In case you were wondering what I do with my time when I don't have to work

Here's what a typical day off looks like for me:

I wake up late, about 10am. I watch some children's programs on TV. I like them because they are easy to understand and often include vocabulary that is important to learn. If I'm particularly lucky, I'll find Samantha oups!, a program that I find quite quirky and intriguing, mostly because it features two main characters who are clearly men in wigs and women's clothing.



I'm not sure exactly what to make of it at this point. I haven't talked to anyone about it, so I'm not sure how they are received. If they are making a statement about how gender roles don't matter at all (the people in the show don't cast them dirty looks or otherwise acknowledge that they're not fulfilling their generally accepted gender roles), that's awesome. But if they're acting like this to be just a spectacle (i.e. the kids at home laugh because that man is in a dress, not because of the joke he made) or to make fun of the silly things women do, then that's not cool at all. I'm interested in watching more, and asking people whose kids watch it what they think.

Whoa. Majorly side-tracked. Back to my day: After I wash any dishes I was too lazy to clean the night before, I walk to the market if it's a Saturday or the supermarket if it's not. They're both about ten minutes away. Before I leave my studio I check my mail (nothing today) and take out any recycling or trash. At the market I buy healthy, fresh food, and stay away from frozen dinners and canned meals, which have been staples in my diet for far too long. Instead I buy fresh veggies, warm fresh-baked whole wheat bread, local cheese. Not much is long-life, which is why I grocery shop several times a week, much more frequently than in the states.

I dump all my purchases in my swanky reusable shopping bag (which the French are all about - most stores don't even have plastic bags to offer so you're forced to buy an earth-friendly one) and tote everything back home. I unpack, then make another trip to the discount Aldi's where I buy anything I can use in bulk - TP, candles, matches, whatever. Return home again, make lunch while watching a French trivia game I don't know any answers to, and maybe read a little from the local newspaper, but only if there's anything that can hold my interest long enough to persevere through the horror of not being fluent yet.

Then I go to the library, catch up on emails, blogs, and chat with anyone who is online for a few hours. Maybe I plan a lesson for the students. Right now I'm working on ideas for American New Years traditions. Anyone? Anyone?

By the time the library closes it's usually dark. If one of my friends was at the library with me, we might go have a drink, or walk in the same direction for a while, but that's pretty much the extent of my nightlife. I'm broke and there's not much to do in Lisieux during the week anyway. I return home where I draw or write in my journal or read; maybe if I'm feeling extremely motivated I'll even translate a poem. I wait to see what will be on TV later. If it's something good like Cold Case or CSI I'll watch that. If not I'll watch a little Buffy in French. I felt so accomplished last night because I watched "Tabula Rasa," and I understood the translation of the joke where Giles and Spike realize they're British. Usually, translated jokes are hard. To get them, you have to know more than just language. You have to know culture, and I guess I know that pretty well now. *pats self on back*

By now, it's usually pretty late so I take my two-min-max shower and talk on the phone a little before sleep. Not to make anyone sick with the honeymoon-phase butterflies, but Tapan does call me every single day. Which means a lot because it makes me feel like I'm not so far away from everyone.

I try to fall asleep every night to French, whether it's a DVD, TV, or a book. But so far it's not been working. Falling asleep to Buffy gave me strange nightmares. Falling asleep to Veronica Mars is impossible because it's so damn compelling. And I can only read for about three minutes before my eyes shut. Maybe I'll try the radio tonight.

Well there you have it. A day in the life of me. I'll have many more like them in the next four months. Whoa. Four months. As in three already gone. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

This is Why I love Amy McDonald

Actual song starts at about 1:50

France: Pays du Chat, and other holiday stories

It's Christmas Eve. Which for me means the Christmas holiday is over. In France, if I understand correctly, most of the celebrating happens on the Eve, and the 25th is a day to relax and do something simple with the family. Of course I learned this from Milena, who doesn't speak English, so there's a chance something got lost in translation.

Well, this past few days have certainly been, well, interesting. I packed my bags for Caen (where I've been staying with Milena all week) on Sunday, hopped on the train and arrived by sunset. We took the (extremely) long walk to where we're staying and when we arrived at the house, I was greeted by two cats. For me, this is not a good thing. See, I love cats. But cats really hate me. I'm allergic. Not just I-get-a-little-irritated allergic, but my-nose-won't-stop-running-my-eyes-are-itchy-I'm-wheezing-what-the-hell-are-cats-good-for-anyway allergic. Luckily, or so I thought, I had my medicine.

I passed a good night with Milena. We talked a lot, I learned some new vocabulary I didn't know, and we had a dinner that for me was more like an American breakfast. But hey, I miss American breakfast, so it was OK. My only complaint about night number one: the house was freezing. But hey, I've got a sweater. It's all good.

Monday was generic - gras matinee, a little food shopping, a Father of the Bride on TV. Nothing exciting. Except that, despite my medicine, I could feel the allergies coming on. Part of the problem was that it was freezing again and I had no choice but to lay under a cathair-infested blanket for hours. Not good I know, but I really, really hate the cold.

Tuesday's where it gets good. We decided to take a bike ride to the coast. The person whose house we're staying in has two bikes. One very nice, very high girl-bike, and one old-ass low to the ground boy-bike. I started off with the boy bike - kind of like the one my dad bought me this summer. Pretty, but not easy to ride. By thirty minutes in I was exhausted. Sweaty, all red in the face, parched. But Milena and I switched bikes and everything was better. I rode the good bike all the way to the coast (another half hour/forty-five minutes) and wasn't even tired yet!

Once we got to the coast we took a long walk on the beach, enjoying our oranges, cheese and bread. But like all good things, that promenade ended too soon and we had to bike back to the center of town. Milena took the good bike this time and my legs reminded me after two turns of the shit-bike's pedals that I had not prepared them for this journey. I was already sore and we had a long way ahead of us. To make things even awesomer, when tried to stand on the bike to gain a little momentum (also to give my butt a rest from the evil chair), my jeans caught on the gear and I made a slow-motion tumble to the ground where I smashed my head on the pavement and did some kind of yoga with my legs where they ended up wrapped around the bike like a pretzel. Does it sound fun? Cause it totally wasn't. And as I lifted my head from the street I saw a car approaching! I was worried, but the man stopped and even got out of the car to ask me if I was OK. I told him that, as usual, I was fine but embarrassed.

By the time we got back to the house, we had ridden the bikes for four hours, and Milena told me that round trip it was 80 km. Which is 50 miles! So even if I'm paying for it today, I can say I biked 50 miles. Rock out. And bonus: I got to meet more of C's family and see her parents again. You know, the ones I wrote about before who live at the house of my dreams. What an awesome family. If you're reading this, thanks for thinking of me on the holidays!

And tonight I had another dinner with some friends of Milena's. 3 expats and one pat. It was a nice combination. It would have been better if there wasn't a cat though. Once again, I couldn't stop sneezing, wheezing, and in general feeling pooey. Please, if you pray, pray I don't have a cold. Let's just hope it's allergies and they go away once I return home.

Well, folks, that's all I have for now. It's beyond bedtime. I hope that blog made sense. If it didn't, blame it on the head trauma.

I leave you with a clip of the church choir singing my favorite carol:




Have a good holiday, everyone!

Christmas came to Lisieux

I thought I would be able to forget about Christmas this year. Being away from my family and friends sucks. So I figured I would just convince myself that Christmas is just a day like any other day. Hey, Tapan doesn't celebrate Christmas, I thought, I'll just pretend like I'm him.

