How to survive a long-distance relationship during the holidays

DON'T imagine your significant other drinking way too much wine and champagne and laying a big wet one on the only single girl/guy at the New Year's Eve party.

DON'T get upset when your hunny didn't call at midnight his/her time the way you all had agreed you were going to do the day before.

DON'T send him/her a sarcastic text message saying how he/she must have been too busy to call you when the New Year rolled in.

DON'T get all paranoid and swear to yourself that you're going to have a blast at your New Years Eve party, not call him/her and make out with a hottie -- because if he's/she's doing what you think he's/she's doing, then you can do it too...only better.

DON'T obsess about the New Year's Party he's/she's attending with all his/her friends and that annoying single woman/man friend you keep hearing about, who you think is on the prowl to snatch away your man/woman.

DON'T let your paranoia consume you and make you write a blog post about surviving a long distance relationship.

So, what you should do is...

DO send him/her sweet text messages that wishes him/her a BONNE ANNEE and tell him/her that you hope he/she is having a great time at his/her New Year's Eve party.

DO trust him/her and enjoy the New Year festivities.

Finally...

DO try to stay calm and not overreact...if you're still obsessing, keep the bottle of champagne very close to you! Just don't drunk dial or answer his phone calls if you're feeling like spilling all your frustrations!!

BONNE ANNEE, HAPPY NEW YEAR AND HAU'OLI MAKAHIKI HOU!!

I'm Googleable!

What a strange feeling it is! I just started a new job in my home state since returning from France and because it is a pretty in-the-public-eye position, I've just become the first listing (and second, and third) on the Google search results after tapping in my full name.

It's scares the bloody boogers out of me! Think about...you meet a guy while hanging out with your friends -- he Googles you! You go for a job interview, they Google you! Nosy high school classmates want to know what you've been up to, they Google you! I don't know if I want even that bit of attention. If you're computer literate and can navigate the Internet search engines well, you can figure out where someone is going to be on Saturday night at 8 p.m. and with whom. Thanks to Google, Myspace, and Facebook you can even deduce what they plan to eat for lunch tomorrow. Seriously, I've done it.

One can find out any amount of information on a person if their names are listed on Google. I know. I do it all the time -- after a date on Friday night, after interviewing someone (during a former job position), and yes, when I get bored, I Google the hell out of my former friends' names.

I Google my boyfriends name every week. Only because I care about his well-being and I don't want his name to be used improperly. I'm not nosy or insecure. Really.

I'm connected! But, change in blog theme

Everywhere!! I have my snazzy t-mobile shadow smartphone conveniently tucked away in my purse or, rather, glued to my hand because I can't miss an email or phone call from my petitescargot; and, I was finally able to hook up a wireless router to the broadband modem set up this morning. Woo-hoo! I'm stoked.

Because I am not in France anymore, I won't be blogging as much about my "French" experience -- obviously ; however, France is and will always be pertinent to my life story. I've left behind a man that makes me feel so comfortable, intelligent and beautiful (hint: that's why we're still together), a caring family of four from Montbrison that taught me everything about what it meant to be French, from the politics to the food, and wonderful memories and experiences that I hoped to incorporate into my life -- a life that must begin anew.

I haven't decided which avenue I want to steer my blog toward: the daily journal of an island girl in a long-distance relationship with a frenchman, living on opposite ends of the world; the difficulties of returning to a life of friends and family that went on without you, or the daily accounts of supernatural occurrences in my house -- for real!

Have you missed me?

I'm back and ready to take on another chapter of my life of total incomprehension, only this time on that tiny dot to the left of that gigantic wall map I know you have in your bedroom. I'm sure all you inquisitive computer junkies are girating in you seats like a bitch in heat because you can't stand the anticipation!

A short update (I'll go into more detail later): I was forced to leave France to avoid finding my tushie in a French prison and I just really wanted to go home to normalize my life. I also missed my sisters and nieces terribly!! My petit escargot and I decided to stay together...so, raise your glasses to long-distance relationships!!

I survived the journey from France to Hawaii without being interrogated by the deportation police! Thank goodness. I was really in shambles the week leading up to my departure date, but gorging on surimi sticks and kebabs helped me through the trying times.

