The Bold Soul

Clach-achmed, the Cat Terrorist

A few days ago, I realized that we are living with the feline version of Achmed, the Dead Terrorist:

Clacha, our resident Jekyll-and-Hyde Psycho Cat, frequently sits under the kitchen table, plotting her next terrorist attack on the legs of whomever happens to be walking innocently by.

"I KEEL YOU!" -- that's her M.O.

When she screeches in the morning or evening (7am and 6pm on the dot!) to be fed, we know she is saying "Hurry up, Infidel... or I KEEL YOU!"

When she races out of the kitchen window or front door to viciously chase our gardienne's dog, Lady, down the courtyard, she is clearly trying to chase the occupying forces out of her "country". "Go home or I KEEL YOUUUUU!"

And those little "surprises" she leaves on the floor -- the dead rodents or birds, the vomit, or the little cat poos she kicks out of her box -- are the kitty equivalent of a terrorist bomb because you never know when one will strike. After which, she has such a self-satisfied expression on her face, I know she's laughing maniacally in her little kitty head: "Bwah-ha-ha... I KEEEEEL YOU!!!!!!!!!"

Her terror campaign is fairly effective. The little kids won't touch her -- even the 2-year old next door has learned to steer clear of her. The teens either ignore her, or bait her to make her mad, but being teens they are naturally more apt to take unnecessary risks and it's only a matter of time before she leaves visible scars on their hands or feet to match the ones on my own. I've taken to checking where she is hiding before venturing to walk across my own living room floor, because she could be ANYWHERE, waiting to pounce. Even Georges has started to wait to get out of bed until after I've fed her (but that's sort of OK because then HE has to be the one to clean the cat box).

It's perfectly obvious to us that this cat came from one of those terrorist training camps we're always hearing about in the news. Who knew they were using cats as their new secret weapon of mass destruction? Who needs a suicide bomber when you can plant a highly trained psychotic cat in every home? I'm far more afraid of this cat sometimes than I am of anything I see about Al Quaeda on the news.

June Cleaver doesn't live here. Try next door.

It is a clear blue sky day, with a breeze that makes it a bit chilly, but I don't care; I'm sitting outside at the small table in our courtyard, loving the freedom this netbook brings me to work anywhere I choose, in or out of la maison. The good weather is just one compelling reason I'm out there, the other reasons being that my step-son has commandeered the kitchen table because it's the only surface big enough for him to do his architectural schoolwork and he's got a bit year-end project going on. And our cleaning lady is hard at work inside, so I want to stay out of her way and give her space.

We used to have her coming two mornings a week but since January we cut that back to just one, the economy being what it is and all that. But we both stubbornly cling to this one morning a week because whatever she manages to fit into that time is a blessing for me and Georges. It represents more free time for us, and even with this help it's still a good-sized house with three kids (plus assorted extras) traipsing through here daily. No matter how much cleaning gets done by me, Georges or our helper, there is always going to be MORE: more dirty dishes, more dirty clothes, more dirty bathrooms and toilets and kitchen counters and floors, more toys and school books lying around waiting for someone to move them, and more cat mess to take care of (you already know how I feel about that last part, but I don't have the heart to take her to a shelter, in case you were thinking I really was that callous).

Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by the realization that I now share my living space with four other people. It's not just me anymore. When it WAS just me, I could let the laundry go for sometimes up to 2 weeks (because I have that many clothes). I ran the dishwasher every other day or sometimes every third day instead of daily. I would run the vacuum or change the sheets and towels when I couldn't stand it anymore, and my own clutter didn't really bother me much until it got to the point where the piles were taller than I am. I could get away with all that, and focus on the things I WANTED to do, because I was a singleton and therefore entitled to be a slob if I felt like it. No one else needed to know about it.

It's different now. I admit to still being a bit of a clutterbug with my papers and books, but other people's messes get on my nerves a lot more. I have this lovely cleaning lady to take some of the load off my shoulders (she just left and the house looks and smells so much better, plus she always does the ironing and the floors) but there is still always something more that needs to be done. Georges takes care of the "man work", i.e. snaking out clogged drains, going down in the creepy crawl space under our living room floor to store things like our luggage (honey? that reminds me...), carrying heavy things, and cleaning out the cat box and picking up any dead mice she's left for us (I mainly feed her, he mainly cleans up after her... I think this is a fair trade). Georges also does more of the cooking of weekend lunches and our nightly dinners and he's more creative about it than I am, although I do some cooking as well, with a limited repertoire, so I appreciate that he enjoys cooking. And above all, he works hard to make our lifestyle possible.