Not so. First, the Christmas Market came to Lisieux. For such a small town square as we have, there certainly were a surprising amount of vendors. Santa hats for sale, hot wine, chi-chi (like funnel cake in thin strips), handmade soaps, special teas, all kinds of great stuff. I even bought a mesh tea ball so now I can drink loose-leaf tea. How chic is that?

Then, Lizzi and I went to an English choir, which was a really fun way to get into the Christmas spirit and hear/sing some nostalgic English hymns. And, on the way back, we ran into this cute little tree and presents that was all spray-painted with fake snow. Nice touch, Lisieux.

And then, to really get myself into the spirit, I bought my very first very own Christmas tree. OK so maybe a cactus is not the conventional tree of the holidays, but I wanted something original. I know all the followers of Oh, Ashley are just waiting to know how long it took me to stab myself with my new cactus. Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint anyone. It took circa ten seconds. And I didn't just stab myself. I happened to stab myself in a vein. And it was all purple and hurty for two days. Because of this, I named my cactus after one of my brattiest students. And then I decorated my Nicolas with some Xmasey stuff and set my new camel right next to him. Sweet!

I'm going to Caen to spend Christmas with Milena. I think it's gonna rock. And then I'm going to a costume New Year Party! I hope everyone has a great holiday and an awesome New Year.

I don't know when I'll be on again, so I'll leave you with this, my favorite clip from A Charlie Brown Christmas:

I always thought coffee tasted like dirt

Imagine me living in France. Where there's no water-vending machine in my school but there's a hot coffee machine. Where every meal is followed by a coffee. Where people sometimes look at me like I'm insane when I tell them I don't drink it. Where I don't tell everyone my true opinion of coffee (that no one could actually like the taste and that anyone who drinks it is just addicted) for fear of being shunned, or cursed out in a language I wouldn't understand.

I've held out. I haven't had a single coffee since I've been here. Nor do i intend to. And now, I have a reason to think drinkers of this specific type of coffee are bat-shit insane.

I read this article on Sociological images today. It's about this super-expensive, super "exotic" coffee called Kopi Luwak Arabica. Why is it so exclusive? Apparently it has less caffeine and is less bitter than regular. So what's the price you have to pay for this coffee? In addition to the $180 a pound, you also have to buckle down and settle to ingest a drink in which "the beans...were eaten by a civet and then handpicked out of its crap to be brewed into coffee for you!"

Wow! And here's the lovely animal whose poop you can raid to make your awesome coffee:



It's an interesting piece over at Sociological Images. It's true that it's totally unfair of me to think this coffee is gross and honey is OK. They both come from digestive tracks, after all. It's a good question the author raises: why do we have these conceptions about what's cool to eat and what's not. I'm not sure, but I wouldn't drink this even if I liked coffee.

Géométrie dans l'espace

That was the topic of the math class I attended today!!!

David, one of the math professors at my school, was one of the first people to talk to me when I arrived here in Lisieux. In fact, he broke me of that habit of calling everyone I didn't know vous. He told me, "you can call all the colleagues tu. Don't worry about it." And that was nice, because at school they pretty much drill vous (the formal you) into your head. Since then, I've come to know David better and we get along really well. Once he found out about my love for math he invited me to class! And I just finished my first session. Check out my notes. I'm such a good student.

Added bonus: my classmates in math also happen to be my students in English. Ha! You should have seen the looks on their faces. Gold.

I have a secret

to show you. I feel kind of close to this person. Except, you know, I still love the U.S.A. I just also happen to be in love with France.



It says:

I don't love you anymore, U.S.A.
I've played with you...
It's been fun, but
I found a better country for me
I've spent all my time learning
the french language and culture
I'm going soon.

Then in the bottom left corner it says "Hello Paris, I love you"

From PostSecret France. A great way to test your French, if you're learning.

Public Acknowledgement to Tapan

I was reading over some of my older posts and was reminded of what a whiny emo-kid I can be when i'm lonely (sorry about that, especially to the people who had to live it and hear it and not just read about it. Anyway, as I was sitting in my studio apartment the other night with absolutely nothing to do, I was inspired to scream from the rooftops just how happy I am to have Tapan in my life. I finally found the person I'd been looking for for wayyyy too long. And of course, he only came into my life after I'd given up completely (Maureen, that's your cue to say "I told you so"). Also, if there's a competition out there for worst timing ever to start a relationship, I think we place. When I come back in May, I will have been gone for more than twice the time we were together in the United States, and that's pretty scary.

Tapan didn't let France scare him. There wasn't even a question of whether or not seven months overseas would change relationship status. That's how I know he was the one worth waiting for. Also, he doesn't give a damn about the price of transatlantic phone calls and we talk every day. Believe me, I am fully aware of how much that rocks.

Like I said, I was inspired to scream from the rooftops, but I didn't have a rooftop; I had a video camera and a blog:

PS - make sure you turn up your speakers - it's not worth watching if you don't have sound.

Facebook did work!

Go here to see the Galette video, if you want.

More B.W.E.

As you already know, I spent the weekend in Chantepie (next to Rennes - - Brittany region) with my colleague Karen and her boyfriend Fabien, who is a baker, and Friday night we made galletes and crêpes. Crêpes are kind of like pancakes, but very very thin. Then you put dessert things on top and fold it up to make a nummy little sandwich. And galletes are the same thing, but they're more dinnery than dessertey. They're made with black flour instead of white. And mine had ham, cheese, and egg. So in the end I guess they're almost like an omelette (with much less egg) wrapped up inside a very thin pancake! The best part is they are so easy to make. In fact, I made one for lunch today. New plan for when I return to the States: open crêpe and galette restaurant.

So my camera officially sucks. I can take video, but unless I set it to e-mail quality (which absolutely sucks), I can’t post anything over 3 minutes long. As it turns out my camera creates an absurdly huge file size that neither youtube, facebook, blogger, or flickr will let me upload. So there goes the galette video I promised.

Luckily you can still see the one of Fabien flipping a crêpe:


On Saturday, my lovely hosts took me around Rennes. There was a telethon happening to raise money for muscular dystrophy. There were plenty of vendors there, and also two Christmas markets, so I had the chance to buy many, many Christmas presents. We were supposed to go see some French music; unfortunately the bar we wanted to go to was sold-out for the night. But we did get this nice surprise in the street:

I was so entranced by these percussionists. I think it was their baggy pants that drew me in. That, or their clear passion for the music. They rocked.

We had pizza for dinner at this place that apparently used to me much better, but wasn't all that anymore. Then we watched the end of the Miss Francepageant. Both Miss Bretagne (Karen's region) and Miss Normandy (my region) made it into the top 10, which made for some intense cat-fighting. In the end, Miss Bretagne made it into the top 5, but it was someone else who won.

I dreamed some more in French, and then it was time for a traditional Sunday petite dej' (breakfast), complete with baguette, leftover crêpes, nutella(!) and this really delicious caramel cream that Karen introduced me to and since been a little obsessive over. Then we had a nice tour of the Bretagne coast, where I was inspired to write the best poem ever. Or at least all of my poems.

Karen and Fabien took me to St. Malo, which is one of my favorite places here so far. On walking toward it, it looks like a big castle or maybe old farm building, but when you walk into the entrance, you realize it's this whole village. And there are a zillion stores and bakers and breaders and everything you would ever need. Of course there are also more people than any crowds-chlaustrophobic like me could handle, but c'est la vie.

