Tongue in Cheek

The Angel with a Boxing Glove

Yesterday after noon I went to pick up my French niece and nephew. A smaller child maybe three years old came up to me in the playground. He pulled at my hand, and said in sweet baby French, "Your boy, that boy," the small child pointed to my nephew, "He, he, he poked me in my eye and then this eye too! And and and, " he stammered, "...then he poked my nose and put his finger in my nose! And he poked my belly... like this..." the little round face boy punched himself, "...and and and it hurt me, and I cried." As I reached down to say I was sorry, his mother came up to me. Oh la la. I became her punching bag. I took her worried, angry, verbal upset, one word at a time. My nephew hid behind my back. 

I wanted to say, "I am not his mother." 

I wanted to say, "I do not speak French, or I do not understand French ask my niece!" 

I wanted to pull my nephew by his ear and put him in the center of the ring. 

Instead I said, I was sorry, over and over again. I made my nephew say he was sorry too. 

Then we walked home holding hands in silent. When we got home I decided we would have cereal, apples and cheese for dinner... and if they wanted cookies and milk that was fine with me. I did not have the heart to enter into a battle zone. 

I went in my nephew's room he had one red boxing glove on his hand and it was above his head.

Knocked out. Sound asleep looking like a sweet angel. I shook my head in disbelief.

Three days down, two more to go. 

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Photo: Somehow my photo card has disappeared. I do not wonder, I know who has it.

The photo is one of my son when he was a little boy... eating cereal.

Do You Speak French?

The mothers gathered at the school gate wore their coats unbuttoned. I took off my scarf and stuffed it in my pocket. The Autumn day felt more like late summer than mid November. 

While waiting outside the school I checked out the other women: How they were dressed, listened to what they were chatting about, and wondered if they thought I was a Grandmother waiting for her grandchildren.

Eventually the school children came running out. None of them had on their coats. Quickly their mothers reprimanded them that though it was warm enough to cook an egg (soft boiled) on the sidewalk it was nevertheless November!

The two little ones (my French niece and nephew) I waited for were no different than the others. I too made them put on their coats simply because I could imagine them tripping over them as they walked home.




 

As we headed home the two of them talked to their little friends. One of the little boys stared at me while I told my nephew, "You do not need to button your jacket, it is too hot."

My niece leaned over whispering to the other little boy, "That is my Aunt, she is an American she doesn't speak French."

Like a tattle tailer I chimmed in, "Hey, I speak French!"

"My Aunt speaks a little," she corrected then added, "but she doesn't understand French."

"Wait a minute! I do too speak French and I understand exactly what you are saying." I said like a school girl defending her turf.

"She doesn't, honestly she doesn't" my niece said as if I wasn't there.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk... I said to the little boy, "I do too speak French and I understand what is being said." I guess you could say I needed his approval. "I do too speak French." I whined.

"I understand your Aunt, she is speaking French." He smiled as he ran towards his mother.





 

My niece looked at me like I was in big trouble, as if I had spoiled her fun. At that moment it became clear to me, I was her novelty. I was the cool American Aunt. I was her "Show and Tell" item in her bag of tricks. 

Because of my bruised tender ego I ruined her fun. "Dommage!" I did not understand French after all.

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Note:
Photos of my friend's painting in Marcel in Lourmarin. 

A Child's French Dinner not made by Julia Child

 
My niece, Juliette had an opportunity to go to London for a week. Though the only thing holding her back was she needed a babysitter. She gave us a call. Family being family means lending a hand.

We gave six hands for her two little children.

Juliette left a long list: Phone numbers, school information, what to do, what not to do, how to give the children a bath, where things were, their bedtime routines, and she left a list of their favorite things to eat.
I was the Queen of Picky Eaters when I was a kid. I think I liked all of ten things and only if my mother made them. Juliette left a pot of soup for her children, "They love soup for dinner."
Last night after their baths, before their bedtime story and during the chaos of coming home and settling down for the night: I served the soup their Mother had made.

The two of them grumbled, "This is NOT the soup our Mommy makes! We don't like YOUR soup."

I cried, "No way, it is YOUR Mommy's soup."