I do the "woman's work", which includes doing the bulk of the food shopping -- which for 5+ people is considerable and I still can't get over dropping over 200 euros for one cart full of food that may or may not last an entire week (OK, I did have to buy a lot of shampoos and cleaning products this time around) and the laundry (except the ironing). I seem to be the only one in the house who knows what a really clean kitchen looks like (Georges does OK though). I will clean toilets, vacuum dust balls and cat hair, and dust the piano keys (I hate playing when they're dusty). I pick up toys that little people have left lying around. I take special orders for the weekly food shopping when asked. I also work, although freelancing means sporadic cash flow, and contribute what I can to the household budget, and working means I really do NOT have all day to take care of the house and everyone in it. Even Mrs. Brady had Alice.

Oh, and I pet the evil cat. That seems to have become my job. The cat has decreed it.

We are not the Cleavers. We may have fallen, somewhat, into a more traditional division of labor but that's more about convenience than gender. Georges knew when he fell in love with me that I was no domestic goddess, never have been, never will be. He doesn't care. He never criticizes how I'm managing things. I'm the one who gets my culottes in a knot when things aren't tidy "enough" to suit me and when I think others aren't pitching in to help, and I never thought I'd be that kind of person (nor did my mother, based on the fact that I never once willing cleaned anything when I grew up in her house). I never thought I'd have to force myself not to scream at the top of my voice: "WILL SOMEONE PLEASE GET THEIR ASSES DOWN HERE AND CLEAN UP THIS KITCHEN?" That is not MY voice, it's my mother's voice, and it is running inside my brain whenever I realize someone has put most but not all of the dishes in the dishwasher but they've left the dirty pots for someone else -- me? -- to scrub.

If I am not careful, I will become my mother -- or worse yet, Martha Stewart, and that is every woman's worst nightmare. This is what I do not want to become. I don't want to be the Screeching Step-Mother, the Shrewish Spouse. So I am working on Not Letting It Get To Me. Easier said than done, but really I know I can't change them, can't make them do what they don't want to do, can't make them be other than who they are. Sure, as parents/step-parents we do need to teach our kids about being respectful of others and responsible for themselves, but screaming and demanding obedience isn't the way to accomplish that and I refuse to be that woman. I grew up with that to some degree, and it wasn't pretty. I want and need to find a more zen way of managing my periodic flashes of hostility about the housework, for my own peace of mind.

Meanwhile I will enjoy this brief period of time when the house is clean and orderly, and all the laundry is done. Because in about 5 minutes, three little boys will come home for lunch and that will be the end of the calm, clean serenity.

C'est la vie.

Flashback, circa 1969

40 years ago, I would have just turned 8 years old. Our family lived in the same house in which my mother still lives now, a relatively new housing development started the year I was born and including mostly 3 bedroom, 1 bathroom ranch-style houses with a handful of 2-story colonial or Cape Cods thrown in. Most of the lots were about a half-acre in size, which meant we had a really nice-sized back yard, big enough for a vegetable garden, a swing-set and an above-ground pool. Totally 1960s living for young families just starting out.

And young families were everywhere. On a late spring weekend evening, the yards would be crawling with everyone's kids going from one house to the other, yelling and playing and generally making the most of the good weather. Oftentimes, we'd have backyard barbecues, which we called "cook-outs" or just "get-togethers" with one or more of the neighbor families where all the parents and kids got along well together. And in general, we kids would already be in our pajamas before the fun began, so that the parents could relax and enjoy themselves until it was time to pack the kids off to bed.

I used to love being able to run around outdoors in my pajamas. It felt like sometime special, a privilege, something almost forbidden (but still sanctioned by Mom and Dad).

This flashback courtesy of the fact that I am right this moment watching my step-son and his little friends run around in their PJs in our Paris courtyard, milking every last second of daylight on this last evening in May. They are loud, they are rambunctious, they are probably killing some of the potted plants with their wild tennis play and I'm waiting for someone to start fighting over nothing, but it still brings a smile to my face.

Because I may be in the city in a foreign country, but it's so nice to see that some customs transcend all cultural and geographic boundaries. And to see "my" kid getting to enjoy something so simple that made my own childhood memorable.

Me plus Three

It should be quite an interesting and memorable weekend, this. It's me and my three step-kids, sans Georges, who has to go to a huge business conference in Bordeaux until Tuesday (his organization is hosting the event, which includes a lovely intimate dinner for the 700+ attendees at Chateau Margaux -- and may I just say that it sort of sucks that spouses aren't invited, but that's neither here nor there).