And the best part about St. Malo? The beignets (donuts). There are these beignets bigger than your hand, and you can fill them with anything you want. Chocolate, jelly, NUTELLA! I know I'm supposed to be watching my weight and sugar and all that, but I just couldn't resist. I wish I had taken video of the factory-style assembly line too, but I was too entranced by all the Nutella. Rock out.

After our beignets we had the good chance to see the most beautiful sunset I've seen since Chile 2007. Best. Weekend. Ever.

Tag, I'm It

This came from Rachel:

Rule One:I have to grab one of the books closest to me, go to page 56, type the fifth line and the next two to five lines that follow.

Rule Two:I have to pick five people who love books and who could receive the Bookworm award with honor.

It annoyed me to have to explain things to them. I ended up not saying anything and just smoked and watched the sea.

At about half past one Raymond came back with Masson. He had his arm bandaged up and some sticking-plaster on the corner of his mouth. The doctor had told him it was nothing, but Raymond looked very gloomy.

from The Outsider by Albert Camus

Tara, Andy, Emari, Chris Moore, and Mike, you've been tagged!

OK so you don't all have blogs to post it on, but you can use your facebooks if you want...

Best. Week(end). Ever!

In pictures!

I promise I'll do a text summary too. For now, why don't you think of it as a game? Look at the pics, and then imagine what I'll write about them! It's totally fun, and not at all an excuse for me to buy more time in preparing the entries.

BubbleShare: Share photos - Find great Clip Art Images.

Language Progress Report - Something Happened

I had another best weekend ever! This time I was in Rennes with Karen and her copin, Fabien. Here are the things I have to write about:
• Galettes/Crêpes
• Marchés de Noël and the beauty of Rennes
• Transmusicales and an awesome percussion group
• Miss France
• Caramel au beurre salé
• St. Malo (including the biggest donuts and best sunset ever)

Here is what I want to write about:
• Learning French

So first what I’ve wanted to write about for a while:

It’s been a real struggle. Before I came, I had only studied French in school for three semesters. That’s a year and a half. And I have to admit I didn’t take it all that seriously. I didn’t even learn that I would have the chance to come to France until halfway through my second semester and even then, I was (regretfully) a little flip about it. I had this attitude where I thought three semesters would be a fine starting point and it would come to me naturally once I got here. And, I thought, if Professor King recommended me I guess I’m good enough. He knows better than anyone, after all. Well, it turns out that King didn’t realize that I wouldn’t have a fourth semester of French classes (because I was graduating just after my third). He was pretty clear that without the fourth semester times would be pretty hard for me over here. I said I’d come to as many of his French IV classes as I could, but then I got a M-F job which made auditing classes at my level impossible. I could have sit-in on some more advanced courses, but I was way too afraid. (Sorry Kory!) The point of all this is that by the time I finally got to France, the six months of time out of practice had wiped away a considerable amount of my vocabulary and grammar.

This significantly worried me. Especially because practically every other assistant I met was a French major, or had an immersion program, or had traveled in France before, or was born to parents fluent in French, or whatever. You name the reason they’re better than me, I’ve heard it. I don’t even want to talk about what happened when I first arrived in France again. Let’s move on to the good stuff.

Like I said in the title, something happened. I don’t know when it happened. Maybe it was last weekend in Caen; maybe it was at the awesome dinner I had last week with all my colleagues; maybe it was the first time I watched an episode of Buffy (dubbed in French) without subtitles and understood almost everything. Maybe it was one of those specific moments or maybe it was a blend of all of them and others. But I feel like, to be really predictable and cliché, a veil has been lifted.

It’s like I’ve been sick for a while. And people have had to be really gentle around me. You know, using small, simple words and basic phrases. And I’ve been trying to recuperate, learn this language, and it’s been this long, long process. For the most part I’ve had a super-positive attitude and tried my best. And sometimes it’s gotten to be too much and I’ve had to slip back into comfortable English with people I know will speak English with me. And, of course, I’ve been embarrassed to try French with people whom I don’t know well. The few times I did try with random people on the street or in the library, I felt like a total bother. Like it would be better for them and me if I just left them alone.

But this weekend was different. Karen told me that most of the weekend would be in French because her petit ami doesn’t speak English. But I decided on Friday that I would have an entirely French-language weekend. And I totally succeeded! With the exception of a few words here and there, and the internet and an hour or so of news in English, the weekend did pass entirely in French. Even when Fabien wasn’t there. It would have been possible to speak in English when it was just me and Karen, but I didn’t want to. And Karen is great. She was a French assistant in England not very long ago, so she can really relate. I told her to tell me when I made mistakes, and she corrected me without hesitation. She also has this way of translating things for me without using English. Sure, it would be easier for her and for me if she would just give me the word in English, but instead she thinks of a different way to express what she wants to say in French, and I can understand.

Like I said, I used to be afraid to talk with people I don’t know well, but that’s changed too. After talking with Fabien and some other friends of Karen’s (who don’t speak the English that’s oh-so-tempting to slip into when scared) I realized that I can get by in a conversation, as long as I say when I don’t understand something. I mean, people are going to understand that my grammar and pronunciation aren’t perfect, and sometimes the words I try don’t even exist, but I can manage somehow to express myself.

I know what’s happening. I’m en route to becoming fluent. I wouldn’t dare say that I’m fluent now, but I’m on my way. And that makes me grin like a silly preteen about to meet the Jonas brothers. When I talked to Tapan on the phone Saturday night, almost every thought that came into my head was in French. And I had to translate myself into English before I spoke. Also, those headaches that come after a night full of French have seemed to disappear. Plus, I’m dreaming in French more and more often. The other night, I even had a dream in which I corrected my own French!

When I first got here I said I understood about a third of all things said to me. In retrospect, I think it was much, much less. I used to dream about the day that I understood so much French that I could specify just one or two words per sentence that needed clarification. And that’s starting to happen.

I still have so much to learn that when I think about it my head hurts, but I’m happy with the progress I’ve made so far. Many people have told me they’re impressed, so I’ll let myself be impressed too. And hey, I learned by practicing on Fabien that I can in fact translate American songs into French. Not that it’s hard or anything. It’s not like the popular artists of today have anything particularly profound to say.

After this weekend, I know myself a little better. I know my strengths (my advanced English vocabulary makes it easy to find words big enough to be cognates; I’m like a sponge for slang; I’ve made progress with the “r” sound) and weaknesses (I pronounce “u” all wrong; reflexive verbs are unbelievably hard for me; I absolutely suck at the future tense). I know what to work on now, and what to keep up. Now, if I can just get past that tendency I have to zone out during long French conversations. It’s a habit that stems from insecurity, the assumption that I can’t possibly understand people. But now that I can follow a conversation, it’s time to let that habit die.

Today is December 7th

That means it's the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, and I'm having such a busy weekend (with unlimited internet access, I might add) that I almost forgot. If you're not already educated on the subject, go learn stuff. And make an effort to pay respect to the people effected, however you feel appropriate.

Once Upon A Win

The folks at cheezburger have launched a-nother website. This one caught my eye right away because it's filed under "nostalgia win" and we all know how much I love nostalgia, especially now that I'm in a different country.

But I don't know how I feel right now about this website. To be fair, at the moment, there are only three pages. Maybe it just needs time to work out the kinks. But my first impression is that it lacks the hilarity of cheezburger, failblog, graphjam. Maybe if there were captions on the photos? I mean, we all love seeing things that take us back, like this great pic of Bob Ross:


more epic win

but how come no funny pun? The picture is not enough. It's always the caption that provides the gutbusting laughs. Also, I haven't had the chance yet to watch the videos on the site - maybe they're way redeeming.

