An American in Provence

Irrascible Runner

2012-01-30T19:25:00.002+01:00

Some people, when they run, get very happy, love the world, love being alive, love moving, love the wind, love the sun, love other people, love the birds chirping, love the light refreshing drizzle.

Not me. I am a very grumpy runner.

After a few weeks of admiring my new running shoes in the box, and a few too many comments from one Frenchman along the lines of "So, did you spend 83€ on new running shoes just to look at them?" (well yeah, at least until spring, duh)
I finally laced 'em up and headed out.
There is a track right nearby, which is usually not too crowded. The problem is, everyone else bothers me.
The father and son playing soccer and my occasionally having to kick the balls back their way mid-stride. The two women walking slightly faster than window shopping in the first two lanes. Move over! Geez. You would think that after being lapped by me 20 times passing a few inches from them, they would get the hint and move over say, to lanes 2 and 3, but nope.

The other runners with their headphones turned up REALLY LOUD. The kids playing with their remote-controlled trucks on the track. The person in the apartment building looking over the track with music turned up at 9 am on a Sunday.
The group of men standing in a circle taking up the entire width of the track, kicking around a soccer ball, whereas there is plenty of room in the center of the ring formed by the track for them to play, plus empty goal posts. I don't care. I run right through them, whereas other runners go over into the weeds to get around this group of men.
The track is for running.
I am on the track.
I am running.
Ergo, I have priority.

Hmph.

Locked Out, Marseille, Part Deux

2012-01-26T13:19:00.003+01:00

Saturday morning, I left the house around 10:30 to go grocery shopping (a five minute walk to the nearby Casino market). Alain left a few minutes after I did, to go to the public swimming pool, which opens at 11. He has taken to swimming 30 minutes or so once a week. It costs 2€ to swim. Strangely enough, he doesn't go to the one right next to our apartment, but to one farther away. He says that the pool is bigger and the hours are more convenient for him.
Anyway, before I left, I reminded him "Don't forget to take your keys. I should probably be back by the time you are done, but take them just in case."

After I finished my weekly grocery rounds, I trudged back home around 11:30 with the cart full of groceries. In front of the entrance to our apartment, I searched for my keys. I have each set of keys (apartment, work, and car) on a different ring that clips on to purse. I find it to be much easier that way. Anyway, I had the car key (keyring with the black tassel), my work keys (keyring with the pink tassel), but no house keys (keyring with the ivory tassel). I searched through my purse, but they were not in there. Alain wasn't back yet from swimming. I realized that I had left them on the buffet in the hallway next to the door when I returned home the night before, instead of clipping them to my purse.

Argh!!

I thought about what to do next. None of our neighbors has a set of keys to our apartment, so I couldn't ask them. I don't know where the pool was, so I couldn't go find Alain. Plus, I didn't want to drag my cart full of groceries all over the city. Our in-laws have a set of keys, but they live 30 minutes away. Nothing to do but wait. I debated where to wait. Do I buzz one of my neighbors so that they will let me in to the common area? Don't really just want to sit there. I'm sure our elderly neighbor would let me hang out in her apartment, but I didn't want to bother her. Besides, she might be out herself. I could go window-shopping, but that seemed more of a pain than anything else.
I decided to go to the park nearby. Well, "park" is a bit of an exaggeration. More like concrete area with a few benches and playground equipment for kids.
It was a nice day, sunny and a bit windy but not too bad.
There were just a few kids playing and their parents watching, and some teenagers making out one of the park benches.
Ahh, teenage love!!!
When absolutely anywhere is a suitable place for making out.
Between the dog park and the parking garage, next to the busy boulevard? Who cares! Let's neck!!

I called home and left a message on the answering machine, a rather sheepish "Hi dear. I forgot my keys. I'm at the park. Call me on the cellphone when you get home."

I sat on the bench for about half an hour, then went to the nearby cafe and ordered a coke. There was a group of four teenage guys, talking about stuff that I didn't really want to overhear.

At around 12:20, I headed back home, thinking surely he must be getting back soon.
Sure enough, he was home, and had called the cellphone twice (I hadn't heard it).
Good thing I reminded him to take his keys or else we would have been driving out to see his parents!

I still think we should give a set of keys to our neighbor. Or maybe install some sort of automatic lock where you have to just key in a code. Or an eye scan. That would be cool. And not expensive at all.

Sundance Kid

2012-01-24T20:16:00.007+01:00

When I was seven, my parents bought me a male golden retrievor puppy.
They asked me what I think we should name him (big mistake).

I said

SANDBALL!

which, I think, was a perfectly accurate name.

(<- me with Sunny)

They said no. (and learned a valuable lesson - never ask a child what to name a puppy. Which of course has a corrolary- never ask older children what to name the new baby. Which goes double if they are in a Lord of the Rings Phase.

Here's to not having some weird elf name!!)

Anyway, we settled on Barney. This was, mind you, before the days of the big purple dinosaur.

(Grandma Eleanor with Barney on the left and Sunny on the right)

So "Sandball", which could have been transformed into the acceptable golden retrievor name "Sandy" (though it would look a bit funny on the purebreed Kennel Club papers), was out.

Barney Trievor Smith

Now that is one heck of a prestigious dog name.

We took him down to Ecuador with us, where he cheerfully refreshed the gene pool, and we got another puppy from the first litter.

This time, we named him

Sundance Kid de la Cumbré Smith

(de la Cumbré was added on as the name of the street he was born on).

So we had Barney and Sunny, father and son. They were great pals. We brought them back to Colorado with us when we left Ecuador.

Barney passed away at the age of eight, and Sunny passed away at the age of 12, ten years ago this month.

Miss you, you big balls of sand.

Reluctant Facebooker

2012-01-15T12:57:00.004+01:00

I did it. I finally caved and joined facebook.

I resisted for a long time.

Not because I was afraid of over-sharing (I have a blog for goodness sake) or of compromising pictures of me (I am rarely in such situations), it was mainly that I didn't want to have to deal with "do I friend this person or not? Just because we were in the same high school class, will they be offended if I don't? I haven't talked to them since 12th grade chemistry class. I didn't even know they got married and had twins."

or

"Why hasn't she accepted my friend request? She friended all the other girls on our college cheerleading squad, why not me?!?!"

Or worse, from ex-boyfriends that broke your heart. "If I don't accept his request, then it might show that I'm not over him, but if I do accept, then that means I am okay with how he treated me, and I'll have to look at the photos of him and his new girlfriend. Okay, maybe I'm not as over it as I thought. I certainly don't want to be with him again, but ahhh... what to do, what to do, do I want to share with him the details of my new life?"

What about ex-employers, current employers, former teachers, and all the rest? All these issues that weren't ten years ago. If someone writes on my wall, am I obligated to write on theirs?

I just don't know.

Barry the Elephant

2012-01-07T18:07:00.005+01:00

For Christmas "Père Noël" brought Anna (three in March) this stuffed animal.

Père Noël (or rather, Tata Noël) saw a hut at the Christmas Market in Aix-en-Provence selling a zoo of such stuffed animals- pig, bear, tiger, lion, monkey, elephant, etc. Not just any stuffed animal, oh no. They are filled with grains of some sort, lavender and other stuff, that smell nice. You can put the stuffed animal in the microwave for a few minutes, and it heats up and smells nice.

I chose the elephant, (whoops, Tata Noël chose the elephant) as Manon, Anna's older sister, loved elephants, so like sister like sister it was figured.

The one thing that I don't like about Christmas here in France is that all Christmas presents come from Père Noël, rather than just some that are received at home versus other gifts that come from relatives. Oh no. Here in France, the entire family is required to keep up the farce "Père Noël left this at our house for you..." Whatever.

Anyway, Anna ripped open her present and screamed "Barry!" Apparently, it is a character in a cartoon.

She was quite happy, carrying him around by his trunk all New Year's Day, which made me cringe. I kept telling her "hold him by his body, not by his ear or his trunk." I had visions of him ripping open and the grains pouring out all over the floor.

I told her that he could be heated in the microwave, and she was very excited to try it out.

She kept saying "on va chauffer barry". (we're going to heat Barry).

She was very cute, sitting on Alain's lap, and he was playing with her, making Barry dance and sing "Je suis Barry, babababa..."

Today, I called Lucie, Alain's sister, and asked how Anna liked Barry. She said that she adores him, that it is her new nightime ritual- they put Barry in the microwave and when the microwave bings, she says "Ca y est! Barry est prêt!"

(This is it! Barry is ready!)

Ah, to be a kid again.

Snappy

2012-01-04T21:38:00.002+01:00

Ahh, the Dark Ages. How I don't miss thee.
That period of time between the holidays and spring, when it is still dark and cold out, with nothing to look forward to except the European Qualifying Exam.

My external hard drive went kaput, when I arrived at the parking garage this morning there was a car blocking the entrance (didn't put their parking brake on I guess) causing a long line of cars needing to back up and go the other way. Huge traffic jam on the way home. I finally just parked and walked home, about 15 minutes. JUST COULDN'T SIT THERE ANOTHER MINUTE, after having seen several cycles of the stop light and couldn't take it another minute. Decided to stop by McDonald's for a quick bite as Alain is away at karate. One of those times when you peek in, see there is almost no line, then end up waiting half an hour. There were three people at three different tellers, and there was one woman in the center, forming a sort of "common line" like people do, to wait for all three spots. I stood behind her. She then went to order, and another guy came in, didn't get the "common line" concept and went behind the guy still ordering on the right. I edged in front of him, and then the guy who was ordering commented "I guess some people have different cultures." That pissed me off, so I told him off. My feet were hurting from walking half a mile in my heels, I was tired, irritated, and didn't want to be told off by some guy who thinks because I speak with an accent he is better than I am.

Came home all teary-eyed for no good reason, just because.

Happy Holidays 2011

2011-12-31T23:29:00.002+01:00

Another 30 minutes left of 2011, a year I'll be glad to see the last of.
For some reason, even years always seem better for me than odd years.

We didn't do anything exciting for Christmas this year. I didn't take any time off, as I want to save my vacation days for further exam studying and perhaps a trip to the US this summer.

Christmas day we spent at my in-laws. Alain's parents, grandparents, aunt, and cousin were there. Alain's sister Lucie, her husband Nicolas and their two daughters were not though, as Anna the youngest had chicken pox and Alain's grandparents had not had it.

Tomorrow we are going to his aunt's house, as Alain's mother and aunt trade off Christmas meal/ New Year's meal every year. I suppose at some point Lucie and I will have to take over. I hope everyone likes spagetti and tuna.

Happy 2012!

This N' That

2011-12-03T12:23:00.005+01:00

Been rather absent from the blogging scene lately.

I joined a gym for the month of November. It is a great location, right between where I park my car and work. I was going a few times a week before work, since they open at 8. They had an okay number of equipment and machines. Didn't enjoy the lukewarm showers that last a minute before you have to hit the button for the water to come back on again. Also, they wouldn't let me leave my gym stuff in the lockers. I don't want to be carrying a big bulky gym back to and from work every day! I secretely would leave my stuff in a locker from Monday morning to Friday afternoon, figuring who is really going to paw through sweaty gym clothes. However, last time when I went to pick up my bag to bring it home to wash my stuff over the weekend, it was gone. I looked in the other lockers, thinking someone had moved it to annoy me. Nothing. Went down to the front desk and asked. Yep, they had confiscated it. The guy gave me back my bag, reminding me that it was not allowed to leave stuff in between sessions. Ah well. What's worse, is that the place is falling apart. Another company is buying the gym, then they are going to close for a few months and renovate. I'll check it out again when it re-opens.

I have figured out that the best way to keep our apartment clean is to invite people over every two weeks. Then we have no choice and have to clean.

Last weekend, we invited an old colleague of mine from my former job and his wife and daughter (they are from argentina), and Alain's colleague and his girlfriend from Italy. Quite an international group. We all spoke French. I made the poppy seed covered salmon recipe, and they all seemed to like it. They left around midnight, then we spent Sunday morning doing dishes and straightening up.

Sunday afternoon we went downtown Marseille to the Christmas market. The Foire aux Santons was going on, so we went and bought another to add to our collection. We buy one each year. So far, we have baby Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the three wise men, a donkey, and the newest addition, a camel. Yay!

It is now officially winter. To me, the first sign of winter is when the roasted chestnut sellers appear. The first sign of summer is when I notice the cicadas for the first time. The first sign of autumn is when we put a blanket on our bed. And the first sign of spring is when I put away my scarves and gloves.

What are your personal seasonal signs?

Overheard, Marseille, Nov. 20th

2011-11-20T18:40:00.003+01:00

(One of us folding laundry while the other one of us is getting ready to leave in the bathroom)

One: You know your boob-holder has "Everlast" written on it?
Other: (amused silence, pondering what was just said, and then deciding to take the conversational plungle) My what?
One: Boob-holder?
Other: A boob-holder is Réné Elizondo cover of Rolling stone. The article that you are holding is not a boob-holder.
One: Well, how do you call it then?
Other: Um, bra? From the French word brassiere?

Armistice

2011-11-11T18:53:00.003+01:00

Back in study mode, though I'm wondering why the weekend when we decide to go away somewhere for my birthday it rained like crazy, and the weekend where we decide to stay home and work it is nice and sunny.
On Wednesday we went to an impromptu poker party hosted by a PhD student at Alain's lab.

When I was regularly going up to Strasbourg one week per month, the guys got in the habit of holding poker nights. Alain bought a kit full of chips, from 1 to 100 value.

Alain informed me that I had to be home by 7 on Wednesday night. I complied, and we walked over to his colleague's apartment, bringing a bottle of wine and the poker chips.
There was a total of 8 players, mainly students and researchers from his lab. They amazingly managed to talk about something other than the diffusion of atoms during poker playing. Seven pizzas were bought, several bottles of beer were drunk, and many rounds of poker were played. We played the version where each person has two cards, then five cards are progressively put on the table. It was fun. I won a grand total of one hand, with a straight. At least, I think that is what it was, five cards in a row, from 2 to 7, but of different suits.

We begged out at about 11 pm and returned home.
this weekend, lots of loads of laundry, plus I am planning on doing two of the practice tests for my exam in March- it is arriving quickly.
Alain's grandparents want us to come visit them, so we will probably stop by for tea. And answer the inevitable question, "No Pepe, I'm not pregnant."

Leaving you with a new singer I just discovered, Ben Howard "The Fear".

Rainiest Birthday Ever

2011-11-06T15:58:00.006+01:00

Alain and I enjoy taking a weekend and visiting nearby cities. We have been to Arles (my first birthday here in France), Avignon (our first wedding anniversary), Nimes (his birthday a few years ago), Lyon (wedding anniversary a few years ago). We hadn't done any weekends away together lately (okay, really for several years, ever since we started working non-stop), so for my birthday (today- 32 years old!) I reserved a hotel in Orange, which is only about an hour away by highway.

(me, tired, bedraggled, and looking like something the cat dragged in out of the rain ->)

As it rained all last week and it was predicted to rain all weekend, we considered delaying our trip, but it was too late.

We left Saturday morning in the rain, arrived in Orange in the rain, checked into our hotel in the rain, went to eat lunch in the rain, went to visit the Antique Roman Theater in the rain, went back to our hotel in the rain, went to dinner in the rain, strolled around the city at night in the rain, went to breakfast in the rain, visited a museum in the rain, went to visit the Arc d'Triomphe in the rain, went to lunch in the rain, left Orange in the rain, and returned to Marseille where it is still raining!

Our socks, shoes, and jeans are all soaked.

Anyway, we had a good time. There were hardly any tourists, and we ate at some nice places. The hotel was very well situated, and only 50€ + 4€ for parking.