"No its not!" While the soup saga went on memories of what it was like being a kid filled my head. Dinner time was not my favorite hour. I dreaded having to eat things I did not like... and went to bed hungry without dessert many of nights.

I made pasta. Niece gobbled happily.

Nephew balked.

French Husband (who children adore) played the airplane game in hopes to get Nephew to eat. "Up up and around and around into the garage goes the pasta airplane!"

Nephew's garage was closed... all night.

Day One Down.... Milk and Cookies sound good for tonight's dinner.

Do you have any childhood dinner time memories to share? Or better yet, What was your favorite thing to eat for dinner as a child?

How to Make Yourself at Home and the French Armchair Beauty Contest

Before the French Armchair Beauty Contest began, the French Armchairs quickly glanced over their shoulders to see who was who and who was wearing what. As the curtain rose the French Armchairs straighten their backs, tucked in their tummies, lift their chins, strutting their stuff in front of the adoring audience of Sofas and Tables hoping to find a clever match.

Miss Smooth Velvet-

She thought she stood a chance as monochrome colors were in. Though her bone structure was not as classy as Miss Eighteen Century, and her bottom wasn't as pumped up as should be in these type of shows. That is why she wore velvet...thinking chic covered sins.

Miss Sunshine-

Felt like crying! She got the dance routine wrong and ended up facing the wrong way. How she wished she could do a solo routine. Certainly the dance steps would be easier. Groups...or as the French Armchair Beauty Contest like to call it: Teamwork, threaten her.

 

Miss Checker Board-

Loved to play the field, and waited happily to make her mark, "Chest!" She laughed looking at her own, she love the play on words.

 

Ms. Lone Runner-

Wasn't an Armchair, but a chair nevertheless. She stood her ground declaring that the French Armchair Beauty Contest was prejudice and politically incorrect.

 

Miss Stuffy-

Begged to have her name changed to Miss Brocade. Though the judges couldn't understand why. They asked, "What is in a name anyway?"

"Ha-Ha," she puffed, "Everything!"

 

Miss Royal-Ette-

Elegantly dressed in Aubusson knew that she stood a chance. She was glad her parents did not name her Stuffy!

 

Miss One and Another-

The twins wanted to enter as a pair. The judges threw their pencils in the air, "Enough is enough, this is a single ladies French Armchair Beauty contest. One or the other has to go.

Miss Down and Out-

Wished she had more time, more money.... next year looked promising.

 

Miss Louisette the Sixteenth-

Knew what side was her best, and flaunted it as often as possible. A girl has to do what a girl has to do. Winning was her goal.

Miss Champagne Bottle Top Holder-

Knew her name was far far too long. But that was the least of her problems. She wondered if she had enough time to make some arms, if Miss Lonesome's case did not go through.

 

Miss Pink-

Original was her real name. Pink was her cover. Seduction was her game. She played to win.

 

Miss Cain-

Threw a fit when she heard props were not allowed. Funny how she did not believe she was better without a prop.

 

I do not know where this is going... it is Monday... and I like armchairs. Just thought I would let you know that about me.

The photo above is of Annie years ago.

Do you have a favorite place to sit? Since I am not very tall often my feet do not touch the ground when I sit in a chair. Therefore my favorite place to sit is on the floor but that doesn't cut it in France.

When I first arrived in France French Husband took me to an office party. He said it was a casual-after-work-have-a-drink-sorta-thing. It was at an office friend's nutshell apartment.

I wore casual. Everyone stood around looking uncomfortable, so I thought I would sit on the floor hoping to give a lead in for people to relax, talk in a group, and get cozy.

Wow was that a faux pas! The instant I sat down I knew I was doing a big no-no. I could hear a silence fill in the space between them and me. How I wished I could have disappeared. I sat still turning every shade of red. Then I stood up and went to the bathroom. To this day I wonder what was so bad about sitting on the floor. Though I have never seen anyone sit on the floor since.

Silly rules.

How I came to meet my French Husband at the I-Beam in Twenty Steps.