Or maybe it's just that each picture is titled "epic win - (insert subject here)." I'm pretty tired of the epic abuse of the word epic as an exaggeratory adjective. It's getting old. I think we should let it die. Let's use something else now, and reserve "epic" for the most serious cases.

I swear I'm not crotchety right now or anything, just a little disappointed. When I saw "nostalgia" I couldn't wait to see how hard I would laugh. But in fact, I'm having another best weekend ever in Rennes. I flipped crêpes last night and am about to go to a music festival! So videos and pics to come!

This one's for Beenie

because she was in my dreams last night. For all those out there who don't know what a Beenie is, it's my best cousin. And last night, I dreamt that she and I and my nephew Sean were in the ocean. And I was really afraid they would get hurt. I was totally in mom-mode instead of cool older-cousin mode. It was a total nightmare!

And when we went into the locker room (because in my dreams oceans are like swimming pools) Barack Obama was there and he had a son who was Sean's age. Barack Obama is becoming quite the fixture in my dreams. Three times in two months!

Oh yeah, and Beenie, dream-you can speak French.

gottahava

Maureen made me all jealous when she talked about WaWa sammiches.

Sometimes, you get sad when you think about the comforts from home that you miss.

But then, sometimes you get happy because you realize they have Wiki articles.

What I wouldn't do for a Buffalo Blue samwich right now.

Agitation

From page 5 of the George Bush exit interview with Charles Gibson:

Bush:I'll be frank with you. I don't spend a lot of time really worrying about short-term history. I guess I don't worry about long-term history, either, since I'm not going to be around to read it -- (laughter) -- but, look, in this job you just do what you can. The thing that's important for me is to get home and look in that mirror and say, I did not compromise my principles. And I didn't. I made tough calls. And some presidencies have got a lot of tough decisions to make --

So, W, that would pretty much mean you don't care about any history at all? As long as it doesn't affect you, right?

I just have one question: Are there really people out there who still think George Bush was a good president? I mean, I know there are people out there who defend him, who say he did the best he could. But does anyone really believe that?

I really wish I could watch the World News tonight. That's when the interview is airing. Than again, just reading the transcripts is infuriating. And there was a five-minute preview of the interview that really rubbed me the wrong way. Bush says he's sorry for certain things, like the economy and the way, but it just seems so...unapologetic. Perhaps it's better for me not to watch his face as he so indifferently talks about the decisions he's made. To him, that's all they are.

When you dream about your armpits

what does that say?

Last night, I had another dream in French. It was a short one, and a bizarre one. I dreamt that my armpit hair was grown in. A lot. And although I clearly hadn't shaved in a loooong time, I chose to wear a tanktop. As I was pointing something out to someone, this old old man noticed my little problem. So he screamed as loud as he could, while pointing at my underarms, "Tu es célibataire! Tu es célibataire!" (You're single! you're single!) I was embarassed and I looked down at the ground.

Well, I don't get embarassed much and I'm pretty candid on my blog. But this dream, for some reason, makes me feel like blushing. So, since I don't know what else to say, here's a funny deodorant ad:

Best Week (end) Ever - Caen, a second time around

Did you have the best weekend ever? Because I pretty much did! Here are some excerpts from my journal:

From last night:

There are so many things I would like to write right now. I’ve just had the most awesome weekend. There was a party, there was shopping, there were books. I learned a lot. I read some really interesting things about the French. I just finished watching Les Poupées Russes. My love for Tapan grows more and more each day we are apart. And of course, I saw the September 11th exposition. It was not at all a weekend of sightseeing. It was not a weekend as a tourist. It was a weekend as someone who lives in France. And I really prefer it that way. Voila.

On meeting C’s parents:

I think my time with Yves and Wynne was probably the best part of the weekend. It was so lovely to meet them. And they have the house of my dreams. I mean, all the books they have. Excuse the expression, but I felt like a kid in a candy store. A bibliophile’s heaven. Books published before the United States was even a country. Beautiful bindings. The most awesome collection of Jules Verne I’ve ever seen. OK, the only collection of Jules Verne I’ve ever seen but all of the volumes were incredible. Many many books. Huge bookcases on all three levels of the house. Even bookcases in the bathroom. I’m pretty sure I know exactly what I want my house to look like when I have one. And C and her parents were so generous with letting me borrow anything I wanted. I have much reading to do.

On Friday night:

Honestly, Friday night was one of my worst and best nights so far in France. I mean, I had a great time at the party, and I wish I could have enjoyed it more. But I was super-allergic to C’s cats for some reason this particular night, and that prohibited me from enjoying myself as much as I could. Of course, the last time I was there I had my allergy medicine and didn’t need it. This time I forgot my allergy medicine and was desperate for it. But it was really a jolie soir. Many of the colleagues from Michelet were there. And Francois.

Here’s the thing. In America, with all of my English-speaking friends, I find it hard to shut up. I love to listen to people, but I have this (quite human) flaw where I’m constantly thinking of what to say next. And I wait for good segues so I can have the opportunity to add my opinions on the subject. It’s something that comes naturally, but which you can really only do when you’re fluent in the language being spoken.

In French, simply following a conversation between that many people is tiring for me, even without trying to think of something interesting to say. And so, naturally, sometimes I find it best just to relax and listen. And when listening gets to be too much, I watch people. Take in all their body language and begin to realize that spoken language is far inferior. And it was during one of those moments Friday night that I realized just how content I was. To be in this lovely candlelit room in Caen with such an array of intelligent, interesting people. To watch them talk to each other, and listen, and laugh. To eat and drink wine with them and really be involved in the moment. I felt truly happy.

And yet, I also felt incredibly sad. Because I’m recently in love and I don’t have the one person with me whom I want the most. Because Francois is talking about American politics and I can’t play. Because my nose won’t stop running and it’s sore from blowing it every minute. Because the day before was Thanksgiving and I’ve never missed my family so much.

On the September 11th memorial:

I knew I was going to see the exposition on September 11th, but I don’t think I realized just how much it would affect me. I’ll most likely write more about it later. But for right now, it deserves more reflection than what I’ve given the rest of this entry.

Upon arriving in Lisieux I was pretty tired. It had been a weekend full of exciting things, plus I had all those books to carry. Of course I knew how to get home, but it was dark and I really wasn’t up for the twenty-minute walk. So I sprung for a cab. And after the cab ride, I felt for the first time like I could speak to anyone in French. I was able not only to tell the driver where I was going, but I could also tell him exactly how to get there, with directions. I understood every word he said. To be fair, he didn’t say much, but I understood, like, all 25 words. And that’s a really good feeling for me. Maybe I haven’t done too much traveling here so far, but now I know that if I want to go somewhere, I don’t need a native speaker with me. I can do the basic stuff on my own. And that’s pretty cool.

Friday. Black; or, Reflections on a first Thanksgiving away from home

When I live in the US, I usually don’t leave my house on Black Friday. I hole in. And I don’t dare step foot anywhere near a shopping center. I’m a thrill-seeker, but that doesn’t mean I’m insane enough to go out and brave the notorious day-after-Thanksgiving sales.

Instead my family has this tradition of starting Christmas shopping on Thanksgiving itself. We go to Colombus Mart, a flea-market in New Jersey, closer to Donna and Rach than to me. It’s one of my favorite parts of the holiday. I think yesterday I missed the shopping trip even more than I missed the big dinner.