I would like to go back and see a concert or opera in the theater, but I imagine the tickets are expensive.

Top 10 things I don't need to see or hear concerning your child

2011-10-17T11:18:00.002+02:00

(All are actual things that I have experienced, several from the same person)

10. Your long, drawn-out, every single detail birthing story. You went to the hospital. You came out with a baby. Fabulous. Let's move on, because this is quickly becoming a minute-by-minute account, and I feel a contraction coming on.
9. More than two pictures of any event of your child's life. Your kid was Spiderman for Halloween. Got it. I don't need to see Spiderman from every angle, Spiderman getting into the car, Spiderman getting out of the car, Spiderman getting his first piece of candy, etc. After picture 10, it gets PDD (Pretty Damn Dull). I'm dreading the Christmas pictures already. You want to see endless pictures of my husband's speech on Diffusion in Silicon Germanium? Well, it's about that interesting for me too.
8. Photos of you, extremely pregnant, naked, in black and white. Demi Moore cover of Vanity Fair you are not. Automatic timer and the black and white setting on your camera do not make these photos "artsy". I'm just cringing for you. Save it for when you want to embarrass the hell out of your kid in 16 years. Or else for his wedding slideshow. Classic.
7. Photos of you, naked, breastfeeding, in black and white. See above. Yes, breastfeeding is a natural thing. No, I don't think nursing mothers need to hide in the ladies room or put a towel over their baby's head. Yes, I can handle you breastfeeding in front of me. But photos of mother and baby naked on a bedspread are just too much.
6. The "funny" things your child says. He pronounces it "patata" instead of "potato"? Wow. I'm dying laughing. No honestly, that must be the funniest thing I've heard all year. Where did you find the little comedian? He must be the first child EVER to pronounce it that way.
5. Pictures of your kid naked. It makes me wonder if the FEDS are secretly filming us.
4. Children's artwork. 90% of it is bad, 5% of it is really bad, and 5% is good. Unless it is really bad or good, I don't want to see it. And don't assume it is in the 5% good category either. Don't force me to invent compliments like "Wow, uh, what a vivid color palette he used!"
3. Video of your kid's dance/piano/singing/martial arts recital/competition. Barely tolerable if you cut it down to the four minutes of his or her actual performance. Unbearable if I have to sit through an hour of kids I care not at all about.
2. Your c-section scar or stretch marks. Want to see my appendectomy scar? At least I don't have to pull down my underwear for that one.

And, the winner...
1. The quantity and color of the pee your potty-training child just produced in the bucket. Seriously, you need to be told that this is over sharing? What do you expect me to say? Am I supposed to remark on the quantity or the vivid color of yellow?
Do you want me to not flush the next time I use your toilet and call you in for inspection of the quantity and color? No? Then what makes you think I want to see your 2 year old's?

I understand that you are new parents and have become inured to baby poop, pee, barf, drool, snot, and probably some other baby bodily fluids which I don't know about, not having a Lil' Pooper myself. In fact, there are probably some aspects of baby-owning that nobody tells you about until the baby is out and you have signed for it. A well-kept secret so that couples don't decide not to have children, like "toxic green goo spurts out of the baby's ears every 30 minutes, but only when the baby is not in the present of anybody who has not yet had a child." Once you bring the baby home, haha, sucker! But I digress.

Anyway, you are probably used to touching said baby fluids, cleaning them up, having them smeared on you, discussing it with your partner, doctor, or parents, and analyzing the color, texture, and consistency. You think nothing of calling out to your partner "Hey honey, come look at Junior's bowel movement. Do you think we gave him too many mashed peas last night?"

However, please try to remember that I not your partner, doctor, or mother. I don't want to comment on baby excrement. If I am babysitting, and it happens, I will deal. Otherwise, let's keep it to ourselves okay? Or else, hand me a pitcher of margaritas, and remove the dijon mustard from the coffee table.

Thank you,

Your childless friends who wish to remain your friends.

Okay parents (or grandparents), what have you been guilty of, honestly?
And what is the worst over share you have experienced from other parents?

These are a few of my favorite things

2011-10-16T09:37:00.003+02:00

Martial arts movies and magazines about motos,

Chocolate and peanuts and books about photos...

I got Alain a subscription to Moto Revue, a twice monthly magazine about motorcycles, as well as the movie Black Belt, which he has been wanting for a long time. 26€ at FNAC or 6€ on Amazon. Hmm...

Plus a box of chocolate from our favorite chocalatier Jeff de Bruges. I get two of every piece of chocolate, and then we have one per evening with our tea.

Gotta keep the husband happy.

L'Atelier des chefs

2011-10-15T09:44:00.001+02:00

I found a place near where I work called L'Atelier des Chefs. They offer cooking classes, from half an hour to several hours.
website

Desperately needing to increase my recipe repertoire, I decided to give it a try.

It is perfect for me because their lunch formula is 15€ and includes their chef teaching you a main dish, then you eat what you made, and they provide a dessert, bread, and sometimes a glass of wine and/or coffee (I guess depending upon how much it cost them for the ingredients for the lunch).

The first time I went, I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

I had chosen the "Saumon mi-cuit en croûte de pavot, fondue d'épinards et tomates cerises cerises confites et acidulées" (half-baked salmon with poppy seeds on a bed of spinach with cherry tomatos).

There were 5 other students, and one chef. All the ingredients were already measured out and washed, and he showed us what to do, and then we went at it.

We juiced an orange, removed the stems from the spinach leaves, cooked the cherry tomatoes, lightly fried the salmon, rolled it in poppy seeds and put it in the oven, then cooked the spinach leaves while the cherry tomatos were being carmelized.

It was quickly finished, and we decorated our plates and then took them to the table. It was quite good, though I would have preferred fully-cooked salmon.

Last Saturday, I bought the ingredients and tried it out at home for Alain. It took a bit longer as I had to prepare everything myself of course, but it was fairly quick.

It was very good, if I do say so myself. (and I do).

Alain liked it too, but didn't like the poppy seeds quite as much as I did.

However, when people come over, it is something I can now make.

I went again this week, and this time about 12 German exchange students were taking the class. It was a bit crowded.

This time we made "Gambas rôties flambées au cognac et à l'estragon, mouseeline de chou-fleur" (roasted gambas flambéd with cognac and a cauliflower purée).

Some of the kids didn't want to touch the raw shrimp, too bad, none for you then.
I haven't yet made it at home, I am a bit scared of lighting the thing on fire in our kitchen, which does not have a hood.

Anyway, I am trying to go once a week. I pick the recipe that appeals to me the most on their website and reserve online. They seem to do a lot of fish, I guess because it cooks quickly.

Here are the recipes if anyone is interested:
Salmon
Gambas

(S)mothering

2011-10-03T10:04:00.002+02:00

There is a type of mother, usually a new mom within the first few months of her baby's life, who cannot stand to see anyone else holding her precious precious.
She can't quite explain or even recognize her unease when someone else (relative, friend, coworker, and sometimes even the father) is holding the little bundle of joy. Worse, if the bundle of joy is not screaming its head off, and is actually happily gurgling or kicking its feet or sucking its thumb or generally giving off signs of contentment.
The new mother starts to worry.
"Maybe my baby is starting to get confused, after three minutes of being held by another woman, as to who is his mother."
"The precarious bond I have developed over these past few months of feedings, changings, outings, and all the rest is in danger!"
"I must take my baby back now before the mother-child bond is forever severed!"
The new mother then snatches the baby away, with an excuse like "I think he is about to cry." Or "He definitely must need changing now." Or "I forgot, I haven't fed him for a whole 15 minutes."
Sometimes the baby then does begin to cry, reinforcing the mother's belief that "Oh thank goodness, he was really unhappy being held by that other woman", though in reality the baby is just crying due to being yanked from one position to another.
The new mother then disappears with the baby into another room, to attempt to feed or change or calm the baby, then re-emerges half an hour later, the mother-child bond back in place.
Any other offers to hold the baby are met with "Oh I would love to, but it is best not. He gets
fussy when held by strangers."

Or maybe the new mother is scared I will drop the baby on its head. Now, I know I don't hold babies daily, I mean, I don't go up to mothers in the grocery store and ask if I can hold their baby just for practice, but come on. In my (ugh) almost 32 years, I've held a few babies. I know which way is up. I'm not drunk, I'm not high on drugs. I'm not about to pass out or have a seizure. I'm not going to try juggling the baby and two sacks of flour. I know they are slippery little buggers, but unless he gets suddenly covered in grease, I think I can manage. I've got a firm grip, but not too firm, and am not trembling all over.

If I break him, I promise I'll get you a new one.

*****************

Luckily, this behavior usually disappears after a few months, and certainly by the time a second child arrives. At which point the not-so-new mom will practically throw the kid at you and ask if it okay that she go take a long bath/shave her legs for the first time since her third trimester/disappear for a long weekend.

"Yes please! god thank you! may mary, jesus, and joseph bless you and your loved ones!"

"Do whatever you want with him, short of medical experimentation!"

"Take him to hit on women! Take him to worm your way to the front of the line at the grocery store, post office, and tax bureau!"

Pulpeous

2011-09-30T16:23:00.003+02:00

Awhile ago, I was told that I am "pulpeous", which I guess translates into English best as "voluptuous".

I don't think I am particularly voluptuous.

Scarlett Johannsen is voluptuous. I am not.

I never particularly wanted to be voluptuous. It always seemed to me to imply a bit of extra padding on the bones. Padding in good places mind you, but still, EXTRA.
I always wanted to be svelte. I guess I am not particularly svelte at the moment.

So here are some questions:
1) Define svelte and voluptuous, in your own words
2) For men: would you prefer to be with a svelte woman or a voluptuous woman?
3) For women: would you rather be svelte or voluptuous?

I have a theory, but will wait to see the answers before I voice it.

Entertaining

2011-09-26T21:39:00.004+02:00

On Sunday, we had Alain's childhood friend Bertrand, his wife Isabelle, and their two daughters over for lunch.
The past several times (every six months or so) they have invited us over to their place, so it was our turn to reciprocate. Though, in our defense, they prefer that we come there, as it is easier for them with the kids. At least, that is what they say. So I'm sticking to that version.

Alain originally suggested Saturday or Sunday, lunch, dinner, or "gouter". They suggested Saturday lunch. I quickly made him retract his original offer- Saturday gouter, Saturday dinner, Sunday lunch, Sunday gouter, or Sunday dinner. They came back with Sunday lunch. Okay. I just could not handle getting the place clean, shopping for groceries, and preparing a meal between Friday end of work and Saturday lunch. Nuh uh.

So we spent all day Saturday going to the grocery store, doing laundry, and cleaning the apartment. Wow did it really need a good cleaning. In order to require a full day's worth of cleaning, 76 meters squared must be really messy. Well, Alain's back has been hurting, so he hasn't been able to broom and mop the floors. That is the official version.

Sunday morning, I woke up at 9 and immediately started baking- chocolate muffins for dessert, plus an entrée. Alain started making a chicken and mushroom dish around 11. They arrived just after 12, rugrats in tow.

We sat down for the aperitif, and someone spilled their glass of red wine on the tablecloth. Well, that has happened several times now. We mopped it up. That same person then knocked over the wine glass and broke it. Okay, how many have you had?

We had a bit of trouble getting everything ready at the same time, that's the trouble with a small kitchen I guess.

The kids of course refused to eat anything. We specifically told Bertrand- we are planning on having chicken and rice. Will they eat that or would you prefer we make ravioli or spaghetti for them? No, no the chicken and rice are fine. Nope, not fine. They each ate a bit of rice, lots of Pringles and coke, and vanilla ice cream.

The kids got tired of sitting at the table (rather quickly). Luckily, their parents had brought along a Dora DVD, so we plopped that in (on full blast).

After awhile, they got tired of that, so started coloring. Alain watched rather nervously as they approached HIS WALLS with their markers and crayons.

I think if we ever have kids, we are just going to have to bite the bullet. Take some fingerpaint, markers, and pastels; make some scribbles on the wall, near the bottom. Then take some spaghetti-sauce covered noodles and throw them at the wall, put some grubby handprints and footprint kick marks, plus maybe even some orange baby poop.

I just have to break him in to the idea of less than pristine walls. The man won't even let me hang pictures for goodness sake!

Anyway, they ran around and screamed for awhile, which didn't really bother me. Bothered the downstairs neighbors though, because after awhile we heard "boom boom boom". Ah well. We've had enough of their screaming (the wife) and shrieking (their grandkids) that they can put up with a bit from us every few months.

They left around 3:30 pm.

I've decided that we need to have people over at least every two weeks. Force us to clean the apartment on a regular basis. Also, maybe we will expand our culinary repertoire.

Passeport de la République Française

2011-09-16T09:32:00.004+02:00

I picked up my French passport this morning. It has been ready for awhile, I received the text message saying it was available for pick-up a few weeks ago, but I didn't have a weekday free until now.

The picture is terrible, as all passport pictures are. Sigh.

The picture will haunt me until 22-08-2021.

It is a biometric passport, so when I went to apply for it, they scanned my fingerprints, then scanned them again when I picked it up. (I guess to be sure it was really me picking it up, then I don't see the point, as I could just give it to someone else as soon as I walked out the door.)

The passport pages are interesting, I'd like to take a magnifying glass and look at all the details, I'm sure they have tiny writing like the US ones do.

I'm unimpressed with the pictures on each page though. They feature each region of France, so it's pretty much just an undistinguishable blob with name of the region. I much prefer the US passport with the state seals.

Still waiting for my national ID card.

September 11, 2001

2011-09-11T18:20:00.003+02:00

A first-year graduate student at the University of Virginia, Electrical Engineering Department. She has a few classes, plus an Introduction to Science and Engineering class for Freshmen for which she is the teacher's assistant.

Another fall day in Virginia like any other. She gets up, and leaves her first-ever apartment for class, this morning she is sitting in on the Intro. to Science class. The professor up in front is talking about GPS- what it is and how it works. He talks about the accuracy of the GPS locators, saying that they have an accuracy radius of about 100 m. To demonstrate, he shows a picture of the White House, showing that a GPS could be used to hit the white house, and also Pentagon.

Outside class, there is some buzz about a small plane or helicopter that hit the World Trade Center in New York, but nobody really thinks too much of it.

As the morning progress, things begin to seem much more serious, but nobody really knows what is going on. The university puts some TVs in the hallways, and there are groups of students standing around the TVs, watching.

There starts to be some panic, and someone mentions that the top-secret Army Intelligence installation just north of town was also hit, that someone saw some smoke coming out of the building.

In the afternoon, in the computer lab for the Intro. class, the teacher apologizes for his remarks earlier that morning. He had had no idea, obviously, that at the time of his comments, someone was hitting the Pentagon with a plane.

The day passes, and our young graduate student returns to her apartment, feeling a bit isolated- no roommate, plus doesn't know too many people as classes started just a few weeks earlier. She doesn't have a tv, so just listens to the radio and looks at the news on the internet.

Her family calls, to make sure she is alright, and to say that nobody they know was hurt.

Classes are cancelled for the next few days. People go to give blood, donate items, raise money.
Church attendance is greatly increased, and there is a candlelight vigil on The Lawn. Everyone is still rather stunned by it all.

Like a Marathon, Except Completely Not

2011-09-06T20:25:00.004+02:00

(overheard in an apartment in Marseille)

One of us: You know that thing, like a marathon but with swimming?
The other of us: You mean, a triathalon?
One: No, not with running or biking.
Other: So, just swimming?
One: Yeah, that is it!
Other: So, you mean a swimming competition, which is pretty much nothing like a marathon, huh?
One: Yep.