I'm typing on my new T-mobile Shadow Smartphone, so I have to make this short. It takes me about three minutes to tap in an apostrophe -- more rants about this burgeoning love/hate relationship with my brown shadow.

ALOHA!

Tar and Ashes

Taking a break from reading my email in the cafe down the street, I grabbed my Marlboro's and lit up, placing the brown filter in my mouth with my left hand and typing my website address with my right. Inhaling slowly and exhaling quickly while scanning my life on the tiny screen in front of me, I noticed from the corner of my eye a creepy, old man to the left of me throwing furtive glances my way. I reached across the table with my left arm to ash my cigarette until I realized that it was my cup of green tea. I pulled my hand back quickly like a child that just touched the hot stove because she really, really wanted to know if it was hot.

I glanced up to see the dirty old man smiling and laughing. I smiled back, then attempted to search for the ashtray. As the dirty old man got up to leave the cafe, he approached me and gave me some helpful advice. "It's better if you put you cup to the right of your computer, then you won't ash your cigarette in it." Wow, brilliant. He even moved it for me.

I thanked him, smiled knowingly and took his hand when he shoved it in my face, and nearly breaking the personal bubble rule.

At that moment, I quit smoking. The horrid image of the four remaining teeth in his mouth with black, tar-like substance oozing out of the crevices is still haunting me.

Screwed (and not lauging)

To answer my last blog post question -- which I temporarily took down because I had a paranoia moment in which I thought that I shouldn't be telling the whole world that I will soon be in France illegally -- there is a whole lot to fret about. I decided to re-post my horrible disregard for serious situation's today because I'm already screwed so what does it matter if everyone knows about.

I really shouldn't have been so flippant in my last post. It's karma. Earth is screwing with me because I jokingly forecasted a dire future for myself and wrote all kinds of fun things about alcohol, cigarettes and sex.

Honestly, I wasn't too worried in my last post because I have -- HAD an open flight paper ticket to get back home at the end of my three-month journey here, which is creeping up on me. Yes, had.

When I wrote the previous post, I was warned by a friend of mine that my time is running out and I should leave soon, so I freaked out a bit because I wasn't sure if the date had passed, wrote a fun "what if" post after reading horror stories online, and began packing and gathering my documents that have been camping out on Soco's desk. I searched calmly for the paper ticket that should have been with my ticket to France. I searched, I searched and I searched. Oh, yes, time to freak the fuck out!! All I could find was the empty envelope that I used to carry my plane tickets to France. What the hell! I sat down and tried to relive the past three months and pinpoint exactly where I may have put the tickets. Uh, oh...I vaguely remember doing a major clean up of the desk and throwing a bunch of useless papers. Royally screwed.

As I sit here writing this blog, I'm picturing a crisp plane ticket worth a thousand dollars lying somewhere in a dump or wherever trash goes to in France. I'm sitting here, knowing that I will have to pay for my stupidity when I leave the country. I'm sitting here, trying to figure out if I can afford another ticket to the island in the pacific in the next three days to avoid breaking the law. I'm sitting here, and I want to cry all over again.

I've tried to contact the U.S embassy in Paris with no luck. Tonight I'm going to purchase the cheapest and earliest flight home I can find, which will probably have me overstaying my welcome. All I can do right now is hope for the best and enjoy my last days in Europe because I probably won't be back for about 7 years or so.

Today's lesson: Karma is a bitch.

Tourist Visa and all that Jazz

After realizing that I could be gagged, tortured, belittled, reprimanded, pay a fine and/or banished from this country at either the European airports or the American airports for leaving after my three-month tourist stay, I searched every drawer, purse and crevice in the apartment for a cigarette to calm me down -- I even sifted through the ashtrays for a half-finished cancer stick. Yes, I know, I'm a disgusting little chimney puffer.