Not to say I didn’t miss the dinner. When my mom called me from my grandparents’ house, I could hear the Thanksgiving bustle in the background. My pop-pop taking out the turkey, my aunt asking where is the cranberry sauce, my cousin laughing, my nephew continuously playing the “Jingle Bells” singing-Christmas toys. And of course, my neice babbling on in the background. She may not know many words in English yet, at almost two years old, but she does love to speak. And so I missed them all.

But my Thanksgiving here was not as lonely as I thought it was going to be. Tom and Cecil came over, with the most American foods they could find at Aldi’s. Together we cooked and enjoyed quite the mélange of foods. All while listening to the most slammin rap mix ever. When's the last time you listened to music of your choice on Thanksgiving??

We had corn, of course, potatoes au gratin with ham, mashed potatoes (which came out a little less-than-grandma-quality), turkey cordon-bleu for the main course, and Mexican hot wings. The turkey was delicious, but the hot wings kind of tasted like they’d been rolled in Ortega taco seasoning. Not so great. Anwyay, we had good wine and even better conversation, and I’m so thankful they came.

(look Joanne - the veg takes up most of the plate!)

Another reason that my Thanksgiving didn’t feel so lonely was my students. I’ve grown to really like them. My family has this tradition (or used to have this tradition) where before we eat every person must think of one thing he or she is grateful for this year (I think the best ever was when my brother announced Amanda was pregnant with Seanie – you should have seen the look on my Aunt’s face. Priceless). Well, I worked this into all of my Thanksgiving lessons with the kids. I very theatrically say, “I’m very sad.” And when they ask me why I tell them how much I miss home and my family. And then I ask them if, just for this Thanksgiving, maybe they can be my family. And they are mostly delighted at the idea. Then I have all the students come up with something they are thankful for. Usually, it’s “my parents” or “my dog” or “the internet.” But every once in a while, one student or another will say, “I’m thankful for you. Ashley.” It’s enough to melt my heart.

This weekend: Caen. Get ready for another installment of Best Week(end) Ever.

Rant

Speaking of translation, I'm (happily) getting to the point in the language where I can see when things are translated totally weird. Like this morning, What I Like About You was on TV. And this guy made a song for Amanda Bynes on his guitar. He was saying "You lie, you lie, you lie." And the subtitles read "Tu mens comme tu respires." Which actually means "You lie like you breathe." And, you know, that's totally different.

Now, I understand why the translation can be off on the dubs. The translators don't translate literally; instead they change certain things to meet common French speech and sometimes they change words to fit the movements of the mouth. For example, in Buffy, the first was translated to la force because, given how many times the name came up, it would be pretty obvious to any viewer that Buffy wasn't actually saying la premiere. (Sorry about the missing accent there, French readers.)

So wacky dubbed-translation is totally understandable. But I don't get the wacky subtitle translation. I mean, it's not like the audience is supposed to believe the guy is singing in French. And astute listeners would be able to tell he's saying the same two words over and over. So why change it?

And then, when I was reading this bilingual edition of American and English short stories, I noticed another funky translation. In the story "A Lamp in a Window" by Capote, there's this great scene where the narrator and the hospitable old woman have this super long conversation. And there's this great rambling sentence that Capote doesn't bother to give a speech tag (you know, a "he said" or "she said").

We talked about the hard Connecticut winters, politicians, far places ("I've never been abroad, but if ever I'd had the chance, the place I would have gone is Africa. Sometimes I've dreamed of it, the green hills, the heat, the beautiful giraffes, the elephants walking about"), religion ("Of course, I was raised a Catholic, but now, I'm almost sorry to say, I have an open mind. Too much reading, perhaps"), gardening ("I grow and can all my own vegetables; a necessity").

And I think the reason he doesn't bog down the passage with speech tags is that, without them, it's totally ambiguous who is talking. It could be either the old woman or the narrator. And we don't find out until a paragraph later when he tells us.

But in the French version, the translator sticks a pesky little, "dit-elle" (she says) right in the middle of the conversation! And I just don't see why. There is no "she says" in the original text at all. Hey translator, I got something to tell you. You fail. You suck. You can't just go around adding words cause you think they clarify something. Maybe the point was to not clarify. Asshat.

I am oh-so-happy that my library carries Time in its original English

This way, I can understand the letters to the editor. My favorite one today went like this:

Follow What Leader?
Michael Elliot's story on America's lost leadership was excellent. Yet one element is missing: the influence of U.S. culture, which we in Europe have imitated for years and which is still an overwhelming presence in technology, clothing, movies and casual Fridays. The American way of life may no longer be worshiped, but it is still admired. Even when laughed at or despised, America still sets trends as no other country does.

Sylvestre Bardet
Bricquebosq, France

There! Someone from my current country speaking honestly about the influence of my native country. How cool! It's true you know. I see way more American influence than I expected. Last night, I watched three hours of CSI: Miami, which here is called Les Experts: Miami. I guess a full translation of CSI would be too much to handle.

Ten Awesomest Moments in Forrest Gump

My father and I have a lot of movies we consider to be ours. Terminator 2. True Romance. Pretty much anything with Christopher Walken. But I think the one that will always mean the most to me is Forrest Gump. Since the first time we watched it together, Forrest has had a sort of thrall over me. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen the film, but I do know that I’ve never once watched it without crying. I can’t exactly put a finger on what the magic is in this movie. Is it Tom Hanks’ incredible performance? Alan Silvestri’s inspiring score? The completely accurate soundtrack? Or is it the way that Forrest can so simply answer some of the most complicated questions we have in this life? As is usually the case with the tough questions, I think the answer is a combination of all of the theories.



There's no question in my mind that all the awards and nominations given to Forrest Gump were justified. Although I do think that Gary Sinise should have won supporting actor Oscar too. It's a damn shame he didn't.

I watched Forrest Gump the other night and, since I was all alone, I could really enjoy the film. Really appreciate all of its best moments, without feeling like a tool for crying.

Honorable Mentions:
These moments come in after the top ten, mostly because I think they’re always recognized as awesome moments. But I just can’t leave them out of this entry.

-Freebird scene
-We was like peas and carrots
-Little Forrest grunts like the disgusting principal
-All of Forrest's encounters with the presidents
-Run, Forrest, Run

And now, without further adieu, here are what I found to be the ten awesomest moments in the film.


10. Shrimp conversation – This scene is of course wonderful because of Bubba. I’ve heard there are Bubba Gump restaurants out there, and it’s my dream to eat at one someday. Bubba is such an incredible character. He’s Forrest’s best good friend in the army, and it’s hard to pick a favorite scene, because I think all the one’s he’s in are great. It was a toss-up between the shrimp scene and his death scene. I chose shrimp because it’s more upbeat, and also what I find to be a unique depiction of life in the army. It really demonstrates just how mundane life in the army can be. Bubba prattles on and on about all the types of shrimp and Forrest listens while they assemble guns, wash floors and shine shoes. Maybe in movie time the speech is only two minutes long, but you know in “real” time this conversation spanned days. What an incredible way to show life in the army.

9. I just felt like running – This is what Forrest says in response to all the reporters questioning him on why he continues to run across America. They push possible reasons down his throat: “Are you doing it for world peace?” “Are you doing it to fight hunger?” “Are you doing it for animals?” Forrest’s response is at once the most simple and the most genuine. He just felt like running. Sometimes I feel like that too.