One of us wants to do the Monte Cristo Challenge- swim from the Chateau d'If to the coast of Marseille, 5 km in the ocean. The other one of us thinks one of us is nuts.

Ask the Internet

2011-09-03T08:00:00.000+02:00

I am a firm believer that with the right keywords, anything can be found on the internet.

However, having said this, I am going crazy trying to find a product.

I have been searching various sites (Ebay, Amazon, Google, Google Images, Google Shopping, Yahoo, etc) for this product using all the different keyword combinations that I can think of, and nothing.

So here goes, I am going to ask the Internet.

I am looking for a rose hand scrub product that I had several years ago.
This stuff was the greatest. It wasn't from a major company like Bath and Body Works, but rather from a medium/small sized business, not mom and pop making it in their garage.
I ordered it on the internet.
It came in a plastic or glass tub, clear, and had a mixture of essential oils and salt or sugar scrubs. I want to say sugar, but don't want to unduly influence search strategies.
It wasn't in a tube. I think the top was black.
It was more of a clear oil with bits of roses in it that you had to stir up before using, not a uniformly-pink mixture.
I believe it came with a wooden scoop, but wouldn't bet my life on it.
It was in the 20$ price range. There was also an unscented scrub.
It was mainly marketed as a hand scrub (not body, face, etc.)

Ready?
Go!

If you find it, I will offer you a free tub. (really, it is the best hand scrub out there).
(Or something else of similar value if you are a man.)

Longest Summer Ever

2011-09-02T18:57:00.002+02:00

I am so ready for summer to be over. It seems interminable.
Operation in June followed by weeks of thinking "I'll never take sitting up from a lying position without pain for granted again".
Sore rear motorcycle trip in July, trip to San Remo in August with bad weather, my results from the exams (not as good as I hoped but better than I expected).
And hot hot hot weather. The kind where you put the air conditioning on in the car on the way to work at 6:30 am.
Oh yeah, plus the medication I'm taking gave me hot flashes. In July. In the south of France.
Fantabulous.

Please let cooler weather arrive quickly!

So Close, and yet So Far

2011-08-05T08:43:00.001+02:00

Yesterday, I received my results from the four tests I took back in March.
Each test is worth 100 points, and if you get 50 points or more you have passed the test. If you have between 45-49 points, it is "compensatable", that is, if you have above 50 points in the other tests, they compensate for the less than 50 points. A note less than 45 is eliminatory, and you have to take the test again. You can't have more than two that are compensatable, and you have to have at least 200 points total. Got it?
For instance, you couldn't have
A:50
B:50
C:45
D:45
Because you wouldn't have 200 points total.
You also couldn't have
A:90
B:45
C:45
D:45
Because you would have more than 2 between 45-49.
But you could have
A:55
B:55
C:45
D:45
Because you would have 200 points total and no more than two tests between 45-49.

They announced the results by posting on the website a PDF document with all the candidates ID numbers and results.
At the end of June, everyone who took the test received an email announcing that the results would be posted on August 4th.
I stayed home from work today to work at home, but mainly because I didn't want everyone to see me cry (in case the results were bad).
At around 8:30 I checked the site, and yep, it was posted.
I downloaded the PDF document, typed in my number, and hit search.
The page with my results was brought up.
At first glance, I thought I had passed all four.
90-42-48-55.
I told Alain "I got it! I got it!" Then I took a closer look and realized that nope, test B was less than 45. Damn! Three points!! Three measly points!!

For that, I have to take the B test again, next March in Paris, and wait five interminable months for the results in August. Ahh!
Ah well. At least I got the other three. C and D are usually considered to be the hardest.
Actually, I hardly even studied for D, I figured I would study as hard as I could for A, B, and C, then this year for D. Good plan that Megan. Worked really well for ya.

Moto'd out

2011-08-04T07:54:00.009+02:00

This past weekend, we were invited to tag along with Alain's karate club on a motorcycle outing.

Alain has been wanting to do this for a long time, so we said yes. We were told to bring warm clothes and rain gear in case it rained, and we were going to the Ardeche region, a Department not too far away, past Avignon.

We met up on Saturday morning at 9 am in Rognes. There were three other couples, all riding BMW motorcycles, the men driving, the women riding on the back.

We took off, and went north, past Apt, Vaison La Romaine, and stopped for lunch.

The motorcycles they had were much more adapted for long trips. I was starting to be sore by this time and eager to get off.

After lunch, we continued east, past the Gorges de l'Ardeche.

We stopped to take some pictures. It was quite beautiful and there were quite a few tourists. We drove past some camping sites.The French are very strange in their camping habits. They take a tent or RV, go to site with tons of other camps and RVs, and stay there for a week or so, and go to the pool on-site, cafe, go in the river, etc.

Anyway, after several stops for coffee and gas , we finally arrived at where we would be overnighting. After a day on a motorcycle, I don't want to hear "We are staying in a 'gite rustic', bring a flashlight." I want to hear "We are staying in a 5-star Hilton with a private in-room masseuse and jacuzzi."

Apparently, the leader of the group knew a couple that had a small farm near Les Vans, and they rented out places to sleep on their farm. They had donkeys (and give donkey rides), goats, sheep, chickens, pigs, even peacocks.

The owner showed us around, and we unloaded our things. This was the bathroom ->

There was a "dry" toilet, where you scoop sawdust down the hole after you use it, and a shower with running hot water. (Though I didn't actually shower as it was just one night and we didn't have room in the backpack for towels).

We then went back into Les Vans for a much-needed beer. We came back around 8 pm for dinner, which was a salad, couscous and vegetables, and baby lamb.

Around 10:30, we all headed for bed, quite exhausted. Alain and I slept in a cabin with another couple, and the other two couples slept in a tipi. I slept surprisingly okay, but the others did not due to the animal noises- dogs barking, donkeys braying, and the bells around the necks of the goats. At dawn, the roosters started crowing. We all woke up around 6:30. We ate breakfast, coffee and homemade bread and jams.

We got back on the road around 9, and drove through the mountains, past some lakes. We stopped for coffee, gas, and lunch.

I was really starting to hurt. Apparently, contrary to what I have believed these past few years, I need more padding on my rear and not less. After about an hour/hour and a half I needed to stop, even just for a few minutes to stretch my legs and get the blood flowing again.

At one point, we drove over some really bad roads and I begged Alain to stop.

My rear hadn't hurt so bad since, oh yeah! the last time we went on a motorcycle outing with these people, when I was practically crying in my helmet and consoling myself with the solemn vow that I would never, never do this again, and yet here I am.

We abandoned the idea of going up Mount Ventoux- it was getting late, we weren't properly equipped, and I was in pain. We headed back to the Bouches du Rhone. We said goodbye at Senas, and we took the highway back to Marseille. I stumbled off, hoping that this trip would suffice him for at least a year or two.

No such chance. Now he is looking at buying another motorcycle, bigger and more comfortable for long trips. Great. Just what we need. A second motorcycle!

And, for everyone wondering, it took a good two days, but now I am back to normal. All in all, I enjoyed the trip itself, just not the soreness. It was definitely better than the camping trip o'hell back in August 2005, right after I arrived. I would go on another trip, just not on the same motorcycle.

July 22, 2011

2011-07-24T18:43:00.002+02:00

Friday, her bi-monthly day off, which is usually spent running errands (doctor's appointments, La Poste, the bank, etc.) and eating chocolate in front of the TV, watching series episodes that her husband can't stand to watch.
But this morning, she has a rendez-vous at the Bureau de Proximité of the Mairie of Marseille to file the paperwork for her passport and ID card.
She wakes up around 7, eats breakfast, and gathers all her papers together. Certified copies of her Acte de Naissance? Check.
Really bad ID photos that will haunt her for the next ten years? Check.
86€ in Timbres Fiscales to pay for the passport? Check.
Justificatif de domicile? Check (cellphone bill since the electricity bill from EDF only comes out once a year now.)
Filled out forms? Check
Décret de Naturalisation? Check
A little before 9 she heads over to the Bureau. She had called Allo Mairie a few weeks earlier to set up an appointment. The Bureau is open, it opened at 8:30, a rarity for French administration. She makes a few photocopies and waits to be called.
The woman behind the desk is nice and chatty, asking the usual questions about why she is here and where she is from.
As she is dating and signing the forms, she realizes that it is 6 years, to the day, since she arrived in France. What a coincidence! Here she is now, officially French, filling out the paperwork to get her French Passport and French ID card.
After about half an hour of formalities, she is told that she will get an SMS on her cellphone to come pick up her passport in about 3 weeks and the ID card in about two months.
She heads back home, and picks up her shopping trolley and heads back out to do the grocery shopping, instead of on Saturday morning like usual.
100€ in groceries later, she returns home, puts away the food, and spends the rest of the day watching tv, eating peanut butter sandwiches, and straightening up the apartment inbetween the peanut butter - eating and tv-watching.
Her frenchman arrives home around 7, and they order a pizza for their weekly pizza and a movie night. They have been ordering pizza once a week from the same place for about 5.5 out of the past 6 years. She then heads to bed, while he stays up, looking at motorcycles on the internet.

6 years in France!!

Speechless

2011-07-07T20:42:00.005+02:00

As I was walking home from the metro station a few nights ago, a man passes me in his car, and does a double-take. I don't think much of it, and continue on my way. I saw him park his car, and then he got out and ran up to me. He said I was so beautiful, so I said thanks. (Didn't know what to say/do. Nothing? Smile?)

He noticed my accent and right away starts in on the where are you from -America. Oh I was in New york several years ago for three months... blah blah blah.
He says I must give him my cellphone number, we must go have a drink together.
I tell him I am married.
That doesn't matter, love isn't guaranteed, things can change, etc.
I try to continue on my way but he grabs me and starts doing the bises..
I still try to get away and he is following me.
I finally say I will take his number (to try and end the conversation) but don't have a pen. He then says to put his number in my cellphone, and when I take it out he takes the phone from me and enters his number and then calls himself so that he has my number.
He told me his name and that he is Italian-Spanish. In his thirties I would say. He says that I must be about 23.
I tell him my husband is very jealous and protective of me.
He says that any man would be with me.
He keeps grabbing me and kissing me on the cheeks (but trying for the mouth) but then finally leaves, saying that he didn't even lock his car.

Yikes.
The next two days, all day long, text messages and voice messages from him.
A sampling (spelling and grammer reproduced as-received.) :

Ok beauté je sui dacord d etre ton amie ok

Chaque hommes est unique toi t es unique je sui diferent de tous une femme com toi c est speciale je le resent trop c est enorme megane tu comprend devenons amie deja fesons conaissense ok

Ont boi un coup t as finit le boulo t es ou beautè?

Ok beautè dmain je te fai plein de gros calins choisi la robe qui te plai je te l offre ok

Bjr beautè bien domie cava mieu le roume?

Tu as penssè a moi un peu megane?

Ma cheri cava

Cava beautè gross jounè je dois dèposè les dossiès d un permie de constructions ds l aprè midi je vais faire de la dèmolutions ont a aquis un bien imobiliè tu finita quel h qu ont bois un coup beautè?

Il faud qu ont parle tré serieusement toit et moi beauté!

Tu ser au cing avenu a quel h beautè?

Ont boi un coup beautè dit ma di se soir?

(and the last, after I finally sent a message telling him to stop communicating with me, that I wasn't interested)

Tempie pour toi
________________
Nothing since, so I am hoping it is over.
If he calls again, I'll let Alain answer the phone and give him what-for. That should do the trick.

I don't think he knows where I live (though the general neighborhood), and I don't think he knows my last name. But I will be keeping my eye out for him nevertheless.

Geez 'o flip.

It just illustrates to me how much it is ingrained that one shouldn't make a scene, and not to say an outright "No, I'm not going to give you my number, get away from me." for fear/risk of 'disappointing' him, appearing 8itchy/rude/cold/stuck-up/arrogant, to the point where the man is grabbing you and pressing himself against you. Bleh

Guess I learned a few lessons:
1) Don't engage in conversation;
2) Don't let a man take your cellphone and enter his number;
3) Make sure he doesn't follow you home; and
4) Next time a man grabs you and kisses you on the street, effing scream Megan!

On the mend

2011-06-23T20:35:00.006+02:00

Day 8 of my confinement.
I can move about more easily now, and removed the gauze coverings of my incisions. Besides Frankennavel, they look fine.

One of my (very few) complaints about french health care is the after-care instructions, that is, instructions for what to do/not to do after your hospital stay. In the US, they give you a ten page document of what to expect, what is normal, what is not normal and you should go see your doctor, what to do, how to take care of your wounds, what not to do, what to eat and drink, what not to eat and drink, etc.

Probably for insurance reasons. That way, if you screw up and re-open your stitches or something, they can say "On the after-care instructions sheet we said not to do any strenuous exercise! Not our fault!" Anyway, here in France, you have to "tirer les vers du nez" (pull the worms from the nose) to get information on when you should take the bandages off, whether the stitches have to be removed or not, when to expect the bloating to go down, etc. All I was able to eek out of the nurses was to take the bandages off after five days.
Me: Five days after what? The operation itself or my release?
Nurse: Five days.
Me: Thanks a bunch. Do I need to have a nurse remove them or are they absorable?
Nurse: Well, what kind did the doctor put in?
Me: How in the world am I supposed to know?

Ah well. Just drives me back to my generalist to find out whether I am, or am not, dying.

Alain is naturally a very funny guy, which is quite painful for me when I try as much as possible to avoid sneezing, coughing, hiccupping, soliciting my ab muscles to sit up, and above all laughing. I am continuously admonishing him "Stop it! Stop being funny! Stop making me laugh I told you! It hurts!"

I rambled back over to my doctor this afternoon so he could check on my progress and to find out whether I can or cannot accompany Alain on his trip to Portugal next week, which we have been planning for several months. He is invited to give a talk at a conference, and I am tagging along.

I got there at the Dr.'s opening time of 15:30, and there were two people in the waiting room before me. Now in France, you have to count at least 20, usually 30 minutes of wait per person ahead of you. Great, I'm in for a wait.

Another woman came in after me and hovered in the hallway, between the waiting room and the doctor's office. I could just tell she wanted to jump ahead in line.
When the patient already in the office came out, she asked the dr. if he would just sign her paper. He told her to ask us if it would be okay. She told (not asked) us that she would be quick, just needed a paper signed and went in.
The other two people were annoyed as well at her behavior. I said "I give her five minutes before I go knock on the door."

They noticed my accent and we started talking. (The usual, where are you from, why are you here, etc.)
Turns out they were a couple (Whew! cuts my waiting time in half.)
After five minutes, I went and knocked on the door. Yeah, well. Let someone punch three holes in her belly and see how well she puts up with someone jumping the line at the doctor's office.
She got the idea and left.

Dealing with the French Lesson #1: Never let someone cut in front of you at the doctor's office in France.

Even if they say it will be quick, they just need cold medicine/a form signed/whatever. They may all well and good have the intention of being quick, but when across from a medicinal ear, French will invariably do their 2nd favorite thing of all, i.e. talk about their health.

(What their 1st favorite thing to do is, I am still undecided on. Please feel free to speculate in the comments section.)

Morale of the story: I'm not dying and can go to Portugal, but need to stay out of the sun and water. Bummer, as that was a large part of the reason for me going.

Siligaz

2011-06-20T21:09:00.003+02:00

Alain left this morning for his lab's annual retreat- two days in Giens of talks, presentations, and partying.
Still in pain, still bloated. I have taken to tracing the outlines of the hematomas on my belly with permanent marker, to see how it is spreading from day to day. So I'll probably survive the operation and the recovery period, only to die from marker poisoning.

