it seems Mom was a bit stingy with the after school snacks of apples and 4 Madeline’s each, to the point of getting comments from other kids.  I thought this was plenty and it was more than they usually eat for a snack at home but the worst part is what to do differently.  It’s not as if I can run out and buy fruit snacks, Cheeze-its, etc.  They just don’t have snack food here.  Guess I’ll wander down the grocery store isles again…

-The Wife

Day 9: Club de cyclisme

Today I worked from home as the boys don’t have school on Wednesdays and I thought it was a bit imposing to ask my friend who is off on Wednesdays to watch them every week.  Up with laptop in hand and I got an email from a friend who was helping me make calls to find a cycling club for the eldest and soccer for the youngest.  I’m still not able to make these type of calls by myself as I lack the vocabulary and you’d be surprised what you can do with body language that you can’t do over the phone.  It seems the club I gave her the number to had a group of kids the eldest’s age, but practice (or whatever you call it) was tonight at 3:00.  He needed a bike, check, helmet, check, and bike shorts which would require a trip to the local sporting goods store.  Then I also realized I’d need to install the bike rack on the car, which is the hubby’s job and I’ve never paid that much attention.  Dad would be proud of my “mechanical” skills and it was installed in no time.  Due to the fact that I was working and the drive over would constitute my lunch we had to buy said shorts in a hurry.  Last pair of shorts in his size and a shirt that is slightly too big and we were in and out in a flash.

Despite having directions and 2 GPSs, I got lost.  I drove around for 15 minutes, and finally returned to the building that I had turned around at once before after seeing the 8x12 sized sign with a faded bike on it.  The people were extremely friendly and he had a jersey on and was on his bike and off in no time.  Due to the fact that this little burg was 40 minutes from the house, the youngest and I had brought his bike to work on riding without training wheels while waiting the 2 hours for big bro to ride his bike and I was to get a little work done.  But the poweraide and a deep sleep in the car while I was checking brother in 10 feet away meant we had wet clothes.  He would not stay in them and was naked from the waist down in 5 seconds flat.  Thankfully the eldest had the clothes he wore to the store thrown in the floor board of my car.  After some stern coaxing, we had brother’s pants on with the tops rolled down and him clutching them for dear life.  At the store our strategy was to put him in the cart and for him not to move to avoid showing the world his bare butt.  It worked and with new clothes in the cart (no bags unless you bring your own or buy a new one) we headed back to the car to remedy our situation. 

The instructor said the eldest has good riding skills as speed, but was quite unstable when he goes slow but he had a wonderful time and definitely wants to join.  Then back in the car as quickly as possible to rush to yet another dentist’s appointment.  A 45 minute drive without traffic at rush hour, I was mildly panicked.  Of course we hit a traffic jam, but still managed to make it right on time.  An hour after arriving and we were in the dentist’s chair.  It only took about 20 minutes and thankfully we don’t have to go back for 6 months for a regular cleaning.

Another email from a friend indicated we have a soccer club with practice on Tuesday nights lined out, so even the youngest has had a bright spot in his day.  So now that I’ve finished working since I didn’t get to during the cycling training as planned its late and I’m hitting the hay.  Hopefully this time without the PB&J…

-The Wife