I finally had to give in and pull on my jeans and coat, check my face in the mirror to make sure it looked presentable in public and walk to the nearest Tabac. "Hmm," I thought as I walked past the grocery store of my favorite Arabian man, "What would go great with Marlboro lights at a stressful time like this? A bit of nipple eye fondling, maybe? No, too much effort to unbutton my coat. Perhaps, the smooth, creamy texture of liquid slithering down my throat? Oh, yeah, that's it." I snatched me a bottle of Kasteel bier, brewed in Belgium and oh, so yummy! It's better than sex. Far surpasses the taste of -- come on -- did you really think I was going to write that. Too easy.

The alcoholic in me also begged for a bottle of red wine, so I submitted to her...his...it's request and purchased a cute, curvy bottle of JeanJean Merlot. Don't ask me why I bought it or how I come to choose such a fine wine because, um... I don't. My wine choosing system works like this: "Wow, that bottle is really pretty. It's less than 5 euros, too. And, people have been buying it. OK, I'll go with that." Usually they taste like crap, but after two or three glasses, you're not drinking it for the taste, right?

As I sit here writing this blog, sipping my second glass of wine at 5 p.m. in the afternoon, I'm not too worried about paying a huge fine at the airport, being deported from France and/or banned for seven years. Wanna know why? Because I have my cigarettes, my wine, the cold air nipping at my frozen toes...and I'm gonna get laid tonight, and tomorrow, and every other day until I leave. So, what's there to fret about?

Nicky Larson is my Lover

At least twice a week, I have to sit through two back-to-back episodes of Nicky Larson, the handsome, strong manga cartoon, who saves the lives of the female manga population while continually trying to get laid, because SoCo can't get enough of his lover Nicky Larson.

I don't mind it that much. It's funny -- when I can catch one or two of the French phrases. Nicky's friend, girlfriend, partner, I don't know what she is to him -- she flattens him with a gigantic hammer each time she catches him flirting with someone, in a compromising situation (naked in bed, hands on boobs, etc.), or drooling after a young woman.

My infantile boyfriend MUST watch it when he returns from work or his lips start quivering and the puppy dog eyes come into play. So, I deal with it.

Nicky Larson is his hero. Each time after the show ends, he flexes his non-existent muscles and boasts, "Je suis comme Nicky Larson. Je suis beau, fort et intelligent." ("I'm like Nicky Larson. I'm handsome, strong and intelligent.")

Riiiggghht...whatever you say, honey.

This past weekend I started messing around with a face transformer software that I found online. This site is awesome! Take any photo of yourself and turn it into a baby, child, teenager, old adult, Caucasian, Afro-Caribbean, east Asian, west Asian, male, or female. You can even see yourself as the muse for Botticelli, Modigliani, or Mucha.

And, if you are like my boy and fantasize daily about becoming a manga, you can even do that! When I transformed SoCo's photo, the first thing he said with a huge smile on his face was: "Wow, I look like Nicky Larson!! I told you."

So, there you go! Teema and SoCo as manga cartoons. Hope you likey.

Old Age Around the Corner
SoCo(a.k.a Nicky Larson) also thinks that he looks rather fabulous as un vieux (old man). After transforming my photo into une vieille (old woman), he slightly cringed, than quickly recovered, hoping that I didn't notice as he declared sweetly, "You'll still be ma cherie even if you look like that."

Thanks. Really. That just warms my heart.

Seduction

I am not departing this world of strange guttural sounds and high pitched female whining.

Firstly, the odor of stinky cheese constantly permeates from my wine-clogged pores and I wouldn't want to offend innocent passengers by that, would I?

Secondly, because I've been drowning in self pity the past few days, the Arabian owner of the food market down the street hasn't gotten his daily ogle of Mrs. Lolo and Mr. NeNe, who try unavailingly to stay warm behind thin fabric. It would be terribly selfish of me to suddenly strip the poor man of his eye medicine.

And, finally...

I'm horny.

I could go onto yahoo Farechase right now and book a flight to the island in the Pacific infested with young, randy military men ready to bump uglies...

But then I'd be a contender for the "Most Likely to Contract Gonorrhea and Chlamydia" list.

I could arrive Sunday evening and still have time for a night of hard-core drinking and pelvic rubbing with random boys I befriend in the shady bar down the street from the transgendered hookers...

But then I'd just get drugged, raped and sold to the highest bidder to be shipped to a whore house in Thailand.