I shuffled over at the S.O.S (Speed O'Snail) to the pharmacy this morning, and asked what they had for hematomas, bloating, and pain. She sold me a product called "Siligaz" for adominal bloating. Seriously, what marketing focus group decided on the name Siligaz for an adominal bloating reliever? It's just plain Sili.

She saw the loaf of sandwich bread I had just bought at Casino nearby and informed me that I shouldn't eat bread, as it has a lot of air in it. Instead, I should eat stuff like fennel. Like hell!
I decided that the morale boost of one (or five) peanut butter sandwiches far outweighed the possible slight extra bloating. Besides, I have my Siligaz.

La Misérable

2011-06-19T14:02:00.003+02:00

Thanks everyone for your kind comments.

So here I am, rattling around in our apartment, watching tv, sleeping, and moaning about the pain.

On Thursday I managed to shuffle to the mail box to send in my sick leave forms (I have decided that French Administrative officials are sadists- just got home from the hospital after being cut open? You have 48 hours to mail in the forms!) and to the pharmacy to pick up my doliprane, oh so helpful. I was amazed by the human body's ability to log tens of hours of sleep in a 24-hour period.

Friday, I shuffled to our generalist doctor's office. Elderly ladies were passing me. Still bloated from the surgery. I am convinced here is what happened:
Step 1) Put patient to sleep
Step 2) Make incisions where needed
Step 3) Inflate belly with air so as to be able to see/work properly
Step 4) Insert camera/scissors
Step 5) Perform necessary surgery
Step 6) Remove instruments
Step 7) Sew up incisions.
Heck, I am no surgeon, but even I can see there is a step missing in the above procedure.
Step 6b) Deflate patient like some disgusting flesh balloon before sewing back up!

I feel like I swallowed an inner tube and it has settled around my waist, like a boa constrictor who swallows a small rodent whole and you can still see the form of the animal about midway through the snake. I can barely zip up my jeans to go on these exciting excursions, but I don't have any other options- too hot for sweatpants, plus they have a hole in the rear.

So I shuffled over to the doctor's office, with two competing thoughts in my mind:
Thought 1) We really must find a closer doctor
Thought 2) But he knows our medical history since we moved here

The doctor and mini doctor spent a good half an hour jamming their fingers into my belly, and finally concluded that I am okay, just have to deal with the pain and swelling until they pass. As long as I don't develop a fever or my belly becomes hard, I should be okay.

In a fit of sentimentality, I ordered a bouquet of roses to be sent to the nurses at the hospital, to thank them for taking care of me during my stay. I mean really, I do admire nurses. Their job must be rather difficult and often overlooked. They mopped up my vomit, mopped up me, inserted and removed catheters, gave me a bed bath, and all the rest.

Hats off to nurses!

Now the apartment is a mess, I am in desperate need of toilet paper and peanut butter, and getting tired of watching TV. I can't sleep well at night and don't even have an appetite for chocolate. Help!

B.Y.O.T.

2011-06-17T10:13:00.003+02:00

On Monday afternoon I checked into a hospital here in Marseille for a relatively minor surgery on Tuesday morning.
I carefully read through all the papers, to see if there was a "What to Bring, What not to Bring" section, but nothing. After making sure I was checked in, Alain, Mom, Dad, and I went to the hospital cafeteria for some coffee, then they headed home, and I headed back to my room.

I was unable to have a private room, so shared with a 68-year-old woman named Maurisette.
Neither of us had opted for the TV (thank goodness), so we spent Monday night reading. When it came time for the shower, I learned that towels are not supplied by the hospital. Sheets, yes. Towels, no. Fabulous.

Apparently, towels are never supplied in French hospitals. This is something you are just supposed to innately know, as it isn’t written anywhere. I would think that the hospital would supply towels, rather than have you bring your own germy towels from home, but nope. Luckily, Maurisette had an extra one which she leant me.

We went to sleep at about 10 on Monday night. At 6, they came and woke me up, as I was the first to go. I had to take my pre-operation shower with the Betadine soap, making sure to get everything (including the 'pli interfessier' as the illustration was so helpful to point out). They changed the sheets on my bed, then wheeled me down to the operating rooms. The nurses and orderlies had great fun asking where I am from, what am I doing in France, etc. etc.
I was hooked up to everything, and the anesthesiologist put the mask over my face. Every time I am put under, my last thought seems to be "I really must tell the anesthesiologist that the drugs aren't working, so that they don't cut me open while I am still awake." ZONK.

Woke up several hours later in the recovery room, being poked and prodded endlessly.
They wheeled me back up to my room around 1:30. It seems that every time I am operated on here in France, the male orderlies taking me up to my room have to comment "You are very pretty" when I am covered in iodine, in those ugly gowns, woozy, and a complete mess. This is the second time this has happened to me. I'm not sure what the appropriate response is. Gee, thanks?

My roommate was wheeled in about half an hour later; I guess she spent less time in recovery. I called mom and dad, and they came over, bearing a towel, an extra t-shirt, and peanut butter sandwiches. I'm afraid I wasn't a very good conversationalist, as I kept nodding off. They didn't stay long. I was on a morphine drip, which apparently makes some people nauseous and have hot flashes. Boy did I ever. I was completely drenched and couldn't eat a thing.
Alain stopped by after work, and they brought in my dinner, a piece of ham, some yogurt, and something covered up, I didn't even look. I couldn't even bear to look at it.

Alain left, and I tried to sleep. They took me off the morphine, but I still felt hot and nauseous. The nurses kept coming in every hour to take blood pressure, to change the IV, to take a blood sample. Ahhh!! Just let me sleep!!

Wednesday morning, Maurisette was doing fine, up and about on her own power, able to take a shower, get dressed, and pack her bag. I was still moaning in bed. Her husband came to get her, which is when the nausea overcame me. I had a plastic bag ready, but it might as well have been a sieve. The throw-up went right through the bag, all over the floor, the sheets, my legs, my slippers, my hands. Not a pretty sight. Her husband beat a hasty retreat. I rang for the nurse. What is the matter? J'ai vomit! They came and cleaned up and handed me another plastic bag marked Toxic Waste.

Maurisette checked out, glad to be getting away from me I'm sure. They cleaned up her side of the room, ready for the next patient. I'm not sure why, maybe the smells of the cleaning products, I threw up again. Again ring for the nurse. J'ai vomit encore! At least the bag held up. They took the bag and handed me a bucket, with a bag inside.

They wanted to keep me for another night, but I desperately wanted to get out of there. Mom and dad were leaving the next day, and I didn't want to be in the hospital when they left. I managed to force down some apple sauce and rambled over to the nurse's station (all the other patients and their visitors in the hall were staring at me- I must have been quite a sight, unshowered, smelling like throw up, and moving at 2 miles an hour). See, all better now! I can leave right!

The doctor came and checked on me and decided I could go. Yippee! She gave me a prescription for frickin' Doliprane. Like aspirin. I have three holes in my stomach, my belly button might never be the same again, and you give me Doliprane?
I called dad, and he took the subway down to the hospital, then we took a taxi back. It took all my force not to throw up in the taxi (toxic waste bag at the ready).

Was so glad to get home, lie on the couch, and not be poked and prodded.

Crazy

2011-06-12T15:13:00.000+02:00

(Note: I was going through my unpublished drafts, and found this post I wrote several years ago, when we were still living in our first apartment and I didn't have a job. Thought I would publish it for your amusement.)

I wonder if anyone has ever actually gone crazy from heat. I am sure it must have happened. Here in Marseille, temperatures are flaring and tempers too.

Waiting in line at the post office- after 30 minutes and finally making it to the front of the line, a lady assisting a mentally handicapped woman comes in, walks straight to the front of the line (me) and asks "Does it bother you if we go in front of you?" Honestly, yes it bothers me. Go sit down and wait like those elderly people and that pregnant woman are doing and wait your turn! Ah well. I didn't really say anything and she jumped in line.

It made me wait a grand total of 30 seconds longer but the heat made the whole situation really annoy me. You just feel like screaming "I don't care if you are 100 years old, deaf, dumb, blind, pregnant, lost one leg in WWI and the second in WWII! I earned this place in line! You are taking it away from me only over my cold dead body!!!!" Of course, afterwards I felt like a terrible awful person that should be dragged out into the street and shot.

Question: Should people with special needs (elderly, pregnant women, physically/mentally handicapped, etc.) ALWAYS be allowed to go straight to the front of a line in a public place- post office, movie theater, bank, fast food restaurant, etc. EVEN when there are other circumstances (like it is extremely hot and everyone else has been waiting a long time too and they could have sat down and waited their proper turn)?

Another thing that is currently driving me more nuts than usual is the noise from the people who have their terrace right about at the level of our bedroom. On hot summer nights, we have to have the windows open, and as such are blessed with their banal conversation and music until 2 am. It makes me want to get out my recorder (yes, I bought a recorder. Yes, the Children's Instrument of Parental Torture. Don't ask why, I wanted to get back into music.) and give a hearty rendition of Hot Crossed Buns or Three Blind Mice out the window at 2 a.m. I am guessing that by the third verse:

Nice, light buns, Buy my currant buns; Come and try them, Then you'll buy them,
Nice, light buns.

that they will be running for cover.

Either that or a hose.

They would never figure out who did it!

Also found out that my maiden name can be anagramed into

Hit Man Gems

and if my middle name is included it is

He's the mental making

While Alain is

Pirate a volcano

Thanks http://www.anagramgenius.com/server.html !!!!

I am guessing that the way things are going, Alain is going to come home from work one day and find me sitting on the floor in front of the fan without a stitch on, rocking back and forth and jibbering to myself about La Poste.

Time Flies

2011-05-27T07:39:00.003+02:00

Here is a picture of me, about 8 years old, with my two favorite cousins, Chris on the left, and Paul on the right.

Our three families decided to rent a houseboat on Lake Powell on the Colorado River, for a week in summer.

Here we are at Rainbow Bridge, me posing with my high-waist shorts and braided pigtails.

Ah, an 8 year old's fashion sense, gotta love it.

We spent the week swimming, barbequing, diving off cliffs, drinking beer (well, not the kids), playing card games, water fights, and lying in the sun.

We keep saying we will do it again, now with spouses and kids in tow, but it isn't easy to find a time that everyone can get together.

5 Years!

2011-05-26T15:00:00.000+02:00

Crabby Side of the Bed

2011-05-22T10:51:00.004+02:00

Woke up on the crabby side of the bed this morning.
More specifically, I was woken up at 9 am on Sunday morning because of our upstairs neighbor was vacuuming. Which he must do once a week on Sunday mornings.

He used to wait until 11 or so, but it's been getting earlier and earlier. 10:30, 10, now 9.

As I wake up at 5:41 Monday through Friday (I always do that, set my alarm for a minute later, it just feels so much later than getting up at 5:40) and Saturdays I am usually up by 8 to go do my errands, putain! on Sunday I would like to sleep a bit later.

I stormed up there, in my slippers, pj shorts and tank top with my hair a mess (the better to get the "I was sleeping idiot" message across.)
Knocked on his door, nothing.
Rang the bell, waited a bit, and then he opened the door.
I (rather politely) asked if it was them vacuuming (as by some aural trick it could be the people next to us) and he said yes.
I asked if he could please not vacuum at 9 am on Sunday mornings, as we live right below but please wait until 10:30 or 11.
He said "I will try."
I thanked him and left.

But then, thinking about it, what's up with this "I will try" stuff?
You don't have to "try" to not vacuum, you just have to "not".
It's not like "Can you cure cancer?"
response: "I will try."

What, does he have uncontrollable urges to vacuum? He's a man for godsake. They never get uncontrollable urges to clean. It's more like their wife says "Clean the floor now buster".

Anyway, apart from the early morning vacuuming, they are pretty good upstairs neighbors. Not like the ones below us, with whom we got in a screaming match a few weeks ago. (But that is a post for another day, as I am still trying to decrabbify.)

Poll: What time, in your opinion, is acceptable to start vacuuming on a Sunday morning when you live in an apartment building?

Napaholic

2011-05-08T07:31:00.002+02:00

I am a champion napper.

I fully credit military school for honing my ability to sleep anytime, anywhere.

Seriously, I firmly believe there is nothing quite as effective as the military for teaching you how to sleep in absolutely any conditions.

In a muddy pit with rifle rounds going off nearby and got 30 minutes until the next exercise? Might as well nap a little bit.

At VMI, we didn't have regular beds, but rather wooden "racks" or frames that we would fold up every morning and put against the wall, then put down again at night. Our mattress or "hays" we would roll up and secure with straps so that they stayed rolled, then folded up our blankets on top of the rolled up hays, and put the pillows on top. Otherwise, there was pretty much zero room to move around when all the racks were down.

The first year, or Rat Year, you couldn't have your rack down (i.e. couldn't sleep) between 7 am and 11 pm.

However, as necessity breeds invention, I quickly found that I could sleep quite effectively on the floor under my desk so as not to be seen through the window in our door if an upperclassman walked by, otherwise I would get in trouble.

Teachers had full right to make any cadet, even upperclassmen, caught sleeping in class do push-ups. Several times as I was nodding off in class I heard a "Smith! I don't want to have to make a girl do push-ups!" which brought me quickly into full-alert. We were told to go stand in the back of the classroom if we were tired.

As a third classman (sophomore) one of the best things was being able to put your rack down after noon. So you could sleep if you didn't have any classes.

There were all sorts of terms for napping- "The Rack Monster got me." "I'm going to go put in a little hay time." "My rack is calling me." "Formation in my rack in 5 minutes, uniform pjs." etc.

I could nap even with announcements booming through barracks every ten minutes, upperclassmen yelling at some poor rat in the stairwell, you name it, I could sleep.

This ability is quite useful now. I can sleep on just about any surface. Seriously.

Hard beds, soft beds, water beds, mattress with a big sag in the middle, couches, tile floor, grass, sand, rocks, car, plane, train, back of a motorcycle, curled up under my desk, in the closet, sitting, you name it.

The only thing I probably couldn't sleep on is a bed of nails, but I could give it a shot.

Whenever we go to San Remo, Italy, Alain always complains about the beds- really old mattresses that have huge sags in the middle. Not me. I sleep like a rock.

I have been sick with a cold lately, so took the opportunity yesterday to get some major sleeping in. Woke up about 8:30, went to buy the groceries, put them away, ate some breakfast, had my morning nap from 11 till about 1 when Alain woke me up to ask if I wanted some lunch. Mumble no!
Had my early afternoon nap from that moment until about 2:30 when I rolled out of bed, ate a little something, got bored of watching Alain's Jean Claude Van Damme movie, took my late afternoon nap from 4 to 6, then we had our pizza and a movie night, and went to bed about 9. Excellent!

I have a great idea and would patent it if I could.

A machine that you hook up to electrodes on your brain, then when you sleep you could store "sleep credits". For example, if you slept for 10 hours, you could say you wanted to use 8 of those hours as rest for that night, and then keep the extra 2 hours as sleep credits for another time. You could save these sleep credits, and then when you are tired from traveling or because your new baby kept waking you up, then you would hook yourself back up to the machine, choose how many of your sleep credits you wanted to use, and ZAP! instant feeling as if you just got 8 hours of sleep for example.

I think it is a great idea.

Too bad I have absolutely no idea of how to implement it.

White T-shirts out the wazoo

2011-05-07T17:17:00.005+02:00

In summer, Alain wears exclusively white t-shirts.

And no, not just one per day. Two.

Not one in the morning and then changes into a second one when the first is sweaty.

No, no my friends.

One white undershirt under a second white undershirt.

I don't really understand it. why not just wear one in that case?

I gave up trying to understand him. Probably about the time he gave up trying to understand me.