As usual, the two Olders will probably come and go with their friends and whatnot, but tonight my lovely step-daughter informed me that tomorrow night, SHE would like to cook dinner, something special involving salmon, and that she'll also be making a special dessert: CHEESECAKE (Ha! Take THAT, Chateau Margaux!) She is turning out to be the queen of desserts in the family, as she has already made the best Tiramisu we've ever tasted, thus ruining us for all other Tiramisus. She also makes a banana-Nutella crumble to die for.

So her deciding to do the cooking tomorrow night makes me very happy (and Georges a little disappointed that he'll miss the meal and especially the cheesecake, and odds are there will be none left by Tuesday when he returns. But he can enjoy a good glass of Chateau Margaux to console himself.)

The Little Guy and I will also be spending a lot of quality time together, and it occurs to me that I'm really looking forward to it. Our time together is easy and natural now. We can communicate well enough together that I rarely need a translator, and if I do one of the other kids will be around. He often seeks me out even when others are around, for a cuddle or to read a book (we like the Where's Charlie series, otherwise known as Where's Waldo in the States) which isn't really reading but we have fun racing to try and find Charlie et al. 

I remember the first time I had solo care of the Little Guy during Georges' first out of town trip. I was nervous about it only because of the language barrier, but really it turned out to be no problem and we had a lot of fun. Since then we've grown even closer and now taking care of him is very simple. Even those rare flare-ups of 7-year-old stubborness or temper, usually caused by the TV not working or him not wanting to eat his vegetables -- a daily cause for argument -- don't phase me.

If anyone had told me two years ago, just before my 46th birthday, that by my 48th birthday I'd be a step-mom to three French kids, I'd have asked that person just how much he'd had to drink or what he'd been smoking. With all the things I envisioned for my life, this just wasn't one of them.

But there are times when it really seems like one of the most serendipitous things that's ever happened to me. And just one more reason to be grateful for how my life has turned out. Unexpected plot twists and all.

Happy, happy, happy

Lately, the Little Guy has been surprising us by randomly coming out with new words and phrases... in English! He is not yet learning English in school as his maitresse is teaching the class the fundamentals of German (I guess at this age, the kids learn whatever their own teacher knows best), but sometimes I will tell him a word or two here and there, informally. I also bought him a childrens' French-English dictionary with pictures and a book of phonics exercises with stickers, but I let him initiate working with those. There's no sense pushing him to learn a new language if he's not ready, yet it's nice when sometimes he chooses to take out one of those books or repeats some words with me. He also hears some additional English next door, as our neighbor is half Canadian and sometimes speaks English to her two little boys so that they start learning the language as well.

So him just blurting out words on his own is kind of a new thing around here. Early on, he learned "Hello" and he got the "h" pronounced perfectly right away; now he almost always says "Hello!" instead of "Bonjour!" when he bursts through the door after school. But then a few weeks ago, Georges and I were taking him somewhere and all of a sudden the Little Guy said, "Let's go!" instead on "On y va!" It took me a second or two to register that he'd actually said it in English and not French, and then we both praised his initiative and how well he'd said it (you know, positive reinforcement and all that).

Since then, it's a new word here and a new word there. But our favorite by far had to be what he said last weekend, out of the blue on our way to see the animals at the Jardin des Plantes...

"Happy, happy, happy!"

... while simultaneously jumping up and down with a big smile. His attitude expressed far more than just the words. Happy, happy, happy became sort of the theme for the weekend, an inside joke with us all repeating it to each other every so often as we went here and there together.

And as happy as we were to hear this sweet boy pronounce some new words, we were happier still to see how joyful he was, how bien dans sa peau. Just the way you want to see a young child going through his life.

Happy, happy, happy indeed.

Thou Shalt Know Thy (French) Husband

Okay, Linda... you got me. Your post with the meme, "French Husband" was very timely, as I added a discussion topic to my Facebook Fan Page to talk about what it's like to be married to a Frenchman and was wondering what to post there as an opener. Problem solved!

So of course, I had to do the meme. Here goes (and apologies in advance to Georges since I'm doing this on the fly and haven't actually read the whole thing yet!) and let's hope I get the important stuff right:

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1. He’s sitting in front of the TV, what is on the screen?

Nothing... he doesn't watch TV. Once in a great while, he'll turn on a football (that's soccer to you Americans) match if France is playing, but otherwise he'd rather do other things. He reads a great deal. I do know there is one French program he likes, though, a political satire show that uses large puppets made up as French political figures (I'm sure there's a Sarko puppet in there), and he might watch that on his computer sometimes.