8. Lt. Dan pushes drunk chick off him for asking if Forrest is stupid – I don’t remember the chick’s name, despite having seen the movie [insert ridiculous number here] times, and I think that’s kind of the point. She’s some plastered hussy ready to give Lt. Dan some action which, considering his attitude, one would assume he doesn’t get too much. That in mind, and especially after all the terrible things he has said and done to Gump, Lt. Dan’s impulse to push this woman off of him for speaking negatively of Gump speaks volumes.


7. Forrest jumps off his shrimping boat when he hears his momma is sick – There are two moments when Forrest jumps off his shrimping boat. The first is when he sees Lt. Dan on the dock. He abandons ship completely just to say hello. But I think the second time, after he hears his mother is sick, is even more effective. I think it’s because when Forrest jumped for Lt. Dan it wasn’t a very far swim to the dock. When Forrest hears his mother is sick, there is no land nearby. The land that can be seen is far in the distance. But Forrest doesn’t take that into consideration. I’m a bit envious of how easy decisions are for Forrest. Mama is sick. So he goes to her. And that’s that.

6. Lt. Dan comes to Forrest’s wedding – Another Lt. Dan moment. What can I say? He’s an incredible character, and the one who I think changes the most throughout the film. And this moment is the one in which we can see the ultimate result of all those changes. He walks into that wedding with his titanium legs. “astronaut” goes back to the time when Lt. Dan said to Forrest, “The day you become a shrimping boat captain, that’s the day I’m an astronaut.” One gets the sense that Lt. Dan is finally content with being alive. He’s no longer angry with Forrest for rescuing him in Vietnam.

5. Fat southern man laughs off Forrest about shrimp company – the man in question, the very round one at the bus stop, has listened to Forrest’s stories about Vietnam and about his shrimping days. But when Forrest explains that he’s the owner of BubbaGump shrimp, the man laughs hysterically and walks away, refusing to believe it. After he’s gone, Forrest shows the woman on the bench a picture of Lt. Dan, which is in fact the cover of a Fortune magazine, which proves that Forrest was being truthful the whole time. This moment reminds me of how clear things are to Forrest. He knows the truth, and that is enough for him. It doesn’t matter who believes him or who doesn’t. He doesn’t challenge the man; he just lets it go. How many of us can do that, when someone doubts we’ve been involved with something we’re proud of? I know I wouldn’t be able to let that man go.

4. Forrest names his boat – I have to admit, I like this part of the movie because it’s the part where I feel most involved. When that man whose name I forgot tells Forrest it’s bad luck to have a boat without a name, and then Forrest says, “There was only one name I could think of,” I was like…I know what it is! I know what it is! It feels good to know the answer before your told, and that’s why I love this moment. Also because it’s a reminder of how pure Forrest’s devotion is to Jenny. He will never forget her. She will never not be on his mind. Don’t we all want someone to care about us that unyieldingly?

3. Lt. Dan makes his peace with God – there have been a few shoutouts to Lt. Dan already, but this scene is my absolute favorite of his. Just after the great storm on the shrimping boat, Lt. Dan admits that he never thanked Forrest for saving his life. (About 5:00 on the video below) He then throws himself into the ocean. And Forrest can understand exactly what is happening: “I think Lt. Dan finally made his peace with God.” Lt. Dan looks so comfortable in all that water, so natural in that great sea, that whenever I see the scene I kind of feel like I’ve made my peace with God too.


2. Forrest doesn’t open little Forrest’s letter – Since the scene takes place at Jenny’s grave it’s already a tearjerker. But when he says, talking about their son, “he wrote you a letter. He says I can’t read it so I’ll just leave it here,” I can’t help but go into ugly cry. This line illustrates so clearly how much Forrest cares for his son. He would never do anything to hurt him, or betray his trust. It reminds me a little of the relationship between John Connor and the terminator.

1. Forrest asks if his son is smart, or like… - Forrest doesn’t get to finish what comes after the ellipses because Jenny assures him that little Forrest is smart. I haven’t seen all of Tom Hanks’ movies, but I dare anyone to find a moment where Tom Hanks acts better than this. This is Forrest’s first concern when he finds out he’s a father, and Tom Hanks is able to capture the sheer volume of his anxiety. The way he stumbles back before he asks the question, and the relief he exhibits when he hears the answer… it’s just astounding. This is why he won the Oscar for best actor. And since I can't find a good video of that performance, go watch this video of Tom accepting the Oscar, which is also a tearjerker.

Best quote ever, and how I define my life: "I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floatin' around accidental-like on a breeze. But I, I think maybe it's both."

How I spent my weekend

I did lots of fun stuff. I went to Trouville, which is a half hour away, next to Deuville. Then I saw Vicky Cristina Barcelona, which I think everyone should see. Well, at least everyone who is open about sexuality and can accept and appreciate other lifestyles. Because it was an awesome movie. Oh, Woody Allen. Extra bonus: it was in the original format, English, so I could understand everything!



And I got a little bored and decided to try some sketching. When I was young I was horrible in art class. But this past summer I dabbled a little and realized I wasn't so bad. But I was so busy with other things I quickly lost interest. But then last week I was upset about things and Donna inspired me to pick it up again. And really, my boyfriend has the most beautiful face for drawing. Maybe that's why I've always admired strong jawlines.

Something I Noticed

Even though the words, language, and accent are totally different, people who answer their phone and talk in the library sound pretty much the same everywhere. Also, I'm pretty sure all high schools smell the same and market vendors are universally pushy. And also universally willing to bargain. I got two comfy-cozy sweaters for five euros today.

In other news, the hot water in my shower lasted for about a minute and three quarters today. I'm used to at least five minutes so I know how to hurry. But this minute and three quarters was exactly enough time to wash my face with my new disencrusting face wash and lather some shampoo into my hair. All the rest I had to do in the cold.

I have really, REALLY good news

The facewash that I bought today is three in one. And the second is decruster. Which means you won't see any crust on this lovely face.

This One's for Maureen

Remember when you commented asking me if I ever have to pinch myself? Right now I’m listening to “Lady Marmalade.” And every single time I hear that hook, I realize just how cool it is to be hearing it in France.

What I miss from home

Wawa.

My car. Because I love my car and also because having a car makes it much easier to transport groceries home.

People that say "Bless you" when you sneeze.

But luckily, I do not miss peanut butter anymore, because awesome Nathalie bought me some! The crunchy kind. And it's just as good as I wanted it to be. Thanks!

This made me laugh:

Open Letter to the woman who flicked her cigarette ashes on me at a bus stop in France. Twice.