(Why do you need ANOTHER purse? you already have seven!)

Anyway, on the weekends I do a load of laundry of only white t-shirts and hang them up to dry, two or three laundry lines of them. Thank goodness he long ago gave up hope of having me iron them.

I try buying him new ones as most of them he has had about ten years (and thus, not so white anymore) but he is quite picky about them. Well, I guess he has the right to be, since it is practically all he wears.

Criteria:

Crew neck, not v-neck.

The sleeves have to have bands on them to hold them tight to the upper arms.

And the kicker- the shoulders have to be pretty much straight across, not sloping downward from the collar.

Pretty much impossible to find.

So I keep bleaching the **** (er, life) out of the ones he has, and try to discretely get rid of the ones that are ripped without him noticing.

Frenchwoman Inquisition

2011-05-03T19:24:00.004+02:00

It's been awhile since I received my notice that I am French, and not a peep from L'Etat Français since.

I'm not feeling very French.

Perhaps after the ceremony I will, and voting in the next election (let's hope my papers are in order before that).

So maybe one day I will feel like a French citizen, but I doubt I will ever feel like a FRENCHWOMAN.

I can just imagine a separate certificate, administered by a bunch of snooty Parisiennes after an Inquisition-like trial.

1) Can you fold this 90 cm by 90 cm piece of silk in 36 different ways in 5 minutes?

2) Can you smoke a cigarette, hold on to your tiny dog's leash, give someone le bise, send text messages, and drink an espresso at the same time while looking chic?

3) When you throw a dinner party for eight people, do you care more about how the food and table look than how the food tastes?

4) Would you spend on lingerie more or less than half a month's rent?

5) French women don't get (pick one) a) fat b) emotional c) disheveled d) unaccessorized.

(For the Frenchman test, the guys will have to help me out, as I will never be a Frenchman, and can't deduce anything from observing Alain. I'm not really sure he is French, despite what his passport, birth certificate, ID card, and Justificatif de Nationalité Française say).

Brooming

2011-05-01T17:14:00.003+02:00

Happy May Day everyone!

Did a little spring cleaning this morning, and I even got Alain to broom the floor. That's what he calls it. I can't break him of it.

He either says "I'm going to pass the broom" or "I'm brooming", obviously derivations from the french of "passer le balai' or the verb "balayer".

For awhile I tried to get him to use "sweep" but then he started calling it a sweeper, so faced with the choice between broom used as a verb and sweep used as a noun, I decided to go with brooming.

Let's conjugate, shall we?
I am brooming
I broom
I broomed
I was brooming
I will broom

This is always quite a production in our household. I have to run around like crazy, getting everything off the floor before he gets to that room. Then he takes the vacuum, but has the tendency to vacuum up stuff I don't want vacuumed up. Like stuff on top of tables. If he ever vacuums up my jewelry, I will kill him.
(like the time he used our teak salad bowl wedding present as a cutting board for a watermelon.)
So this brooming operation took about an hour.
After which we had a salad lunch, then he left on his motorcycle to go to his parent's house in order to wash and grease his motorcycle, while I stayed home, watched my TV series, sewed, and ate chocolate.
Hey, to each their own.

Happy May!

Easter 2011

2011-04-26T19:29:00.007+02:00

Happy Easter one and all.

On Sunday, we went over to Alain's aunt's house, picking up his grandparents on the way. Once we all got down to the parking lot in front of their apartment building, Meme remembered that she had forgotten her hearing aids, so Alain ran back up to fetch them for her.

Around 1 pm his parents had also arrived, so we sat down to eat.

I can't really qualify it is as "Easter lunch" or "Easter dinner" only "Easter meal", as it lasts about 7 hours. Thanksgiving is a lot of food too, but that only lasts from about 4 pm to 4:15 pm. I am not sure which is best, but I get restless towards the end of the mega- sit and talk fests.

Here is what we had: a light salad (in photo above) with some tapenade-feuillété rolls, followed by large gambas and mayonnaise, then leg of lamb (side note: just had to explain to Alain that veal is not a baby lamb) with stuffed zucchini (not my favorite) and a crunch basil cheesy muffin thingy, the romarin-olive mini baguettes I made (love my bread machine!) followed by fruit, a fruit-rouge chocolate cake, strawberries, then patisseries and a gugelhupf made by my mother-in-law (they just got back from a week in Alsace, near Strasbourg). I declined the last two desserts (giving my shares to Alain, who was quite happy to have them).

My sister-in-law and her family arrived after we had finished eating the main meal (but before the desserts, bien sûr). They were late as they had to pick up eldest niece from the train station. As she is off from school these two weeks (week before and after Easter) they shipped her off to a camp, where the girls learned how to take care of horses, while the boys rode on mini motorcycles. Figures.

The girls hunted for chocolate Easter eggs, which was quite cute to see Anna looking for them for the first time. Which was a nice change from her first Easter two years ago when she screamed the whole time, and a nice change from last Easter, where Manon threw up all over just before we started to eat.

After dessert #3, the guys went outside to talk about guy-stuff (including shooting off his cousin's BB gun), while the women mostly talked about kids. What a surprise.

We rolled out of there around 8 pm, slept in until 10:30 am as Monday was off from work.

Yay for holidays!

la fatigue de printemps

2011-04-19T18:01:00.002+02:00

Sorry for not posting in a long time.
I've been out of it, I guess an emotional come down from non-stop studying for the exams at the beginning of March, followed by my trip back to the US for two weeks, then returning to France.

Things are very warm here in the South of France, which probably means a long hot summer. Alain and I may go Portugal for a week at the end of June, he has a conference and I would tag along. Then he has another one in Dijon. We don't have any summer holidays planned, except for maybe a long weekend in San Remo, Italy. (which is really about all I can stand of it, yet every year I want to go back. Strange)

Alain has all of August off, so he is going to try and finish his Habilitation, and the exam results are released the first week or so of August. Each candidate was assigned a number, and the office will publish a list with all the numbers and marks for each exam (A,B,C,D). So you just have to find your number and see what you got.
I am trying to get back into study mode, especiallly to study for exam D, but it is hard to concentrate.

Anyway, Easter is this weekend, so we will be going to Alain's aunt's house, along with pepe and meme, my parents-in-law, and Alain's sister, her husband, and their two girls. Should be a fun time, then no work on Monday, yay!

Presenting, Our Closets

2011-04-04T21:24:00.006+02:00

Every six months or so, I rotate my closet shelves. Well, the stuff for summer or winter goes up or down. I also take it as an opportunity to organize, remember what clothes I have, and get rid of stuff I don't wear.

Next October, I swear, everything on the "summer" shelf that didn't get worn at least once April-September is outta there.

Which will be, (you know the answer) an excuse to buy more clothes!!!

Anyway, I offer you a comparative study of our closet halves. (I'm still trying to figure out how I, The Woman, got duped into taking the smaller half. Oh yeah! Because he promised me I could put stuff on his side and is now reneging on his promise!)

First up, his closet, as above. If you can't see my labels, click on the picture.

Pretty self-explanatory.

Next, my closet.

well, at least I have color.

And some fabric other than denim or cotton.

Maximum usage of space as well.

Everything starts out nice and folded, but when I reach the vertical limit per shelf, stuff just gets shoved in wherever it will fit.

And this isn't counting my bin of shoes underneath, nor the two shoe bins in the entranceway.

Our coats and laundry hampers are behind the mirrored portion on the right.

Postcards

2011-03-31T20:07:00.003+02:00

Here they are folks, the Official Licensed "An American in Provence" postcards, hot off the presses. (Okay, I admit, I went a little crazy with VistaPrint). If you want one, send me your address via the contact link. Only stipulation is that you then have to give it to someone or else show someone my blog. (A little shameless self - promotion never hurt anyone, right?)

Obsession

2011-03-29T19:42:00.006+02:00

What is this? you may ask.
A modernist painting?
A new Chinese board game?
No my friends, it is the Nespresso capsule wall holder at my work.
We have a Nespresso coffee machine, and for Christmas one year I bought a stainless steel foamed milk maker (which I am pretty much the only one to use, but yay! I don't care).
For Christmas the year 2009 I bought this (all the way from Strasbourg no less, as they didn’t have it for internet order and the stores in Marseille didn’t carry it) to be mounted on the wall. (which only took 5 months to actually mount and the purchase of a drill).
It has 7x7 openings for the capsules. Nespresso has about 14 different strengths, and comes out with specialty flavors around Christmas and stuff.
For those of you not in the know (you poor things you) each color corresponds to a strength, from Ristretto 10 in Black to Decaffeinato 2 in Red.
At first, we all had our names on labels, one per column of spaces. Everyone had different preferences for colors, but I made sure that they were kept neat. That is to say, symmetrical about the horizontal axis.
Examples:
3 blue and 4 brown? - from top to bottom of column - (brown blue brown blue brown blue brown)
5 blue and 2 brown? (blue brown blue blue blue brown blue)
6 blue and 1 brown? (blue blue blue brown blue blue blue)
4 blue, 2 brown, 1 red? (blue brown blue red blue brown blue)
Only 6 of one color? (capsule capsule capsule emptyspace capsule capsule capsule)
(I could go on for days, I experimented with all the different combinations. Get it?
Yeah, it kept me amused for a very long time. Hey, it made my mornings.
But then it was decided not to divide them up by name, but rather by strength (from strongest to weakest).
Rather less exciting for me, but hey, I'm adaptable.
Before I left for my studying/test/doing nothing in Colorado extravaganza, I had it very neatly arranged, each column corresponding to a color, from strongest 10 on the left to weakest 2 on the right.
When I came back, it was in total disarray. I suppose from randomly using different capsules, replacing them with others not according to my carefully-thought-out color scheme.
I patiently reordered the capsules, and make sure that the columns were kept filled up (in fact, could you please just take the capsules directly from the boxes they came in, which are on the side by the microwave, so as to not mess up my capsule tableau? thank you).

A few days later, someone DELIBERATELY MESSED UP MY PERFECTLY ORDERED NESPRESSO TABLEAU!

Can you say, pulling my chain?!
I must let it go. I must let it go.

I try not to look at it when I pass by.

Deep breaths.
I will get through this with a Zen attitude and some long meditations on how it is symbolic of the unpredictableness of life, and that not everything can be controlled.
And now? They'll just have to guess at what strength their Nespresso capsule is. Hah!

Aw hell, I think this chocolate fudge is for me.

2011-03-21T20:42:00.003+01:00

While up in Georgetown, we stopped in a store that makes homemade candy, fudge, etc. I bought these two pieces of fudge (Chocolate Mint and Chocolate Peanut Butter) with the intention of giving them to a certain group of people, but now am thinking that I deserve it more.

(Kinda like the first time we visited France and I bought a box of special French chocolatier chocolate to offer to a friend graduating from college. Yeah, she never got the chocolate.)

Opinions?

Me vs. the Dishwasher (machine & human)

2011-03-20T16:53:00.000+01:00

You would have thought that a (human) dishwasher who was doing the dishes by hand for two + years would welcome the arrival of a (machine) dishwasher. But no.

I constantly have to tell my (human) dishwasher "Put the dishes in the (machine) dishwasher! That's what we bought it for, for goodness sake!'

(Human) dishwasher: Oh but it's (too time consuming, uses too much water, we don't have enough dishes...)

Ahhh!

I have to literally force (human) dishwasher to use the (machine) dishwasher.
I just don't understand it.

Then there's the whole "You run it because I don't know how."
It's really quite easy Mr. PhD. You unwrap the little square of detergent, put it in the plastic holder, close the door of the holder, close the door of the machine dishwasher, push the on button, select the Eco option, then push the Go button.

It's like Magic!

Lately the (human) dishwasher has been putting dishes in the (machine) dishwasher, but somehow I am still the one that has to start it and unload it.

I came back from two weeks away, and found that the human dishwasher had not used the machine dishwasher in the two weeks I was away. Rather, the plates that were in the machine dishwasher since before my departure were still there, unwashed, with mold growing on the bits of food left on the plates. Fabulous.

The human dishwasher had used the same plate, knife, fork, spoon, and glass the whole two weeks, washing them after each use.

Le sigh. I'm back.

The art of doing nothing

2011-03-12T00:18:00.003+01:00

Population :1,088 (2000 Census)
Founded : 1859 during the Pike's Peak Gold Rush
ZIP Code : 80444
Elevation : 8530 feet (2600 m)

My post from last visit for Christmas 2008

A few years ago, my parents, aunt, and uncle went in on buying a second house in Georgetown, which they split between them. It is about an hour west of Denver, near the ski resorts.

I like going up there, it is always so peaceful and quiet.
It has a tiny downtown area, with several touristy-shops, a shop that makes candy, a shop that sells cowboy hats, etc.

When I go up there, I usually sleep about 80% of the time. Get up late, take an afternoon nap, go to bed early. We have spent one or two Christmases there, and Alain has been there twice.
This visit, we drove up there on Monday, and another aunt and uncle arrived, whom I hadn't seen in several years. My dad and uncle went skiing one day, while the ladies read/slept/watched girly movies/shopped. It was fun.

Now back down to the Front Range, for more reading/sleeping/watching girly movies/shopping.

It is a hard life.

Où suis-je?

2011-03-10T22:04:00.003+01:00

bagels & cream cheese
Grape soda
mac & cheese
rootbeer
cheetos
chicken pot pie
Starburst
bacon
sausage
french toast
Frosties
caramel corn
dill pickles
Cheerios
Swiss Miss
cheddar cheese
guacamole & tortilla chips
grilled cheese sandwich

Guess WHO is officially French?!

2011-03-04T13:52:00.005+01:00

Madame,

J'ai le plaisir de vous faire savoir que vous êtes Française depuis le 16/02/2011.

En effet, votre nom est inscrit dans le décret n° 009 pourtant naturalisation et réintégration, signé à cette date et publié au Journal officiel du 18/02/2011 sous votre nom de naissance.

The Girl Who Could Explode

2011-03-03T09:30:00.002+01:00

From one of my favorite bands, Matthew Good

We will waste this whole town
Wipe the knives and go to ground
An equal ride for the sheep that reign
For all their lies and all their games
But I won't wait for you to be brave
More than one way to be okay

What are you thinking?
What are you thinking?
What are you thinking?
Oh, what are you thinking?

This is my head and yours
- just metaphors
I guess we'll always end up more
beat to life in restraint
Hit by mouths gone medicated

What are you thinking?

Go explode
What time is it that you're waiting for?

We could waste this whole town
Wipe the knives and go to ground
This musical ride, these sheets of rain
For all their lies and all their games
Just being alive don't get you saved
If there's more than one way to be okay

What are you thinking?
Go explode

What time is it that you're waiting for?

Diamond Eyes

2011-03-02T09:30:00.004+01:00

(March Megan Music Month)
Introducing you to some of my favorite songs, from bands you probably haven't heard of.

Out on the front line, don't worry I'll be fine
The story is just beginning
I say goodbye to my weakness,
So long to the regrets
And now I know that I'm alive

It is not the critic who counts

2011-03-01T09:45:00.001+01:00

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. Shame on the man of cultivated taste who permits refinement to develop into fastidiousness that unfits him for doing the rough work of a workaday world. Among the free peoples who govern themselves there is but a small field of usefulness open for the men of cloistered life who shrink from contact with their fellows. Still less room is there for those who deride of slight what is done by those who actually bear the brunt of the day; nor yet for those others who always profess that they would like to take action, if only the conditions of life were not exactly what they actually are. The man who does nothing cuts the same sordid figure in the pages of history, whether he be a cynic, or fop, or voluptuary. There is little use for the being whose tepid soul knows nothing of great and generous emotion, of the high pride, the stern belief, the lofty enthusiasm, of the men who quell the storm and ride the thunder. Well for these men if they succeed; well also, though not so well, if they fail, given only that they have nobly ventured, and have put forth all their heart and strength. It is war-worn Hotspur, spent with hard fighting, he of the many errors and valiant end, over whose memory we love to linger, not over the memory of the young lord who "but for the vile guns would have been a valiant soldier."
- Theordore Roosevelt, speech "Citizenship In A Republic", delivered at the Sorbonne, in Paris, France on 23 April, 1910

My VMI yearbook dedication: To all those who doubted me, you only made me stronger.