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Twenty steps to a new Life:

1. 1986 Yann, (my French Husband) took a year off to travel through the U.S.A..
2. He had a childhood friend who lived in Chicago, so he went there first.
3. Skylark was a $300 rusty car. He bought it to see his dream:
4. The setting sun over the Pacific.
5. During a freak snowstorm in Colorado he kissed a girl in the backseat of a police car.
6. Lack of modern devises added with a terrible sense of direction landed him in East L.A. 
7. In a grocery store parking lot Skylark was his hotel. A gang greeted him. Not digging L.A. he headed down I-5.
8. Remembering a note his Mother's neighbor gave him, he reached for his wallet.
9. The "note" said, "If in California I have a daughter who lives in Gustine."
10. At that very moment the road sign read: "Gustine" Yann pulled off.
11. Madame H. lived on a horse ranch and cooked French food.
12. Madame H. had a French niece, who was married to an American man and lived in San Francisco. Yann went to visit them.
13. They were vegetarians. Yann gave up meat.
14. 
15. Every night, every dance imaginable happened at the I-Beam: Rock, punk, ballet, jazz, slow, hip-hop to the sound of New Wave. Yann's newfound friend's told him it was one of the hottest nightclubs in town, gay most nights, but on Tuesday it was a free for all, a wonderful wild dance scene. They went dancing.
16. Tuesday, April 1986, 10:00 p.m., 1748 Haight Street, San Francisco, a lonely girl danced at the I-Beam. Yann noticed.
17. Language skills were at a minimum. Yann told the girl his name.
18. The disco ball's sparks couldn't hold a candle to the flame that started with that one word: John.
19. Yann's heart wanted to stay in San Francisco.
20. Needing a job, without a green card Yann became an Aupair, and modeled nude (but you don't want to hear about that do you?)

Lady Marmalade Sang in French, and the Police Car Rocked

Before  I continue with "How I met French Husband at the I Beam,' let me tell you how French Husband's journey began....

Skylark was such a pretty name for the rusty old car that Yann bought in Chicago for $300. His childhood friend, a Franco-American who had spent his summer holidays playing on the beaches of Brittany, reassured him, "Snow causes rust. All our cars here in Chicago are more or less rusty. This car has a little more rust that's all."

The drive from Chicago to California was long, stretched by exploring uncharted back roads, and skirting do not trespass Indian Reservations along the way. But those time diversions were nothing compared to the freak snow storm that turned the highway into a parking lot.

Trapped on the road in sub-freezing weather for hours with no end in sight, the stranded reached out to one another. A truck driver from Florida passed out boxes of raisins he was taking to California. Another truck driver's wheel exploded so Yann went over to help. "We weren't dressed for that type of weather. After we fixed the wheel, a police officer noticed that a young woman and I were shaking uncontrollably. I was frozen! He told us to go warm up in the police car. We jumped into the back seat where we warmed up quite quickly you might say." Yes, you might say Yann found comfort with the other stranded traveler, who kept him toasty by singing Voulez vous a coucher avec moi ce soir?

Not long after we met Yann teasingly asked me, "Why do tee Ah-mer-ee-can gurls sing to me, "Voulez Vous a Coucher avec Moi Ce Soir?"
Puzzled I looked at him like as if it was a trick question or something, "How am I suppose to know? I only speak English, and whatever they are singing to you isn't English?"
Yann did not understand a word I said. So I shrugged, lifted up my hands, and shook my head. I remember a funny grin coming over his face. His joke was the first of many that would be lost in translation on me.

Yann continued his journey to his dream-land: Santa Monica and the setting sun on the Pacific. It was late in the evening when he arrived so he slept in a parking lot in the backseat of his Skylark. In the middle of the night a group of "strange" guys tapped on his window. "I barely opened my eyes, but went back to sleep." Later, Yann found out that he had spent his first night in East Los Angeles, "I guess I looked homeless that is why I was not beaten to a pulp."

....to be continued.

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Note: Thanks Cousin Francabolla for your guidance, and to you, readers of Tongue in Cheek for encouraging me to tell my tale. I promise old photos will follow in the days ahead.

How I Met my French Husband

 
 
 

Two years after my boyfriend died I still was far from myself, life seem to spin in a different circle. Questioning the meaning of life became my new past time, along with spewing angry words at God. I felt lost in a very dark cave called depression.

I was working for the Catholic Church in San Francisco, though found refuge at a Gay Dance Club called the I-Beam... I loved to dance, and it was certain that at a Gay Dance Club a woman who wanted to dance her pain away could do so without hassle. Freedom to dance without anyone watching. It was heavenly.