I understand that smoking is to France kind of like what eating at McDonald’s is to America. Bad habit in the country, yes. Stereotypical behavior of its people, yes. Unbelievably common nationwide, yes. So it was no surprise to me that you were smoking at the bus stop the other day. What surprised me was the way you so inconsiderately let your cigarette ashes find their way onto my coat. My only coat. The first time I could, of course, let slide. You were standing next to me at such proximity and such an angle that, when the wind blew at just the speed and in just the direction that it happened to blow that day, your ash was clearly going to go nowhere but my coat. No big deal. It couldn’t have been helped. But I’m sure that you saw the way my eyes followed that ash, the way my left hand lifted to brush it from my right arm, and the way my eyes then looked up to meet yours. I know you saw it, because you looked away from me right away. And it was the type of look-away that means oh, my bad. I don’t care that you didn’t say you were sorry. You probably weren’t really sorry. But couldn’t you have just turned ever so slightly or switched smoking hands so that next time the wind blew your ash would have landed in the nearby fountain or in the street? No, I guess that would have been too difficult a task. But in all honesty, I’m not upset about that at all. I’m not upset that your ash landed a second time in the exact same spot on my coat. What really bugs me is the look you gave me. You know, the one you threw in my direction after I stood up – without saying anything, without even looking at you angrily as I so would have liked to do – and walked over to the next bench. You turned and tossed me such an annoyed glare that I had to ask myself if I had done something wrong by choosing to relocate to an ash-free, cigarette smell-free area. Well, dear woman who flicked her cigarette ash on me twice, please accept my sincerest apologies. I certainly didn’t mean to offend you. In hindsight, maybe you would have felt better about the whole situation had I rested there at that bus stop, your personal ashtray. And I’m most sorry that I can’t ever express this to you. Seeing as how a) I don’t usually understand the phenomenon in my mother tongue and b) I’m not yet fluent in yours, I truly doubt that I will be mastering sarcasm in this country anytime soon.

Check me out

Translatin' poetry and everything. OK so for my first go I chose a very, and I stress the word very, simple poem - one that I didn't need to use a dictionary for. It was fun. I've since moved on to harder things. Maybe eventually I'll finish this one, but I'm halfway through right now and frankly a little bored. Anyone in the litt world know of kick-ass French cotemporary poets I could try my hand at translating? I just don't know where to begin.

I LOST TEN POUNDS!!!!

that's really all I have to say about that.

Une semaine de l’heureuse; or, Best Week Ever

This week had its ups and its downs. Serious downs including the most bizarre doctor’s visit of my life, about which you already read, and the fact that I still can’t withdrawal my pay. Bummer. But despite that, and some other negative things, there was a whole lot of good this week. And so I’d much rather focus on that.

First and foremost, I found the best cereal ever in the supermarket! Whoever came up with the idea of an entire breakfast of chocolate chip cookies is my hero. And, to go with this delish cereal, I found soy milk! Thank god, because I was beginning to think it didn’t exist here before I found it. Phew. Now I don’t even have to think about the whole drink-from-a-cow-thing.

Over the weekend I had a walk with some of my colleagues from the school where I work. It was a lovely walk on a trail through Point L’Eveche, a nearby city to Lisieux. We spoke in French and I understood a lot! Not everything, but through the words I did know and the context, I could figure out the bulk of the conversation. And like everyone else, these friends were great about keeping me engaged.

The night after the walk in Point L’Eveche, I hung out with Cecil and Milena (the other American assistant and the Spanish assistant). I just adore both of them. We had really good, relaxed conversation over a game of Uno and some disco biscuits and pizza crackers. Milena doesn’t speak English, which is great for Cecil and me because it makes it necessary to practice our French instead of falling back into comfy English. And here’s the most awesome thing (I think): when Cecil walked me back home after, we continued to speak in French. For the whole 15 minute walk! It would have been much easier to speak in English, but I think it’s pretty clear that Cecil and I both care about learning the language and practicing as much as we can. And that’s exactly the type of person I want to be around here in France.

The night after Point L’Eveche and hanging with Cecil and Milena, I did not have a headache! Usually, after a day with that much French, I feel entirely drained and need to take two ibuprofens just to be able to sleep. Would it be arrogant to say this shows I am on the way to becoming fluent?

Tapan told me he’s going to download Veronica Mars seasons 2 and 3 for me. This is part of the best week ever for a very serious reason: Veronica Mars rocks! I bought season one with me and planned to watch it over the course of seven months, but it was impossible. The end of each episode is a cliffhanger, OK? Can you really blame me for having to constantly go on to the next? And besides, it was a long, lonely vacances and I had no money to go anywhere, and sometimes it was raining anyway. Considering all that, it’s only mildly frightening that I watched the entire season in two days.

I sent Donna her b-day present and the postage was only 3 euros. Sweet. This means I’ll be able to send many presents to many people.

There were only two good things about the doctor’s appointment. 1. I met all the other English assistants in Caen and they were pretty awesome. 2. I found the clinic entirely by myself. The day before my appointment I had no internet access at all so I couldn’t use google maps to get my directions. I just had an address in my hand. But I somehow managed to get to Caen (the next-door city), find the correct bus line, and find my way to the building. And I only had to ask one person on the street for help. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but anyone who knows Oh Ashley will understand what progress I have made! [As an aside, why is google not recognized by the Microsoft Word dictionary? It is both a noun and a verb.]

I have acclimated to the French keyboards. So much in fact, that I often make typos on my personal QWERTY keyboard.

My lungs are healthy. Check ‘em out!

Most bizarre doctor’s visit ever

So I had to go to the doctor’s to get a checkup and radiology thing. Apparently, the French can sleep better knowing I don’t have tuberculosis to spread around, so they test me after I’ve been in contact with school-kids for almost two months. Ha.

I had to wake up at wtf o’clock just to get to the appointment by 8:30 am. Blarg. Then I had to do all those awkward things you do at the doctor’s – you know, the ones you never understand and think you must not be doing right – in a foreign language.

First there was radiology. The nurse takes me into a small room and tells me to take everything off from the waist up. Everything. Then I have to walk into this cold, sterilized, white room with all these big machines. Then she tells me to stand against this huge window-thing and press my chest against it. As expected, the machine is hella cold. Then I have to breathe in…but not that way! I did it wrong. Try again. OK better, but not perfect. Last time…good! Now get dressed and wait for the doctor.

After waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and meeting all the other assistants who have their appointments on the same day, and waiting some more, I get to see the doctor. The first thing this doctor says to me is to take off my top and pants. Uhm. OK. Thank god I decided to wear an undershirt and full undies, that’s all I’m sayin’. He asks me about my vaccinations. I nod and say yes, I have had all of my vaccinations. He speaks a little English but is annoyed each time he has to use it. I’m acclimated to my nice smooth-voiced colleagues’ French. I’m sorry I don’t speak crotchety old man French. Geez.

He takes my blood sugar. Meh. I know I won’t be able to tell him I’m an easy fainter, even just finger pricks make me dizzy – luckily it didn’t turn out to be a problem this time.

Then he takes my height and weight, tests my vision, takes my blood pressure, checks my breathing. You know, the usual. All in my skivvies. And I just don’t understand why I couldn’t have my pants on. It’s what every single assistant said when they came back into the waiting room: “Why did I have to be in my underwear? I just don’t get it.” Can anyone explain it to me?

After waiting FOREVER to get back my X-Ray, I could finally leave. I rushed out of that clinic as fast as I could, and I hope I never have to go back. It gave me the wiggins, big time.

Something's in the water

because I've been having the weirdest dreams ever. From rock-climbing with Barack Obama and John McCain to singing karaoke in a ballgown to getting killed by an ex-Nino's employee, I've certainly had some crazy ones. But this one is definitely the strangest. So far. Don't read on if you want to know what actually happens in Ashley's head. You might get scared.

November 6, 2008

I was doing something at my house. Housework or something. And I leaned over to pick something up off my couch, and my eyeball fell out. Just rolled right out of the socket! It didn’t hurt or anything, I was just worried because I wanted it back inside. And I was worried it would get dirty, and I wanted it to stay sanitary, so I put it in my mouth. I meant to just keep it there till I found a better place for it, but I accidentally ate some of it. It tasted awful. It sort of looked like an egg, and the top layer had come off.