I could get my kicks by calling a former "vagina time" friend from my uni years for a night of uncommitted, please-go-home-now-I-want-to-sleep, mediocre sex...

But, then I'd just have to masturbate after he left.

I could scramble around frantically searching for my special vibrating hoppety-hop friend buried beneath scraps of old fabrics and sewing utensils.

But then I'd just run out of batteries.

So, I am therefore obligated to stay in France and continue the sexual adventures with my little frog as returning to the island of woes would only be disastrous for my safety, health and sexual well-being.

Sabotage Part Deux

Subsequent to a mangled French argument upon arriving back from my "sabotage" (refer to last post) moment, I decided to sleep on the couch. It doesn't make a huge difference as the apartment is a studio and I can hear SoCo breathing five feet above in the loft.

So, what did we argue about? About an hour after I took off, he found me sitting at a cafe sipping on a glass of red wine and inhaling a newly lit Camel light. He wanted to know what was wrong.

"Rien," I said. "J'avais besoin de promener. C'est tous."

If you know me personally, you already know that I have some trouble expressing my feelings. And, honestly, I never know what it is. There's this little bug inside of me that pinches at my nerves from time to time. I know that something is bothering me, but I can't exactly pinpoint the what it is, only the person I know who to lash out at it. And, that night, it was him.

We headed back to the apartment together without speakin, he on the left, me on the right, five feet of space between us. I jammed my hands into my coat pockets and took in a breath of tension.

The mood was awful in the apartment. The air was thick of unspoken words and when we talked to each other about what was on telly or what we were going to eat, it all seemed so scripted. Finally, he went to bed while I sighned on to skype to call family in Hawaii, across the U.S. and in Iraq.

Around 3 a.m., I noticed a missed text message on my cell phone as I searched for the battery plug to recharge my laptop. Scanning the text message, I knew that things were going to ignite: Are you coming to bed. I'm fed up. Then, everything went to hell:

“Teema?”
“Teema?!”
“Oui. What is it?”
“Are you going to come to bed?”
“Yes, after I talk to my sisters.”
“It’s 3:00 a.m. in the morning!”
“So.”
“You can’t talk to them tomorrow?”
“No. Don’t you understand the time differences?”
“What difference does it make?”
“3 a.m. here is 3 p.m. in Hawaii and around 7 p.m. in Kansas. Both my sisters are off of work and we can talk altogether.”
“C’est chiant! Why can’t you call early tomorrow morning.”
“Are you not listening to me?! I want to talk to them now!! I don’t talk to my family often because of the time difference. Your family is here. You don’t understand anything.”

The next day.

I woke up early to only one thought. I need to leave. I didn't say a word to him as I started collecting all my clothes and packing them into my suitcase. Tight lipped and nonchalant, I grabbed my cosmetic bags in the bathroom and started arranging my makeup, hair products and bath products into the blue and green striped Soho bags. From the corner of my eye, I could see him staring at me as I turned on my laptop that was on the kitchen table and typed in the address for yahoo farechase.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm preparing my stuff to pack in my suitcase," I said dryly, still typing in dates on the website.
"Why?" he replied slowly. "Where are you going?"

I looked up at him across from me on the other end of the table. Nothing came out for about two seconds. It was a moment that the good bug that had been sleeping on it's job finally decided to wake up and bite some sense into me.

"I'm leaving Friday or Saturday." He lost the biting battle.

SoCo quickly said, "I leave tomorrow for Berlin. I won't be back until Saturday afternoon. I won't be here to take you to the airport."

"I know," I threw back. "I can take the metro or take a cab."

It's Thursday morning. He left at 5 a.m. I finally understand what has been bothering the past couple of days. If I leave tomorrow, Saturday, next week or next month, it won't make a difference. I'm still leaving and this entire relationship will be over. I'll be in Hawaii. He'll be in France. Look at a map. There you go.

Isn't it easier to leave someone behind, to forget them, to keep the past in the past when you hate their guts? Won't it be a lot easier if I just pick up and go without saying goodbye? Without the whole mushy crap at the airport?