I survived VMI. I can survive the European Qualifying Examination goddamn it.

Anna

2011-02-28T07:41:00.000+01:00

Anna will be two years old in March. She is quite unlike her bigger sister, whom she adores.

She actually will do what you tell her to (so far at least).

She is quite a mama's girl.

It's quite funny (for me) to hear baby talk in French, though I do remember a time when Manon and I were about at the same level (and now she is correcting my accent, sigh).

To-beee

2011-02-27T08:43:00.001+01:00

Here is Toby, 5 years old today. He is the sweetest little kid.

He speaks Thai like a Thai, loves music, and is very active.

Happy Birthday Tober!

(I guess I should mention that his actual name is Tobias, but I call him Tober)

Rudy

2011-02-26T18:08:00.002+01:00

Well, I guess I'll finish up the month with pictures of all our (4) nephews and nieces.

This is Rudy, the first grandkid, my brother's son. He is much older than this now, but I like this picture a lot.

He was our Ring Bearer and got along great with Manon, even though neither of them spoke the other's language (which is okay though, because they both spoke kid).

de la par de

2011-02-25T09:05:00.007+01:00

MANON

Schools in the South of France are now on break. (one of their many)

Which of course leaves parents in a conundrum of what to do with their rugrats while they are at work.

Easiest (and cheapest) answer of course is..

The Grandparents!

Our niece Manon is staying with Alain's parents for a week.

His parents and Manon stopped by his work yesterday to see him and to see his workplace.

Alain brought me home this-

de la par(t) de Manon pour Megan.

I thought at first it was a four-leaf clover for good luck.

Then I took a closer look and guessed "Broccoli taped to a piece of paper?"

It is, apparently, a flower that lost all its petals.

I'm wondering if this is the kind of thing you have to be effusively enthusiastic about receiving as a aunt/uncle/parent/grandparent.

I'm thinking yes.

"Why thank you honey for the dead flower taped to a piece of paper! It's what I always wanted! I will put it on the fridge RIGHT NOW!"

But seriously, I am touched.

So, to the exams next week, apparently I am taking (besides my suitcase full of books)

My four-leaf clover socks that I've had since high school and only wear for times when I need luck

My necklace with a gold-dipped aspen leaf and Alain's and my rings

And my broccoli taped to a piece of paper.

Hey, sometimes you need all the luck you can get. (And it worked last year for the CEIPI)

Adding a new label to my blog: Rugrats

Squirrel-flinging contest

2011-02-24T15:44:00.002+01:00

In my preparations for my exams next week, I am doing the past years exams. For these exams, the Examiners usually prepare fairly technically simple and amusing "inventions".
The one I am working on this afternoon is a bird feeder to be hung or put on a pole with a guard for protecting the bird food from squirrels.
In the invention, the guard rotates, so that the squirrels slip or jump off.

So I'm having very amusing thoughts in my head of squirrels being flung off a madly-spinning disk, like some bad redneck game, "Squirrel-flinging contest".

Glad this isn't the topic for my exam next week. I'd be giggling in the middle of the examination room, with all the French wondering what is so funny.

I dislike squirrels. Alain doesn't understand why I dislike the disease-ridden rats with furry tails. I think it is because he didn't spend enough time in Vuhginny.
Come to think of it, French seem to like squirrels in general.
Perhaps it is because there aren't any around.

Past examination topics- a prostrate cancer radiation device, a toilet for grinding up waste, an egg shell breaker, a letter carrier.
Where do they come up with these topics?

Found this on Youtube (warning, do not watch if you like squirrels)

Okay, back to studying with images in my head of squirrels being catapulted into the next county.

Doug and Patricia

2011-02-24T08:25:00.002+01:00

Here is a picture of my brother Doug and his wife Patricia.

This is one of my favorite pictures of them. It was taken in Dec. 2006 at my cousin's wedding.

Maid of Honor

2011-02-23T08:26:00.004+01:00

Here is a picture of my dear sister Leah and me at my wedding. I was so touched that she was able to come, all the way from Thailand with a 3-month old in tow.

Wow, I just realized how much we look alike. No wonder dad mixes up our names any time we are all together.

Dad and Mom

2011-02-22T07:28:00.002+01:00

Here are my parents. This is one of my favorite pictures of them.
This picture was taken in West Virginia, where my brother and his wife have a cabin.

graduation!

2011-02-21T09:52:00.003+01:00

Here is one of my proudest moments.

Graduation from VMI, first in my class of Electrical Engineering.

Sen. John McCain was our graduation speaker.

This is General Bunting, our superintendant, giving me my diploma.

And no, I did not have to do military service after graduation. All cadets however have to take four years of ROTC, and I chose Navy. I was offered a Navy scholarship (4 years) with a five year commitment, but turned it down (as I had an academic scholarship instead). For the first year or two I thought about commissioning anyway, but then decided not to. Four years was enough for me.

Instead, I went to graduate school at the University of Virginia. Which was like a real college experience.

Woolies

2011-02-20T10:32:00.002+01:00

This is an interesting picture.

The winter uniform (for parades) consists of grey wool pants with black stripes down the sides.
The summer uniform is thin white pants (called white ducks).

Usually in March, (I guess this picture was taken March 23, 2001)
the entire corps of cadets switches from the winter uniform to the summer uniform.

For the seniors graduating in May, there is a ceremony of burning the grey woolies in the sentinel box in the middle of the courtyard of barracks as these pants will never be worn again.

Each cadet has two pairs of these pants, and each senior usually throws in one or both pairs. I think I only burned one pair and kept one for posterity. Actually, I kept almost all my uniforms, which are currently taking up space in my parent's closet.

The entire barracks stinks of burnt wool for about two weeks afterwards.

Rachel

2011-02-19T11:31:00.003+01:00

Here is my best friend from college, Rachel. We roomed together three years.

A week after graduation, she married another VMI alum. Theirs was the first alum-alum wedding. The paper in Richmond wanted to cover it. She refused.

She wanted to have her reception at the Alumni Hall on campus, where a lot of other male alumni had their wedding receptions. The Hall was mysteriously "booked" for nothing.

She was a cross-country star and on a four-year athletic scholarship, and after VMI went into the Army reserves for several years, and is now teaching middle schoolers (which probably takes more courage and inner fortitude than going to VMI).

Breakout

2011-02-18T06:02:00.000+01:00

Here I am with my own rat, Anthony,

class of 2004, at his breakout.

(end of the ratline, crawl up a muddy hill. In the freezing cold. After having been worked out for a solid week beforehand).

I certainly came out of this one a lot cleaner, though he was cleaning mud out of his ears for a solid week after.

Sabre Arch

2011-02-17T06:06:00.002+01:00

Here I am, with my date, at the formal ring presentation ceremony. Each 2nd class cadet and their date are announced, walk through the saber arch and then the big ring, and their date puts their ring on their finger. (And every once in a while, a ring gets dropped, to the horror of the cadet).

After that, there is one formal waltz, then lots of pictures, and that is pretty much it (followed by a weekend of partying).

Uncle Van

2011-02-16T06:12:00.000+01:00

This me and a picture of "Uncle" Van, a VMI Alum class of 1942. Unfortunately, he passed away last year, so this post is in loving memory of him.

He was quite a history buff, and used to come every year to give a speech to all the new rats about the history of VMI. (The first week, when we were all sleep-deprived, smelly, and wondering "what the hell am I doing here?")

My first year, after his speech, he picked me out of the mass of dirty smelly rats and called me over. He gave me a pep-talk, of the "you can do it girl!" kind.

He continued to keep in touch, and every time he came over for events at VMI, he would stop and see me, and often take me out to dinner or give me candy. Candy! Real food! And most importantly: The hell away from here for one night!

He was so proud of me for making it through. He called me "Miss Meg" in true Southern style, until I got married, then it was "Missis Meg".

So here is a picture of him, proudly sporting his ring, and me, with mine. (I actually wasn't supposed to be wearing it at this point, as we weren't supposed to wear it until after the formal ring presentation ball that night.)

Miss you Uncle Van.

Happy Birthday to my Favorite French!

2011-02-15T06:11:00.000+01:00

This is my mother-in-law's (Josée's) favorite picture from our wedding. She teared up when she saw it. I think I look a bit funny, as I am biting my lip, but it is a good picture of Alain. Actually, he usually has good pictures taken of him. I hate that. I have to dig through pictures of us to find okay ones of me.

Anyway, happy 36th birthday my favorite French!

Ring Figure

2011-02-14T06:08:00.003+01:00

Here I am, with two guys Britton on the left and Bill on the right from my class, second class year. (the years count backwards: 4th (or rat) is freshman etc. until 1st = senior)

It was the presentation of the class ring ceremony, one of the most important events in a cadet's life. The rings are incredibly huge, as big possible. Actually, the rings we are wearing are the everyday rings, in titanium I think, versus the gold rings, with the same design, for special occasions.

ETA: These are the "combat rings". It took me awhile to remember what they are called. Tradition has it that you are supposed to throw it against the radiator in your room so that it gets its first nick.

The design on the rings varies every year, one is the "institute side" and has the date of founding 1839, and one is the class side, and has each class year. You are supposed to wear the class side facing in towards the rest of your body (closest to your heart) until graduation, and then turn it around to the institute side after graduation.

The traditional stone is a red garnet for the school colors, red and yellow, but many cadets don't get garnet now.

I got a sky blue topaz because it was tradition - my first class mentor (steve, in previous picture) had a sky blue topaz, and his mentor did, etc.

I also have a minature version of the ring. The main gold ring is way too huge, even though I got the smallest weight option available.

Third

2011-02-13T16:59:00.004+01:00

I wonder whether everyone is getting sick of seeing my pictures.

Anyway, this is a picture of me the following year (a bit more hair). It was such a pain to grow out.
At first, the administration didn't want to let the women grow their hair out. Then they said that it could be grown out, but couldn't touch the collar, and we couldn't use more than two barretts on the sides or one big one in the middle.

Yeah, it is clear that a bunch of military men thought that one up all by themselves. They obviously never had to deal with hair this length, plus taking on and off hats all day long (as you go in and out of buildings). It gets to be a mess. They finally relented and decided we could go with military regulations (gee, why didn't anyone think of this before?!) wherein it could be grown out to any length, but in uniform had to be braided, in a bun, etc. such that it didn't touch the collar and looked okay.

Yay!

So here I am, my hair a bit blonder than natural, in an awkward hair growing out phase. My uniform (the coattee, used for dressier occasions) also appears to not fit me correctly. The stars are for academics, meaning I had above a 3.5 GPA.

Dirrty

2011-02-12T09:14:00.002+01:00

Here I am, the coldest, most exhausted, and dirtiest I have ever been in my life, but extremely happy.

Anyone want to postulate why?

VMI= Virginia Military Institute, a 4-year military college.

Actually, it was my choice to go, my parents tried desperately to talk me out of it, as it was the first year that women were accepted.

Rat

2011-02-11T09:44:00.001+01:00

Thought I would change from baby pictures (also, am running out) so I thought I would post my (surprise!) military school pictures.

I suppose this picture will get some reactions.

Yep, that's me as a VMI Rat at 17 years old.

As said before, Dad loves my hair short.

After graduation from high school, I had my hair cut short (though not quite as short as this), to get used to having it short before I got it shaved off here.

Actually, I didn't mind it so much.
1) You're not really given time to shower, wash your hair, etc. so it might as well be short.
2) There are a lot more important things than hair.
3) It does grow back.

Some of the girls shaved their heads completely bald, along with the rest of the guys in their company. They all got in trouble and were confined to post until their hair grew back to regulation length. Which was longer for the girls than for the guys, so slightly unfair. But the girls had started the head shaving party, so I guess it was mostly their fault anyway.

It was odd because one of the girls looked rather cute, even with her head completely shaved, while the other just looked like an alien. Fortunately, I think I look at least presentable with short hair. But anyway, see number 2 above.

I didn't shave mine. This was pretty much as short as it got. Though it did have the tendency to stick straight up from time to time (toilet brush head).

That's why I'm not too fussed now if I get a bad haircut.

Swans

2011-02-10T08:08:00.000+01:00

I do have a mother. I swear.
It's just that she is usually the one that took the pictures.

Grandma Esty

2011-02-09T10:04:00.000+01:00

Thought I would show all my grandparents, though you can see my diapers in this one.

This is my Grandma Esty (for Estelle), who absolutely LOVED BABIES.

Which I guess is good, considering she had eight of her own.

Black & White Series

2011-02-08T06:08:00.000+01:00

Me.

Rocking Chair.

Comb.

Telephone.

Part of a lamp shade.

What more is there to say?

Daddy's Girl

2011-02-07T09:50:00.001+01:00

Here is a picture taken with dad, most likely in East Germany.

It looks like we are having a very serious conversation.

Grandparents

2011-02-06T09:13:00.001+01:00

Here is a photo of my grandparents (mother's side) on their wedding day.
Grandpa John and Grandma Eleanor.
Do I look like my grandmother?
Perhaps the coloring no, but I think the eyes yes.

He called me "toilet brush head" as a baby, and would slam doors so that I would wake up from my naps whenever he came to visit.
(so that he would be able to see me)

She came and lived with us for several years in South America after he was gone.
If we have a daughter, I want to name her Eléonore (at least as a middle name.) Alain says no. We'll see about that.

Haircut

2011-02-05T09:39:00.002+01:00

Here is one of my dad's favorite pictures of me.
You will notice that my bangs are very short.

That is the unfortunate consequence of deciding to play beauty salon with a neighbor kid a few days before school pictures. Mom was really mad and dragged me to the nearest real hairdresser to try and repair the damage. It looks like they put a bowl on top of my head and cut around it.

Lee-lee-la-la

2011-02-04T07:25:00.002+01:00

Here is a picture of my beautiful sister Leah and me. This was summer of 2003 or 2004, age 23 or so, when I went out to visit her in California (before she moved to Thailand).

Can you tell we are sisters?

PS The correct response to yesterday's name guessing game was:

Aloysius

It is an old German name, pronounced (get this) Al-o-wish-us.

My grandfather promised his fortune to whichever of his kids named a grandchild after him. Nobody did. Probably for several reasons:

- There wasn't much fortune

- He was probably joking anyway

- Who wants to name their kid Aloysius nowdays?

I remember once we were having a family reunion when the phone rang.

"May I please speak to Mr. Smith?"

"Which one?" (there were about 10 Mr. Smiths present in the room)

Hesitant pause. "Al-oy-seee-us?"

"Dad, it's a telemarketer for you!"

So congratulations to chcmichael from Our House in Provence !

You can call me Al

2011-02-03T07:33:00.002+01:00

Here is a picture of me and my Grandpa Al (father's father) in his favorite position, lying on the couch, in East Germany early 1980's.

And if anyone can guess what name "Al" is short for, they will get an Official American in Provence postcard. (which is pretty much just a regular postcard from Provence)

Hint: It starts with Al and is not Alain.

NaBloPoMePiMo

2011-02-01T20:52:00.005+01:00

National Blog Pictures of Megan Month

Well, I guess majority has it. I was going to go with option 3, but then figured I would just be wasting my time copying out the questions and answers, as everyone would just skip over them anyway.