As time went by my family and friends tried in vain to set me up with dates. They had good intentions trying to find me love and happiness. But I wasn't in the mood for falling in love. It was a risky business that love thing. Death seemed to lurk behind the eyes of those I met. Maybe I was bad luck? Maybe they would die on me too? Fear became my new best friend, and it sat by my side unbecomingly.

In response to those who encouraged me to date again I would tell them, "When the time is right someone will walk up to me unexpectedly and tell me his name is John. That will be my sign." John was the name of my beloved.

I honestly believed my chances were next to none and it suited me fine.

So imagine how shocked I was when dancing at the I-BEAM that a young, handsome man danced by my side. The I-Beam was a place a woman could dance unnoticed for eternity, it was a gay club. What was this guy doing dancing by me? Gee, couldn't he tell I was a woman? His flirtation was blatant causing me to blush. Nervous and caught off guard by my feelings of attraction I decide to leave the dance floor. He tapped my shoulder. A rush of warmth went through me causing my friend Fear to melt. He said in broken English, "My...name...Yann." I repeated, "Yawn?" His next words changed my world. He said:

"Yann...is John in French."

Should I continue with telling my beginning tale? Or are you missing the brocante?

Seasons of Love, Living in France...What is it like?

     

The differences between France and the USA are many. Vast and varied, and I cannot possible list them all. When I moved to France over twenty years ago I had no idea what I was getting myself into, I was naive, a late bloomer, very much in love, and did not give anything too much thought. I jumped and often never looked back. But when I arrived in France, Paris to be exact my self identity was the first thing to sink. I was lost. French Husband would leave for work every morning at 7:30 a.m. and return around 9:00 p.m, or as they say in France 21:00 heure. I tell you those beginning days were long, money tight, no friends or family and without many words in my pocket. It wasn't a honeymoon.

I was and still am often asked, "What was it like moving to France? What do you miss most? Which do you like better? And wasn't it hard to leave?"

Let me tell you this... If the internet and blogging were available when I first arrived in France I would have written a very different type of blog. Happy would have been a long lost word. Yes, I was in love.... but every difference I saw became my reality..."I am here for the rest of my life?" And French Husband with a few English words in his pocket would hold my frustrations, doubt, bitterness, aloneness and failing self identity in his already full hands. It was an unpleasant job.

Moving to France, away from my big American family, leaving my friends and job, learning the French customs (One being: How to keep my hands on the table and not on my lap), the language and the lack of support from my French family... nearly killed me. Sometimes I think having cancer was easier. Childbirth certainly was.

     

     

    

    

    

Nearly every French person has a dog. I was afraid of dogs.

    

Baking sugar is not served in coffee or tea, sugar cubes are.

    

Eggs are brown, and twenty years ago rarely in egg cartons.

There wasn't a cereal isle in the grocery store. I missed Cocoa Puffs of all things.

Milk came in boxes on the shelf.

When you serve bread it is placed above your fork, on the table, when you eat bread you pinch a piece off you do not bite into it.

The first floor is called the "ground floor" the second floor is called the "First floor".

Counting with your fingers you start with your thumb as the number "One".

Then there was the French Franc- I had to learn the value of the France without translating it into dollars. Once that was conquered the French Franc was changed to the euro. I am lousy at math.

Forks are upside down when set at the French table, hence the pretty side of French silver is on the back.

Another little difference, but the little differences were everywhere and they threw me constantly in left field:

When greeting someone I never knew what cheek to kiss first, and who to kiss and who not to kiss.

Mums are only given as a flower for the deceased.

It hit me the very first day I was in France that I had to learn all these little things and more, If I wanted to be fluent in "living in France" so that when we had children I would to be able to teach my them how to be French with an American twist.

     

The Tooth Fairy is not the one who brings money for the tooth lost in France. No-no-no, it is a mouse. What a bummer that was... a Tooth Fairy is magical. A mouse....well it is kinda cute at a distance... and it is gray.

    

When a group of French people would start talking, it sounded like birds singing, and my mind wandered.