I think that a part of me wanted him to say, "please stay a little longer," "please don't go," I want you to stay." Or at least let me know what would happen after I left. Would we still be together? Would we try to make it work until we can finally live in the same city?

Well, he didn't say any of that, did he? Do you want to know what he said? Do you really? He said, "I'll remember our time together forever, thank you." Oh, wait, I'm mistaken. He emailed it to me.

What a bunch of crap!!

I'm leaving. On a jet plane. And I won't be back again.

Sabotage

I try. I try so hard to keep my emotions tamed.

The day before yesterday I was happy, bouncing around, initiating a quickie during lunch – yeah, that was fun. *sigh*

Yesterday, I was annoyed. The sight of SoCo made my skin crawl.

I could feel my hands begin to tremble as he walked toward me where I was sitting in front of the laptop that was placed on the sea blue glass table. I had to clench my right hand tightly to calm myself. His voice sent waves of hatred throughout my body.

I had to get out of there. Teema was going to snap.

My answers to his questions were curt. I thought he would get the hint. I want to be left alone. I'll cook dinner. Just leave me alone for a moment. Don't stand behind me while I'm on the computer and ask me what I'm doing when you can obviously see what is open in the window.

I had to get out of there. Despicable remarks slithered up my throat. Hold them back. You'll sabotage your own relationship.

I grabbed my jacket and my purse. I snuck out the door.

Click. The door creaked opened as I descended the second flight of stairs.

Run. Run.

Party French Style

This past weekend was exhausting! We went to a friends place to watch the England France Rugby match. Sadly, France will not be in the final match of the Coupe du Monde. It was disheartening to watch England score a try in the first 2 minutes of the game.

Although the French got their tushes whipped in rugby, the party didn't stop. After the game and several aperitifs, we munched on quiche and salmon sushi that I directed Mr. Bit Bit in making. I think that he's got the hang of rolling the sushi, but he's having a hard time with the preparation. Oh, we also made chicken brochettes that were delicious. I think an Oriental/Polynesian/French restaurant is in the making. I still have to teach him how to make Sapa Sui, a samoan dish that he adores and is pretty simple to make. It's a mixture of vermicelles, veggies and a secret sauce! More to come about that later.

Hmm...Where was I? Mr. Bit Bit turned down the lights, turned up the music and then, we commenced the guzzling of (in chronological order): tequila/orange soda shooters, gin/orange soda shooters. Somehow during the night, we started playing rugby in living room. The couch acted as the "try" location where myself and the other two women there got crushed into several times. I have two round bruises on my left arm and carpet burn on my elbow to prove it.

Everything about Saturday night is a bit blurry, but I do remember hours of random dancing. I love the way Frenchmen dance. They have absolutely no rhythm!! At all! But, it's the most fun because you can do anything that your heart desires. Jump on one foot, it's dancing. Scream and wave your arms around like a lunatic, it's dancing. Reach over the table for sushi, it's dancing.

We also dosey-doed. I don't know how that all started. I bet it was my idea. It didn't really work with five, extremely drunk people. We kept ramming into each other and grabbing onto anyone available. Finally, we hit the sack at 5 am.

9 am: Wake up. Brush teeth. Say "ciao et merci" to Mr. and Mrs. BitBit.
10 am: Get some much needed water and a quiche jambon from the boulangerie.
10:30 am: Jump in the car for the hour-and-a-half drive to Roanne to have lunch with SoCo's parents.
11:30 am: Try to cover up the face of death with loads of liquid foundation before arriving to the house.
12:30 pm: Try not to fall asleep while eating the yummy potatoes and pork SoCo's mom made.
2:00 pm: Get cozy and comfy in SoCo's old bed while he heads off to play soccer.
2:01 pm: Pass out and don't wake up until 5 pm. Oh, the joy!

9 pm: Vow never to drink tequila again while I stuff the following into my mouth: salmon and spinach quiche, two slices of leftover kebab pizza, 2 eggs sunny side up, 1 bowl of salad (gotta eat healthy, ya know), and 1 litre of grape juice.

ALLEZ LES BLACKS!!