The answer to yesterday's questions was:
B- 20 years from the filing date of the European application.
(In case anyone was dying to know)

Here is a picture of me, about age 10, and our dog Sunny (short for Sundance Kid) - male golden retriever. Taken in our yard in Ecuador.

(and no fair comments re. who is who?, or snipes about dogs and their masters looking alike)

Because it's either this or patent law....

2011-02-01T08:27:00.008+01:00

As my exams are a month away, I don't have much to say.

So I can either post pictures or patent law questions and answers, it is up to you.

Option 1) Pictures from my life with comments

My first passport picture, on dad's lap. Loving the shirt dad.

Option 2) Patent law question

A European patent application was filed on 3 March 1990 claiming priority from a German Gebrauchmuster filed on 10 April 1989. The patent application was published on 17 October 1990. The European patent was granted on 5 October 1994. What is the last day on which the patent provides protection for the invention?

A) 10 years from grant date - 5 October 2004

B) 20 years from filing date - 3 March 2010

C) 15 years from priority date - 10 April 2004

D) 20 years from publication date - 17 October 1990

E) None of the above

Option 3) Both!

Option 4) Neither! If you don't have anything interesting to say, don't say anything at all.

(which is rather against the whole point of blogging, but oh well)

Please vote in the comments section.

PS: You might get stuck with patent law anyway. In which case, I really do hope most of my readers come back in March when I return to the regularly scheduled program.

Thai Boxing

2011-01-31T20:33:00.005+01:00

After having seen the movie "Chok-Dee" about a French former inmate who moves to Thailand to learn Thai boxing and turn his life around and ends up being a star, Alain wanted to see real Thai boxing. He was embarassed to mention it to the others, but I went ahead and mentionned it. My sister had never been to a match either, so she was up for it.

She found out where the matches are held and when, so we had the option of Tuesday night, Friday night (Christmas eve), or Saturday night (Christmas night). The tickets ranged between 1000 and 2000 Baht (about 30 and 60$ for ringside seats).

We were recommended to go with the ringside seats, so that we wouldn't be squished in the standing-room only section with all the Thai men betting and drinking. So Alain, Dad, Leah, and I bought ringside tickets for Christmas eve, starting at 6:30 and finishing at 10:30.

We arrived and were shown to our seats, front row. There was a match of western-style boxing, then the Thai boxing started.
It was quite interesting.

They arrive with their brightly decorated shorts, red or blue, with a ring of flowers around their neck, feet protection, gloves, and bands around their heads and upper arms.
Each match began with the fighters going around the ring in a sort-of dance to the drum music, honoring their teachers and each other, as well as a warm-up. Here is a video I found on Youtube of the Wai Khru (not mine).

(By the way, the music you hear is what they played for each round. As the rounds advanced, the music got faster and faster.)

After that, they removed the ring of flowers and the thing on their head, and the rounds began. It was, if I remember correctly, five rounds of three minutes each.

One poor guy got knocked out and they took him, still dead to the world, off the stage in a stretcher.

<-- They had an exhibition round, where it was more of the old-style costumes and fighting (lots more jumping up in the air) that was only a few minutes.
The match ended around 10:30 pm, and we left to find a taxi.

Alain and I both bought authentic silk Thai boxing shorts. Mine is purple with Muaythai written on the front, and Alain's are blue. No, no way am I posting pictures.

Certainly a Christmas Eve to remember.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wai_khru_ram_muay

The Stuff My Nightmares Are Made Of

2011-01-27T21:04:00.003+01:00

In March, right after my exams, I am going back to the US for two weeks, alone (without the Frenchman that is). (And he keeps saying "How do I KNOW you are going to be staying with your parents and not some ex-boyfriend?" Trust me dear, my parents would not cover for me if I was staying with an ex-boyfriend)

It will be my first time back since December 2008.
I must say, I am really starting to miss the United States.
Don't have much planned, mostly shopping and relaxing.

But I keep having this reoccuring dream.

I am at my parents's house in Colorado, and I am packing my suitcase, getting ready to take the plane the next day to come back to France, when all of a sudden I realize...

I haven't had a single bagel in the whole two weeks I have been back!!!

OH MY GOD!!!

I wake up in a cold sweat and realize that I have not yet left for the US, I still have my exams to live through, and I will surely go to the grocery (yay, Safeway!) my first day back to stock up on Macaroni & Cheese, Starburst, and bagels.

It is very strange, I know.
It's not like I have been super bagel-deprived anyway. Had my fill of bagels while in Thailand (By the way, I'm still sore over the fact that my sister, in Thailand, leads a more American life than I do in France) and can get them regularly at Bagel Story in Aix (about 1.50€ a bagel but still). I can even make them for goodness sake.

So I'm guessing it is not the bagels themselves that are causing these dreams.
I have had this same dream about 3 times now, so it is definitely bugging me.

I guess it must just be a feeling of going back for such a short time, wanting to get my full Americaness in before I leave again for an indefinite amount of time.

Tenue Correct Exigé

2011-01-24T09:10:00.004+01:00

I am heading back up to Strasbourg for a week-long preparation seminar for my exams in March.

I just wanted to leave all my dear readers with this picture from Thailand.

My favorite is the one on the top right.

My New Head Space

2011-01-18T08:27:00.003+01:00

While I was gone in Thailand, my office went through an internal rearrangement. Now, instead of being in the biggest room overlooking the square with two other people, I am all by myself in the meeting room, which overlooks the inner courtyard of the building.

Our office is the entire first (that is, second to you Americans), and it does a complete circle around the inner courtyard and staircase.

I often went there to escape the accordionists, but as I didn't have my computer nor desk there, it was mainly just to read in quiet.

(view from the entrance of closet door on left, my alcove, and door to toilets/kitchen/rest of the office)

Before, the alcove was used as a hide-all with a screen in front hiding an old air conditioning unit, some ladders, and two old broken cupboards. Where is all that stuff now you ask? Who cares! Didn't you hear me when I said "I have my own office!!!"?

When the opportunity to move came around, I immediately thought of this spot. Actually, I had thought of it before, but didn't dare suggest it.

When discussing how to arrange my desk in the meeting room, I suggested the small alcove (which I had previously measured just in case).

My desk would fit perfectly, and we would be able to keep the big table there.

The only problem is that the phone and Internet connection are on the other side of the door. Oh well.

(picture from my desk of printer, entrance, heating/ac unit, and coat rack. Windows overlook the inner courtyard)

Before leaving for Christmas, I packed up all my belongings and put them in the closet in the left in this picture, so that the movers could easily dismantle my desk. I hung this picture up. It is a wedding gift, "Chateau en Provence". The colors go perfectly.

When I came back, it was quite a mess and took me about a day to straighten everything out. But now I have: my own entrance, my own heating/air conditioning unit (which becomes an issue when women share office space with men), my own printer, easy access to the kitchen and toilets, a cupboard for all my books and folders, and, most of all

PEACE AND FRICKIN' QUIET!

I never thought I would say this, but it is almost too quiet. I feel somewhat isolated. Good think I am an Engineer and thus anti-social by nature, but still.

I bought a sound card and speakers for my computer so that I can listen to music quietly while I work.

It took me a bit to get used to being in this new space. I had spent almost 3 years where I was before, (started February 4, 2008). Started humming to myself "Nobody likes me, everybody hates me...."

So if you come in the building and hear someone bouncing off the walls saying "Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!" It is probably yours truly. But all in all, I think the move will be good for me. I also need to gain some independence and confidence.

(And I'm already thinking of it as "Megan's Office" not the "meeting room".)

Oh, and what has happened to its usage as an actual meeting room you wonder? There will be a smaller table put in my boss's office (the biggest room where the three of us once were), and this table is being kept where it is. If there is a company-wide meeting, it will be in MY OFFICE, and if they ever need to use and me to be ELSEWHERE, I'll have to go elsewhere. (Though hopefully not near the accordionists nor in the toilets.)

PS The police of Aix will be quite glad I moved too. I called them every single time the accordionists, or their sister/daughter violinist played, which was pretty much every day.
Everybody wins!

PPS Come to think of it, I think I am the opposite of claustrophobic. I like small, enclosed spaces. I especially hate the feeling that someone can sneak up on me. This should be perfect for me.

Christmas on the 21st floor

2011-01-17T09:17:00.000+01:00

On the Wednesday before Christmas, my sister Leah and her husband Larry held a Christmas party for her work colleagues and their friends.

That morning, she ran all around Bangkok looking for a Santa suit, and finally found one made out of a cheap red felt in Chinatown.

She set up a kids destruction (or play, whichever you prefer) in the hallway outside their apartment, to try to keep them out from under foot. There were about 10 kids there, all boys. Geez.

We met with her friends, colleagues, and their families and had a nice evening.

Dad was stuck with playing Santa Claus (I think he drew the short stick). He went over to the neighbor's to change, then came in, wishing everyone Merry Christmas. The older kids looked sceptical, but brightened right up when he started handing out gifts.

(<- "Santa" and Toby. Not sure if Toby knew who Santa actually was)

Love Is...

2011-01-16T09:24:00.005+01:00

spending 4 hours in a gymnasium on a Saturday morning to watch your husband's 3 minute karate competition.

Alain has been itching to get back into doing karate competitions.

He signed up for the Departmental (13) competition, which you just have to participate in order to be able to go to the Regionals (Provence), before the finals in Paris.

He had to sign up and get a doctor's okay.

We arrived at the Salle de Sport in the north of Marseille (not a great area). The weigh-in was at 8:30, and then the competition started around 9. He was in the category over 18 years old, less than 67 kg.

They started with the women competitors (a grand total of 6), followed by an open competition, children, and then finally his category.

I brought my Kindle ebook (which I am liking more and more) and sat up in the stands, as far away as I could get from the other spectators (hey, I wasn't there to be social). This worked until a huge group of Marseillais sat right in front of me. I moved. Around 12:30, I saw Alain put on his blue belt, hand and feet protectors. Another half an hour later, and it was his competition. (sorry for the terrible pictures).

After that, we went home. Next time, when he tells me I really don't have to come, I'll take him up on it. Unless it's the finals in Paris.

Pool O' Dismemberment

2011-01-14T21:30:00.009+01:00

The second week of our trip to Thailand (sorry, these are not in order, I'm just writing as they come) we went to the beach town of Hua Hin for two days. It was about a two hour drive from Bangkok. Friends of friends of Leah and Larry had lent us their beach(ish) condo for two days, free of charge. It had four bedrooms and was in a complex near the beach.

We all piled in the van, got on the road at the crack of noon, and got there a little after lunch.

We had lunch in town, then went to find the condo. Only had to make one U-turn, and we found it. It was in a gated complex, rows of three-story townhouses around the biggest pool I have ever seen.

(picture taken from the balcony of our bedroom)

It continued on for about 200 meters to the right.

Alain, Leah, and I went swimming while Toby ran around spraying everyone with the water gun.

The water was fantastic, BUT

the pool was tiled, and a lot of the tiles were broken or missing. Ever touch a broken tile? Yep. Sharp as broken glass.

I was trying to get out of the pool and sliced my big toe. Both Alain and Leah also cut themselves badly. I was bleeding all over the place, and had to squish back to the townhouse and clean myself up.

After that, I refused to go back in. I like my limbs.

Then I noticed the sign "Be A Ware of loose and broken tiles." I'll say. At least a fourth of the tiles were either missing or broken.

I'm guessing they tiled the pool a long time ago when the complex was built, and haven't bothered to replace the tiles or remove all the tiles and put something more swimmer-friendly like concrete. I'm sure in the US the pool would be condemned.

Not in a Thai prison

2011-01-10T21:11:00.004+01:00

Guess I should come out of my hole and say that we made it back to France, and into 2011.
We had a great time in Thailand, for which I shall dedicate several posts.

First off, I am going to start with the flights, there and back.
Let me preface this by the past two times we have gone to see my family (in Colorado, 2006, 2008) the trips have been hellacious.
Christmas 2006
Christmas 2008
After these above two trips Alain sternly informed me "Never again are we going to your parents' in Colorado for Christmas. Unpredictable weather plus overbooked flights plus two or more connections is a no-can do." He commented that we had a 100% Christmas travel problem rate, which was not looking good. I argued that it was only a 50% rate, as the return trips for those two trips went well, but he said it was the overall trip that counts. I disagreed.

After much arguing, begging, and pleading, I got him to agree to go to Thailand this year, as it will be our last opportunity to go, as my sister and her family are leaving this year. He is not the best of travelers. He was worried that the plane would crash, that he would catch some horrible tropical disease, that he wouldn't be able to get his work done on time, etc.

Anyway, we were scheduled to leave from Marseille on Friday afternoon December 17th, to Munich, then to Bangkok.
When we tried to check in, we were informed that the flights to/from Germany were experiencing delays due to bad weather in Germany. They weren't sure when our flight would leave. We were scheduled for a three-hour layover in Munich, so we had a little leeway, but not too much. There was some confusion as well, because there were two flights Marseille-Munich scheduled about 2 hours apart, and almost the same numbers 2556 and 2558. We decided to wait until we found out whether there was actually going to BE a flight that day before surrendering our luggage. However, due to the similarities of the flight numbers, we almost missed the last check-in for our flight. We were forced to check-in, without being sure we would get out on Friday. I guess if you have to be stuck somewhere, it is better to be stuck at home, but when you have a squirrely traveling companion, it is best to get them en route so that they no longer have a choice of whether they will go or not. At least if we were stuck in Munich we would be almost forced to go on, but if we were stuck in Marseille for a day or two, I would have had that much more trouble to get him on the plane.

We checked in, went through security (next to the noisy Russian on his cellphone for 30 minutes), and got in the puddle-jumper, leaving about 2 hours later than scheduled. It was not the most reassuring plane for bad weather. They tried to stuff the passengers from both flights onto the one plane. I think they succeeded for the most part.

We got to Munich and went through passport control. They saw in my passport that I had been out of the US for awhile, so asked what I was doing here (in Europe). Don't arrest me, it's his fault. I showed him my carte de sejour (luckily I brought it with me), which I guess was acceptable. Alain went through next and was told "I guess you don't need a carte de sejour."
It turns out that our flight to Bangkok was delayed as well. I was hoping we would have some seats around us empty, but no such luck. We were seated in the middle 4-wide row of the huge plane. I was next to some German women who wouldn't shut up. After the meal I asked if they could please lower their voices as it was 1 a.m. and most everyone around was sleeping. They got all huffy and did not.

We arrived on Saturday, around 3 in the afternoon. It was quite a thermal shock, going from the blizzards of Germany to the heat of Bangkok. We got off and followed the hordes to customs. While filling out the customs form I saw the indication "Visa Number". Oh drat. Honey, um, I hope we don't actually need a visa.... Was a bit nervous that we would be sent back to France (for which Alain would never forgive me and I am sure we would never be going anywhere for Christmas again, or maybe just ever.) I guess tourists don't have a problem though because we were waved through without any problems. My sister was there waiting for us, and our luggage even came through!

Our return flight was on New Year's Eve. As I generally despise New Year's, missing this did not bother me.

We were scheduled to leave for the airport at around 9 p.m. for our flight at 11:50 pm. A little before we left, my brother-in-law Larry got a phone call from a buddy (Orlando) of his (whose wife works with my sister Leah). She is American and he is from the Dominican Republic. Her parents, brother and sister-in-law were in town for the holidays, and I guess he needed to get out of the house. In response to the question of what we were going for New Year's Larry told him that an airport run was scheduled and jokingly said he could come along if he had nothing better to do. Orlando accepted (I guess he REALLY needed to get away from his in-laws), so a little after 9, Alain, Larry, Mom, Dad, Orlando, and I piled into Larry's van, and we drove to the airport. It was a bit weird saying goodbye to family with a complete stranger there, but he moved away a bit to give us some privacy.