After calling many numbers in the phone book, I finally found someone who would do the surgery on my eyeball. She said she was very busy but if she could find someone to watch her children she would be able to do it. She told me to meet her at the beach. I went to this beach that looked like the one at Deauville with some friends. People were surfing there. I laid in the back of the pickup truck bed with someone who felt exactly like Tapan but he had lighter skin and red hair. But it was him. I laid my head on his chest and noticed that his body was a puzzle. I was putting in the last piece – the corner of his heart – but it wasn’t correct. Someone had clearly put the puzzle together wrong before and now I would have to take it all apart and start again.

Finally I saw the woman who was going to put my eye back in. She was sunbathing! I asked her if we should, you know, go to her office. She said it was a good idea, so we went there. Barack Obama was the door man. Once in her office, I told her that I didn’t have any insurance right now. She explained to me that I had two operations to choose from. I could choose either the brand new $15,000 state-of-the-art eye with 20/20 vision that would look just like my own eye, or I could choose the other model – the eye of a dead world war two soldier. The vision wouldn’t last long and it wouldn’t look like my other eye in the least. This model cost $150,000. I thought that it was obvious which eye to choose, but Barack Obama disagreed with me. He encouraged me to buy the WWII eye, saying that it would be a great privilege and honor to wear this eye. He was so enthusiastic about this eye. I explained that I had no insurance and couldn’t afford it. He told me it would be no problem, and I thought he meant he would pay. So I went ahead and got the surgery.

In the end, Barack Obama did not pay my bill. I was left with a $150,000 bill and waning vision in a decrepit dead man’s eye.

Sweetness

As I was showering today, I think I noticed that my legs looked just the slightest bit slimmer.

Thank you, hell hill.

This is what it means to be an American

That's what people keep saying today. Arianna Huffington said it, the letters to the editor of the New York Times repeat it often, it's obvious it's what Juan Williams was thinking when he broke the news.

Obama won. Obama fucking won! My dad often said, when talking about this election, "if democrats can't win this election, I don't see how democrats can win any election." I'm really happy we won, and I don't have to think of a world where we couldn't. So what does it mean to be an American? And what does it mean to be an American living overseas?

It means that people are eager to talk to me if they know I am American. The landlord: "What do you think of the new president?" The man at the post office (in attempted English): "Chicago? Home of new president?" My friend Mourad (quoting Obama's speech): "It is not a black America. It is not a white America."

It means I have to stop every so often and remind myself what a historic day this is. As Tom reminded me, I can look into the future and see children twenty years from now asking me, "where were you when Barack Obama was elected President?"

It means I had to stifle tears as I watched this speech in the library.



It means I couldn't help it when the pride I felt made my chest swell. It means all of these "it means"s just scratch the surface of how I feel.

Obama talks a lot about hope. Here are my hopes: I hope great things for his presidency. I hope predictions of assassination don't come true. I hope conservatives don't try to blame a Democratic (or worse, black) president when the economy finally goes down the shitter, and I hope that if they do the American people are smart enough not to buy it.

I hope Americans are as passionate about every election as they were about this one.

Today I feel better about America. And hey, I did vow that I wouldn't come home if McCain won. Guess it looks like the States will welcome me back in May!

A strange day to be away

Very strange. I don't feel at all like I'm not in the USA. Last night almost half of the eight o'clock news had to do with the US elections. Leonardo DiCaprio was a guest to talk about his new movie, and also how he voted for Obama (which makes me love him almost as much as I did when I was 12). All day on the internet I've been reading up on news from the elections (not much so far). Right now I'm sitting next to my friend who is sporting his Obama t-shirt. I've blogged and had more conversations (in French and English) about this election than any other. I was afraid I would miss home on Election Day, but it's going all right. The only thing I'm gonna miss is one kickass election party.

I hope everyone who can vote does. And I hope the winner really wins.

I wish i could say it turned out better

Right now it is Monday morning and I am watching a program on TV. It’s called Musicsix Star, and I find it kinda bizarre. On the surface it seems to be a trashy celebrity TMI-type show, but it’s different than those in the States. There are a man and a woman sitting at the desk like news anchors, and they play games with callers and stuff. And they keep playing this game with a sort of fill-in-the-blanks word search or something. And every time the camera goes to this board they play the suite from Terminator 2. I’m not sure exactly why, but I find it pretty funny. And it also reminds me that I promised you a blog on this a while back. Here ya go!

The other night, on French television, I saw a “stay tuned for…” ad for Terminator 2: Judgment Day. I haven’t been so excited about a single television program since I’ve been here. I think it could only be topped by an ad for Forrest Gump. Just the mention of T2 brings me back to the days when I was ten years old. My mom is at work, and I don’t know where my brother is – probably on a date. It’s just me and dad at home. I’ve never seen the movie before, so dad preps me by giving me his T2 speech. I’ve heard it so many times I can paraphrase: You see, T2 is the better film. It’s hard for a sequel to beat the original. This is one of the few that does. You have to remember though, that T1 is also important. Without T1, you wouldn’t have the setup for T2. T2 wouldn’t exist, and it wouldn’t be so heavy when Linda Hamilton sees Arnold for the first time. Something like that, and I couldn’t agree more. Terminator 2 is never going to stop filling me with nostalgia. It’s one of those films that I could watch every day and not bore of. Really, who could get tired of checking out Linda Hamilton’s arm muscles or listening to Arnold’s monotone?



Which brings me to the prime reason I didn’t enjoy the French-dubbed version of the film. I stayed up until midnight on a very tired day just to see this movie, and I was totally disappointed. Let’s be honest about the reason we all love Arnold (I won’t take that sweeping generalization back because it gives me far too much pain to imagine a world where not everyone loves Arnold). It’s that voice. That no-inflection monotone that he has even when he’s not playing a machine. It’s magnified when he’s the Terminator. It’s perfect. And it’s what the voice actor didn’t understand. I’ve only been immersed in French for a month, and I’m certainly not fluent enough to detect accents in the language, and even I could tell the voice actor was emoting. His voice had inflection. WTF, voice actor! Did anyone tell you you’re supposed to be playing a Termnator? A machine? Did you even watch the movie in its original English to get a sense of the role? Oh, it was so disappointing.

I never before realized how highly critical I could be about a movie when it means so much to me. I mean, I hate to be all gripey about a voice, but the voice is one of the elements that makes the film what it is. Even the kickass scene with Linda Hamilton shooting the bejeezus out of the bad Terminator at the end didn’t make me feel better.

I’ll have to watch some Buffy in French. I find their voice actors to be really talented, and enthused.

another reason to be nervous about election day

Thanks for the tip D.

"West Virginia Voting Machines Prefer McCain

This is the second West Virginia county where voters have reported this problem. Last week, three voters in Jackson County told The Charleston Gazette their electronic vote for "Barack Obama" kept flipping to "John McCain".

In both counties, Republicans are responsible for overseeing elections. Both county clerks said the problem is isolated."

Surprise, surprise, it seems that I can't find a major news outlet covering this. Hopefully something soon.

And I was worried about my vote not counting because I'm overseas. I'm not too worried about it anymore, considering I got my ballot and sent it out priority mail, and I live in Jersey.

Election day is close, and I'm feeling very uneasy. Rachel explained why in a fantastic post that, I'll admit, made me a little teary-eyed.

There's a lot of uncertainty right now about this election. The last thing we need is for machines to glitch and switch votes.

I won't be online again until election day. At this point, I just want it to be over. And I hope someone calls me right away to tell me who won.