Another Saturday has passed in France. Another painful two hours of football (*rolling my eyes) and another crotch-grabbing match of rugby. Another 24 hours of understanding a quarter of the conversations and adding to even less.

SoCo and I spent Saturday night at his buddy's home in the countryside of Saint Etienne. First SoCo and SySy stared at the TV for two hours as Saint Etienne's football team challenged Marseilles. Oh, god, it was so boring. It was difficult to refrain from scratching 'save me' into my arm. Then, we watched France's unexpected and rather annoying win against New Zealand. I still don't understand how they beat All Blacks. France played ridiculously shoddily in the past three games. What a bunch of crafty Frenchies! I'm still grinding my teeth at the thought that All Blacks won't be playing this Saturday, but I have to admit that les Bleus (France) cleverly clawed their way to the semi-finals against les blacks (New Zealand.) Playing like crap in the premier games took a lot of attention away from them. They were the underdogs. Everyone thought that they sucked, and they did – until, that is, they were in a game that really matters, which so happened to be against the team with the most hype and who has won games with huge score differences. I lost 5 euros because of that loss, dammit!

Mais, c'est comme ça.

This Saturday: ALLEZ LES BLEUS!!

I've been told that I cannot cheer for England just because they speak English, nor can I cheer for England while in France.

OR

I will not be allowed back in the house if I disobey.

Still Lost

Still in France.
I love being here. I love this country.
Still missing Hawaii.
Still missing my daddy.

Still confused.
About my future.
Still can't decide on a path.
Still in debt.

Still unemployed.
I hate having nothing to do.
Still need something to focus on.
Still don't know what I want.

Ratatouille: Black Beret-wearing Frenchies

First of all, do any of you all even know what "ratatouille" is? Or, what it tastes like? Can you even pronounce it? Open mouth. Repeat after to me. Raw-taw-too-ee. Not Rat-a-too-ee. "How zu you sez zit, eet eez tres American!"

Before living in France, I didn't know what it was. So, I'm guessing that none of you do either. Ratatouille, according to Wikipedia, is a traditional French Provençal stewed vegetable dish, originating in Nice.

According to me, it's just a bunch of vegetables sauteed in olive oil. At the markets, you can by a packet of vegetables specifically called, "Legumes de ratatouilles." I haven't had a home-made version of it, yet, but the canned version, costing you 0.25 centimes (cents), isn't that bad. Tomatoes is an important ingredient and the base taste. So, kinda like Ragu but with more veggies. Low blow. I'm disparaging the yummy flavors of Ratatouille. It is really great, it is.I'm digressing.

So, while watching Ratatouile, I noticed a bunch of stereotypes that we Americans have about the French. I found it a bit funny that I was watching all these stereotypes on a huge screen with French people all around me. I wondered what they thought about the way Americans depicted Paris, the people and the culture in the film. As SoCo said, "Oui, c'est tres americain."

1. Berets galore! Almost every character that wasn't a rat or a chef was sporting a black beret. Hmmm...wait, was there a beret on one of the rat's in the cafe at the end of the film?

False: While living in Lyon, I haven't seen one French person with a black, red, purple, or pink beret! In Paris, no baguette-carrying, beret-wearing Frenchies trodding past the Eiffel Tower.

2. According to Ratatouille, the French love to wear horizontal black and white striped shirts.

Again, no, no, no! Not spotted: French male, short, taut mustache, black hair, black and white striped tee, carrying a paint brush in one hand and a canvas in the other.

3. If they weren't wearing stripes, they were clad in all black, from head to toe: black shoes, black pants, black shirt, black beret and even black shades.

Alright. I have to admit. The French love their black. And, frankly, they look great wearing it! Fashion a la Francais!

4. Standing around (in all black or stripes) sipping on wine and immersed in intense conversation. They're not talking about the weather. Or, the last episode of American Idol. Or, how much they love Goerge W. Bush and how he has positively influenced their lives.

Mark. Try. Score.

5. "I'm sorry to be rude, but I'm French." -- the female cook. Stereotype: French people are rude and arrogant.