After our goodbyes, we went through passport control again (on a tourist visa must leave the country within 30 days or else there is a fine), then security, then went to the gate. The plane left a little before midnight, and was still in the ascent at midnight. They didn't make an announcement, or pass around champagne, or anything. No chatty Germans this time, for which I was thankful. I took two sleeping pills, put on my sleep mask and ear plugs, and managed to sleep a bit. On planes, I prefer to put my head forward, either on the tray or else against the back of the seat in front. However, as the person in front put their seat back (and we were in Economy) I couldn't lie straight, so had to lie in a neck-twisting position. Got off the plane (in Frankfurt this time) at 5 a.m. with a stiff neck.

Again through passport control and security, but no customs. I was worried that we should have picked up our luggage then re-checked it, but it made it to Marseille, so I guess not.

We were wandering around the Frankfurt airport, waiting for a damn coffee shop to open, when Alain ran into a former PhD student (Ivan) of his. Ivan is French-American and finished his thesis in October, then moved to Chicago for a post-doc position. He went to Budapest to see his girlfriend for the holidays, and was on his way back to Chicago. Very strange. Ivan didn't have much time before his flight, so they didn't chat long.

We got our flight to Marseille at around 8:30, getting back to Marseille at 10. We got our suitcase and were about to exit the secure area when a controller stopped us. He asked whether we were coming from Bangkok. We looked at each other and said yes. He asked if we had anything to declare. Um, no? He let us go. Alain was terrified that when leaving Bangkok we would get arrested for drugs that someone slipped in our suitcase and that we would be throw into Thai jail for 20 years. When we were stopped, the thought briefly crossed my mind. Noooo!! I'm an American!!! My sister works for the Embassy!!!

We weren't as exhausted coming back from Thailand as we were going. New Year's dinner was moved to the 2nd, at our request. I thought we would be too tired the day we arrived, but it turns out that we were somewhat awake. It always seems easier to adjust going from east to west than west to east (unless you cross the international date line). I wonder why that is?

Anyway, it was our best Christmas travel experience yet.

สุขสันต์วันคริสตร์มาส (souksaan wan Christmas)

2010-12-26T04:19:00.002+01:00

Just a quick post to say Merry Christmas from Thailand! We arrived here in Bangkok a week ago and have been staying with my sister and her family, and my parents are here as well. On Christmas Eve we went to see a Thai boxing match- ringside seats.

Today we are going down to the beach for a few days, and are returning to France the 1st of January.

The Night They Invented Champony

2010-12-13T16:43:00.001+01:00

Saturday night we were invited to Alain's coworker's for raclette. (Hey, that's my easy to make when people come over fallback!)

I hadn't seen him and his wife since our trip to the waterpark in the summer. They have a little girl who will be two in February. Also invited were an Italian couple. He is doing his PhD in the same lab as Alain, and she is also doing studies here in Marseille.
Alain had invited the guys over for poker night several times while I was up in Strasbourg, but I had never met them.

We arrived a little after 6, two folding chairs in hand. For anyone who knows French people, 6 pm is rather early to start a get-together. I guess that is what having kids will do to you though.

They live at about 20 minutes walk from our place. We decided just to walk, even though it was cold, because we didn't want to deal with having to find parking at 11 pm.
Because Alain's colleague and his wife are Muslim, they don't drink alcohol (or at least, she doesn't and he doesn't when she is not around) so Alain bought some Champony. For anyone who doesn't know, it is a sparkling apple juice, often given to kids at holiday parties while all the French adults are tippling away at the champagne.

I had a stuffed elephant bought at Ikea a long time ago (right before Lucie, Alain's sister, informed us "No more stuffed animals as presents for Manon!") that I brought to give to their daughter, who was quite pleased.

We sat and talked for a few hours, then sat down for the raclette. I'm sorry but it just isn't the same with Coke instead of wine. After dinner, we had a tiramisu that the Italians had made and the Champony. We left at around 11 pm.
It was fun, but now I am out of ideas for what to make when they come over.

Tarte à la citrouille

2010-12-12T10:52:00.001+01:00

There is nothing quite like trying to convince a whole bunch of French that pumpkin pie is in fact edible.

Alain hates it with what can only be described as a fiery passion and refuses to even take a bite.

At the end of October I bought a pumpkin from the local Casino grocery store. It was marked as a pumpkin for decoration, so I wasn't sure if it was really the right type for pies.

I scooped out the seeds, baked them (those he'll eat), and baked the pumpkin for about two hours. I didn't however have a mixer, so I froze the baked pumpkin flesh, and order a mixer from Amazon. Two weeks later, mixer in hand, I defrosted the pumpkin, followed the directions as best I could, made the pie crust, and baked two pies.

I tested one, and it was in fact edible (perhaps not as good as the canned pumpkin purée, but definitely better than the one we had two Thanksgivings ago at the Anglo-American Thanksgiving feast)

I bought some whipped cream and brought them in to work. I sent an email to everyone in the office, wishing them Happy Thanksgiving, telling them about the holiday, and that there was a traditional pumpkin pie in the kitchen. I also said that it was an acquired taste, and that French people usually don't like it.

All of my coworkers tried it and they all said it was good. Though I noticed that nobody had more than one piece. Hmmm.

Not sure what to conclude. Though I probably won't be going through all the trouble again next year.

Anyone know of a French who really and truely likes pumpkin pie?

Science Experiment

2010-12-11T08:59:00.005+01:00

A few weeks ago, I made some bread using our bread machine.

We only ate about half of it, so I put the rest in a tupperware container, and well, rather forgot about it.

About a week and a half later, I opened it up, and this is what I found
Appetizing n'est ce pas?

I have never seen such hairy-looking mold before. (and believe me, I've seen a lot of mold)

I had to take a picture for posterity.

One Step Closer

2010-12-09T11:47:00.003+01:00

Had my appointment with the Prefecture today, to hand in the next round of papers for my nationality file.
Wasn't quite sure what to expect. I am always leary of when French administration gives you a list of documents, with check marks next to the things you are supposed to bring. You can be almost certain that they will ask for something not on the list.
"No passport?" I already gave you a photocopy of my passport when I turned in the file in June. "Come back another day then."
"No certificate de scolarité of your kids?" We don't have kids. "Well, then you should have thought to bring an attestation from a local school saying that you do not in fact have kids. Come back another day."

Anyway, my appointment was for 10:30 précise.
I arrived about ten minutes early, and around 10:45 got called in. She asked me questions like what language I speak at work, what language I speak with Alain, what language I speak with friends and family. (Obviously trying to figure out my degree of integration)
How many times do I go back to the US? Do I have all my family there? How long did I work in the US? How long have I worked here in France? When will our apartment be paid off?

Actually, I am rather glad that I am not requesting nationality by marriage. It doesn't seem like it would be any faster, and besides then Alain would be subjected to all kinds of doozies like "How long have you known each other?" and the killer "When is your anniversary?"

So she said I should hear back in about 8 months. Apparently, they send the file to Nantes.
So now, the wait part 2 begins.

Lost and (Sorta) Found

2010-12-03T21:49:00.003+01:00

Got back from Strasbourg just fine.
My wallet however, did not.

After my long train trip back home, and being called "sale race" (always a highlight) I arrived in Marseille around 11 pm. Alain met me at the train station, and we went underground to the subway station. I took out my subway ticket from my wallet in my purse, and....
that was the last I saw of it.
The next morning I went for groceries, had a full cart, and when the time came to pay...
Nothing. Nada. Rien.
I had my other wallet which had about 10€, my carte de sejour, and my permis de conduire. I managed to pay for most of the cart of groceries with the 10€ and some tickets resto, then came home and searched. Couldn't find it. Somewhere between taking the subway in Marseille at 11 pm and going to the grocery store the next morning at 9 am, my wallet disappeared. Lost or stolen, I don't know, but if I have to guess, I would say stolen on the subway.
I called and canceled my credit card and remaining checks.
On Monday I sent in the form to cancel my Carte Vitale (health insurance card) and the registered letter to La Poste, confirming the Opposition of my card.
Luckily, my harder to replace cards (ie carte de sejour and permis de conduire) were not in there.
On Friday, I received a notice from La Ville de Marseille, service des Objets Trouvés - something of mine had been turned in.
Knowing that it was my wallet and hoping there was still most of it left, I went in on Monday morning (over in the not-so-good part of town). I gave the woman the piece of paper and she looked it up on the computer. Behind her were piles of clothes, backpacks, and other stuff that I am sure didn't have any ID on it and is probably given to charity after a month.
I got back (wrapped in a rubber band):
- credit card (which did me no good as I had already canceled it)
- check book (which did me no good as I had already canceled it)
- health card (which did me no good as I had already canceled it)
- the receipts that were in my wallet
- my points card for Casino grocery store, and
- a business card from another student at the course in Strasbourg

By this time, the only thing that was really worth it was the Casino points card.
But really, who steals a wallet, keeps the wallet (Louis Vuitton I might add) and the money (about 50€), and carefully puts the credit card (which he know he can't use because it has probably been canceled), check book (ditto), health card, bothers to take out the receipts and business card, and puts them in a nice pile for the subway officials to find and turn in to Lost and Found?
Bizarre.
Le Sigh.
Got a new credit card, still working on getting another checkbook, and haven't heard back from about the health insurance card.
And am back to my 10€ wallet which at least isn't a temptation for theives.

Convoked

2010-11-25T21:13:00.004+01:00

Got a happy piece of mail the other day.
I have officially been ordered to present myself, papers in hand, at the Prefecture in two weeks to discuss my nationality file.
I guess they need some further proof of certain things-
Yes, still married.
Yes, still paying taxes.
Yes, still have a job.
Yes, still want to become French.

I have to make some more photocopies of stuff we already have, plus some more stuff they didn't ask last time.
Attestation from the bank concerning our mortgage payments?
Yippee.

Anyway, I guess this will be also my interview to see how well I speak and understand French, before they put their recommendation on it and send it off to National headquarters.
So I guess it took about 4 months from the time I turned in my file until they contacted me for the first part. Not too bad for French administration when you think about it. Actually, not too bad for any governmental administration.

Vive la France!

(Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving!)

sale race

2010-11-20T12:59:00.002+01:00

Had an interesting experience yesterday on my way to the Strasbourg train station. I was walking down the sidewalk, minding my own business and lugging my suitcase along. A guy passed me on his bike, and suddenly spit and said "Sale race" to me.
(roughly translated: filthy/dirty race/breed)
Took me a few seconds to figure out what happened. Did that guy actually try to spit on me/at me and say that to me?

I turned around and yelled a choice phrase in English at his back. I don't know if he heard me or understood me, but he kept on biking away.
I mean, wha???

I hadn't really looked at the guy, but if I had to hazard a guess, I would say Middle Eastern.
I mean dang, it wasn't like I was wearing a "I hate Arabic people" shirt or anything.

I must say, I was a little shooken up by the experience. The guy didn't seem drunk or anything.

Which reminds me of the time I was walking down the street in Marseille at about 9 am and a falling-down drunk guy said something along the lines of how what I was wearing made me look like a prostitute (yeah, jeans and a very conservative sweater will do that).

Here We Go Again....

2010-11-13T12:52:00.005+01:00

Back up to Strasbourg tomorrow for another week.
This time, it is a preparation seminar for my exams in March and will be in English instead of French.
Actually, there are three separate sections, English, French, and German.
Hey, I could take the German one just for kicks! (see if I remember anything from my toddler days)

About this time last year, mom and dad were here and we went up to Strasbourg for a week together. They visited the area and saw one of their old friends while I went to my classes.

This week, I will see some of my friends from last year, though they will all be in the French section.

Am actually looking forward to going. Get away a little bit, see other people. I kinda miss Strasbourg (ahh... no trash strikes... no dog poop all over the sidewwalk... no grafitti everywhere... pretzels... )

Unfortunately, the Christmas market will not have started yet.

I am going to be staying in the same place, though the classes will be in a different place.

When I choose the title of this post, I was reminded of my military school days, a jody (cadence call) that they had us sing while marching.

Here We Go Again
Same Old S--- Again
Marching Down the Avenue
Two More Seconds* and I’ll be Through
I’ll be glad and so will you
Am I right or wrong?
You’re Right!
Are we weak or strong?
We’re Strong!
Sound Off!
One two
Sound Off!
Three Four
Break it on down now
One two three four
One two
Three Four!

(* More like 5 more years and I'll be through)

Pay 10 cents to be yelled at by an elderly lady

2010-11-12T09:57:00.003+01:00

This morning, I stopped by La Poste to buy a stamp. I used the automatic machine, and as I was collecting my stamp and change, an elderly woman asked if I could help her to buy some stamps. Of course.
Here is our conversation.

(her)- I need three stamps. How much would that be?
(me) That depends on the weight.
- I NEED THREE STAMPS!
(louder) Okay, okay, that will be about 1.70 €.
- HOW MUCH?
(select three normal stamps) 1.74 € !!!
(she pulls out all the change in her change purse and tries to figure out how much to give me. There are two one-euro pieces, as well as various smaller coins)
- HOW MUCH?
Give me the two euros.
(she passes me one and puts the rest away, I put the one in the machine. Still need 0.74)
Please give me the other euro.
- I GAVE YOU TWO EUROS! What did you do with the other euro?
No ma'am. You just gave me one euro.
- You stole the other euro!
(she rummages in the machine and pulls out 10 cents that were left over from my transaction, which I hadn't had time to recover before she accosted me for help)
- Where are my stamps?
You need to put in the other euro.
- I don't have another euro.
Yes you do, it's in your purse.
(she took out the other euro (miraculously, in her purse) and puts it in. The machine prints out the three stamps, but then is slow in producing the change. I just walked away at this point. And no point in arguing that she in fact stole my ten cents. That would just be beyond her capabilities of understanding.)

Please God, let me still have most of my faculties when I am old.

Note to my post-30 self:

2010-11-07T13:32:00.004+01:00

A 75 cL bottle of wine is too much for two people to drink in one setting.
I'm just saying.

Plus an apperitif.

Went to the restaurant last night, had an appetizer of foie-gras (delicious with a fig spread), followed by a steak and potatos. Alain then had a dessert but I opted out (too full) and just had a coffee.
Thought about asking the waiter if we could take the bottle of wine with us (as it was still about half full and not cheap) but Alain didn't want to ask.

Got home around 11 pm, woke up this morning with a headache.
Welcome to my post 30 life.

Un an de plus

2010-11-06T19:26:00.002+01:00

31.
Thirty one
Trente et un.
Yikes.
Now I feel like I'm *really* into my thirties.
Like last year, 30, it was cute. Oh, look at me. I just turned 30.
Now, I didn't *just* turn thirty.

woke up around 9, went for groceries and to the post office, came back and opened my presents and cards.
Alain got me the perfume that I hate most in the world. Again.
He got me the same one last year.
Bless him, he knows I really like perfume and picks out one he likes the best.
Forgetting that he got me the same one last year.
I try to wear it every once in awhile for him, but honestly, it makes me gag.
Words cannot express how much I hate this perfume.
Almost any other perfume would have been okay.

I still have 99% of the bottle he bought me last year.
This year, he said I could exchange it.
I did so, and bought myself a nice Swatch Watch (third one).
The band is a like a bracelet with three individual bands of yellow, white, and rose gold (plated).

Tonight we are going out to eat at one of my favorite restaurants, La Table Marseillais.