When greeting someone one says: "Bonjour Madame, or Bonjour Monsieur", if one sees them later in the day one does not say Hello (Bonjour) again instead one says, "Re-Bonjour"..and if one does say "Bonjour" again one will receive a look like, "Are you crazy, you already said Hello to me once today." I looked crazy most of the time.

And guess what (?) "See you later" really means "See you later".

Seasons.... constantly becoming, changing yet remaining the same, growing up...

     

    

One thing is certain; Little girls all over the world play with dolls....
Having a family created a safe nest for me to spread my wings.

French Words.... in the beginning I spoke few

 

 

 

       

                                

           

                                                                

             

 

 

 

 

When I moved to France to be with my French Husband, I was nearly thirty years old. I spoke a handful, or less of French words. To make matters worse when I met my French Husband, he spoke a handful of English words. It made life interesting, arguments few, and kissing often.

I learned how to speak French on the streets you might say. Funny how French words are everywhere when you live in France, they scream at you, insult your senses and in the beginning I carried two books with me where ever I went:

1) An English/French dictionary,

2) A Paris Street Plan.

I was lost in more ways than one.

I bought sour milk instead of milk, powder sugar instead of sugar, sunscreen instead of tooth paste...spices where easy I could smell the words I did not know.

Early on when I lived in Paris I took care of a little girl named Emeline. The family had lived in the states for a few years and had returned to France. They wanted their five year old to keep her English language skills alive, so they hired me...an English speaking babysitter you might say. I went to their large Parisian apartment twice a week.

A few weeks after I started, I picked Emeline up from school and we were to walk home. As we walked along Paris I realized how happy I was to have SOMEONE to speak English to, someone who could carry a conversation at normal tempo, someone who I did not have to repeat my words to...yes she was five and I was thirty... but she was the only one who I knew who spoke English, and I did not care if we talked about Barbies, cookies, braiding hair, or what color to color Rudolf's nose... it was Happy English.

On the way home we got lost. I looked around for a street sign so I could look it up in my Paris Street Plan, but no sign made itself available...we kept walking I kept looking, at one point Emeline summed it up in a nutshell:

"WE are lost! This is terrible... I am just little and you do not speak French! We are doomed."

Of course we weren't but her expression summed up exactly how I felt in the beginning. Moving to France was a much larger challenge than I ever had imagined. Learning French did not come easily, the struggle of not speaking the language has made for a ton of memories most quite embarrassing.

Halloween in France I am a Pumpkin Head...

A photo of a photo that I took at Cassihaus Photographer by Raymond Meeks 

The "Trick or Treaters" trickled to our house throughout the day, starting Friday after lunch. Some came in costume, most not. They came to the door saying "BONBONS!" It is funny to see this tradition wading into France. I put a candy or two into each bag, they seemed to look at me like I was selfish. I wanted to say "Hey that is Chocolate, the good stuff too." But as soon as the thought came to my lips-- I remembered who was in front of me- a child. Thankfully the inner Halloween child in me took over and put "The Madame Scrooge" back in place. "Trick or Treat" I added, the children looked at me like I was an alien whispering to each other, "Elle parle Anglais?!" I smiled, "Happy Halloween! Adding a few more Bonbons to their scarcely filled bags.

As I shut the door the memories of my Halloween past raced in...

I am at home- My brothers and I are in their bedroom- Our Halloween loot is poured out on the bedroom floor- We are trading, "I'll give you the green M&Ms for the black licorice?" "No, I'll give you the Smarties for the Junior Mints!" "Who wants these cookies?" "I hate when they give apples, how dumb!".... Our mouths are stuffed, we are "allowed" to eat as much of the Halloween candy as we want. My mom makes popcorn balls, we are in heaven.

Note:

Famous Black and White Photography.

Carving Pumpkins without the Mess.

A Summer of Running Raymond Meeks.

Later side notes:

My sister in law Shelley wrote a comment and I had to attach it to the post:

"Hey Corey, I've never commented before but when I saw the pumpkin head I had to laugh. Did you know that I met your brother on Halloween and he had a pumpkin on his head? I still remember it so vividly. He came to my house with a mutual friend. When he took the pumpkin off I remember thinking.....Hey, this guy is pretty cute. The rest is history! There's just something about a guy with a pumpkin head! Shelley"