Absolutely, not true. Everyone I have met in Lyon has been extremely polite and friendly. Rude isn't the word. Matter-of-fact, candid and frank are accurate terms. Especially, if you insist on being the all-knowing, good, christian American battling the axis of evil. However, Parisiens aren't as friendly as the Lyonais. Oh, and the old women who always seem to pay no mind that I've been waiting 10 minutes for the changing room, and waltz right past me and into the stall that should have been mine!! Grrr!! Down girl.

**I watched the film in VF - Version francais, and I don't think that she says that line in the movie. I might have missed it because the cook spoke hella fast, so I'll check with SoCo. However, I don't think the French would have appreciated that joke the way, let's say, Americans would.

Many films, especially Disney films, perpetuate French stereotypes. Do you remember the cook from The Little Mermaid? Hee-Hee-Hee. Ho-Ho-Ho. I don't think stereotyping is all that bad. Most people know nothing about another persons culture and by categorizing, it gives them an easy way to place these cultures. When we Americans think French, we think striped shirt, baguette, mustache, beret, oui, oui. When Frenchies think Hawaii or Polynesia, they think beautiful women. Well, that's not a real stereotype. It's the truth!

However, continually bashing another culture according to generalizations and stereotypes is not right. Except when discussing loud, obnoxious mainlanders with their matching aloha shirts and muumuus, lobster-colored skin, and massive cameras suspended from their necks. I kid. I kid. I truly adore our island tourists. Truly.

Teema Gets a Job

Yup. That's right. I am no longer unemployed in France. Woo-hoo! Well, it's kind of a real job.

Tomorrow I will start babysitting Ella, SoCo's friend's 8-year-old daughter. I've only met her once so I guess tomorrow will be the day that we get to know each other and talk girl stuff.

Her mother and I discussed my employment during a get-together at her house. It went like this (In French, of course):
note: Blah = Insert perplexing French words

She: "El's Nanny blah, blah, blah, blah, blah."
Me: "MmHmm."
She: "I...blah, blah, blah...Nanny....blah, blah."
Me: "Aaaah." *nodding my head.
She: "It's only Wednesday from noon 'till about 6 p.m....blah, blah, blah.
Me: "Yes."
She: "And you pick her up...blah, blah, blah, blah...on Monday's and Thursday's at 4:45 p.m. until about 7:00 p.m."
Me: "Okay. Me walk to school? Far, school?"
She: "No. So, it's about 12 hours a week. Blah, blah, blah, blah. okay, you? Blah, blah, blah, blah. It...blah, blah..please you?"
Me: "Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course. With pleasure."
She: "Blah, blah, blah, blah. If you really don't want to, it's okay to say no."
Me: "No, I want to do it."
She: "Blah, blah, blah...6 euros an hour...blah, blah...and blah. Is that okay?"
Me: "Yea. That's fine." *thinking to self: What have I gotten myself into?

A gentle handshake between employee and employer is shared. I smile at everyone while sipping my wine and trying to decipher the blah's in the conversation.

Broken Glasses and Shattered Bottles

Coincidence or are the cosmic woo-woos sending me a sign through bloody fingers and excessive cleaning?

After breaking four of eight wine glasses while washing dishes, knocking over the yummy homemade jam a la Family Tizzy, and shattering an almost empty bottle of balsamic vinaigrette all over the "I-need-a-good-mopping" spanking white tiles in the kitchen, all in less than three weeks, I thanked the lack of grace bestowed upon me by God.

But, just three hours after breaking the vinaigrette bottle, I managed to set a new daily record. I hopped into the bathroom to apply a wallop of toothpaste to the volcanic pimple ready to explode on my chin. Reaching over the sink for the mini tube of Crest toothpaste I smuggled over from the U.S, my hand brushed the coke glass filled with 5 or 6 toothbrushes and the very minty brand of French toothpaste, and to my freaking horror, I watched as the glass and all its germ filled contents tumbled into the bathroom sink.

Not again, I thought to myself. What the hell is going on here? I'm a firm believer of signs, you know, like when you have watched at least five Playtex compact commercials in less than an hour and then discover stray pads and tampons in that purse you haven't used for ages. Signs! Period a coming -- hmm, or flowing? So, as I am very superstitious and I believe in all that crap about signs and patterns in our everyday life, I scurried over to my laptop and attempted to make some sense of all this broken glass. Grace a l'internet and Google, I found an article titled "Finding new meaning in broken glass" on a Jewish website. This man, Eric, wrote a lovely article about the weird glass breaking occurrences days before his wedding.

First, out of a dozen-and-a-half of glasses wrapped in a box shipped from some store, one completely shattered; second, while having dinner with his future wife, his mother managed to knock over a water glass; and three, after the wedding, the glass frames a friend shipped completely shattered en route. According to this Jewish man, shattered glass is a good omen sign:
Breaking anything, let alone glass, normally isn't a sign of good luck. But we Jews make an exception. The climactic moment in any Jewish wedding is the part when the groom stomps his foot to smash a glass, right before the ceremonial first kiss as husband and wife. Some say that the custom symbolizes the irreversibility of the union. You cannot, after all, put shattered glass back together.
Others believe that even in times of great joy, we should remember that much of the world remains broken, and that we should dedicate ourselves to mending it. Still, I can't help but associate broken glass with the defining story of Jewish mysticism. In the beginning, God contracted all of the Divine light in the universe and contained it in a glass vessel to make room for Creation. But that light could not be contained and remain separate from the rest of the existence, and so it expanded and shattered the glass, sending holy sparks in every direction.
Today those sparks remain hidden, trapped in shards of glass, waiting to be freed by our acts of love and kindness. --eric antebi
http://www.jewishsf.com/content/2-0-/module/displaystory/story_id/29620/edition_id/558/format/html/displaystory.html


So, I guess I'm getting married soon. Do you hear the wedding bells? Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong.

Or maybe I should not have placed the vinaigrette bottle on a shelf that was way to small for it?
You decide.
Keep and eye out for those signs!

Where's my quiche?

After an exhausting hour stroll through the market filled with mad shoppers inspecting fruits and vegetables, sniffing moldy cheese and admiring the modern products on display on the streets of Lyon, I was fed up and needed to go home and eat. I love outdoor markets, but after just getting up with makapiapia still in my eyes, I couldn't deal with the people standing right in the middle of the market way chatting about god knows what while groups of shoppers were trying to make their way through the tiny streets of France. Seriously, it's really simple, the marketplace conduct: Walk at normal speed, not one step every minute and if you see something that you like, move to the side so that you can allow others to walk! Oh, and especially don't, I mean never, ever eat a kebab while power walking, not paying attention to the people in front of you and almost drop lamb, onions and sauce down the front of my shirt. Grr!!

So, after the fun stroll through the market and my nagging about hunger pains and a fervent need for a warm, tasty quiche, SoCo and I headed back to his apartment. We found a quaint boulangerie near his apartment and I ordered a yummy quiche a la jambon. Yes! I had my quiche and I was ready to get back to the apartment to sit on the couch, eat my quiche and do absolutely nothing. Oh, but no, no, no...with about 7 bags of fruits and veggies in our hands, SoCo decided that we had to walk 4 blocks to his car to pick up his soccer ball and badminton rackets because we were going to picnic with friends at Parc Tete d'Or in 2 hours. As SoCo gathered the sports equipment, I snuggled with all the produce on a nearby bench. Finally, we can get back. We gather everything up and walked down the hill toward the apartment.

After four flights of stairs, I was ecstatic to be back in the apartment. I placed the bags on the table, searched for my quiche...searched for my quiche...searched again. Oh, hell no! "Where is my quiche?"

Epilogue: I grudgingly conceded to eat leftover kebab pizza while mourning the loss of my dear quiche after, of course, throwing a fit, pouting and refusing to go to the picnic. Poor SoCo, it was a baffling day for him to watch my mood swings. But, the quiche story became main topic at the picnic as I sat there pretending to understand every word that they uttered in French. Smile, nod and laugh when they laugh...he, he, ha, ha!

Documenting my life in France

I've been in Lyon, France for almost 2 months now with absolutely nothing to do during the day while my boyfriend is at work, so I figured that I could occupy myself the rest of the time that I am here by documenting all the fun and sometimes annoying things that I have experienced.

This should be fun! A plus!