2. You’re out to eat, what kind of dressing does he get on his salad?

If we're in France, you don't normally "choose" a salad dressing in a restaurant; the salad comes with whatever house vinaigrette the chef has made (or bought). If we're in America he'd probably also choose whatever is closest to a "normal" vinaigrette or a simple vinegar and oil if nothing else appeals to him. At home, we don't keep bottled dressing; #1 it's really not very good and the selection is poor, and #2, Georges makes a delicious "vinaigrette moutarde" so that's what we have.

3. What’s one food he doesn’t like?

Ha! That's easy: PEANUT BUTTER. Won't go near it. That's fine; more for me. As far as typical French fare and most other "foreign" foods, he eats pretty much anything. He did tell me that he never ate cheese until he was 30, though; just didn't develop a taste for it until then and even now doesn't eat massive amounts of it. Not your typical Frenchie in that respect!

4. You go out to eat and have a drink. What does he order?

In France, he'll choose some kind of beef, perhaps steak tartare or something cooked but very rare, probably with a "blonde" (that's a pale amber beer, not a girl) or a Corona if they've got it on the menu. In the U.S. he will also often order beef, but it's now a joke between us that he'll probably never get it anything close to rare as it's "rare" to find that nowadays... we're always warned to cook meet medium to well done in the U.S. Yet I don't notice outbreaks of food poisoning in France from undercooked beef. Hmmm... 

5. Where did he go to high school?

I don't know the name of the lycée but he pointed it out to me; it's near the Parc Monceau. An all-boys school, too, I think.

6. What size shoe does he wear?

I admit I had to peek at a pair of shoes he's not wearing, but American men's size 9. I think that's a 43 in the European sizes.

7. If he was to collect anything, what would it be?

Comic books; not the paperback kind but the hard-cover ones. Our (his) library is already full of them and I am looking at a stack of them right now on our bedroom table.

8. What is his favorite type of sandwich?

I'm not sure he has a favorite type of sandwich, although he'll eat a baguette with ham and cheese or maybe chicken. He loves kebab though, so perhaps a "grec" which is like a sandwich with kebab meat.

9. What would this person eat every day if he could?

Jelly Bellies. Or other types of "bon-bons" which are what the French call all varieties of candies like licorice, gummy bears and on. It's a family trait: the sweet-tooth... and I sure married into the right family in that case!

10. What is his favorite cereal?

Never eats cereal, hot or cold. His favorite breakfast right now is when I toast him an English-style muffin, which he'll have with butter and cherry preserves, and dunk in his morning coffee. He's a dunker. Also likes some OJ with that.

11. What would he never wear?

A dark suit. Says it makes him look like a banker. He did look good in the suit he picked out for our wedding... but even that, he hasn't worn again. He prefers to wear black pants with a more colorful jacket, tie and shirt combination. The man loves color!

12. What is his favorite sports team?

Since he's not big on sports, I'd have to say just that he'll support the French team in football or rugby if they're playing. Otherwise it's a non-issue. I recently learned that he is a Trekkie, but at least I am not a sport-widow!

13. Who did he vote for?

I can feel my Republican family and maybe even certain friends back home cringing as I write this, but he votes Socialist (or he might vote Centrist if the candidate was good). In American, people often mistake "Socialist" for "Communist" even though they're not at all the same thing. Here in France, the Socialist party is the largest of the more liberal parties, closest probably to our Democratic party in the U.S. And since I no longer swing to the right politically (although I was a Reagan girl in my youth), we have no political conflict (or any other conflict, for that matter) in our marriage.

14. Who is his best friend?

Gilbert, a friend he's had since his University years.

15. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn’t do?

Hmmm, something I do that he wishes I wouldn't... probably talking to him in English when he's trying to listen to the radio in French. I'm learning to ask him if he's really concentrating on the radio before diving into a one-sided conversation.

16. What is his heritage?

To me, his heritage is very interesting. He is French on his mother's side; she was from the Lorraine region. His father was a Russian-Moldavian emigré who came to France from Saint Petersburg as a young man during the Russian Revolution; his father's parents wanted him to avoid the conflict and be safe. So he came to France, and then years later had to survive WWII. Georges' Moldavian last name (which is now my legal last name but which I don't publish here to give Georges and the kids their privacy) is not at all difficult to pronounce (no "dev" or "ski" or too many consonants together) but it really confuses the hell out of the French for some reason, and they constantly mis-spell or mis-pronounce it. They do the same with my maiden name, too, so together we create twice the confusion and we think it's hilarious.

17. You bake him a cake for his birthday; what kind of cake?

He loves the killer chocolate brownies I made last year. I'll probably do it again this year, too. (Winking at Georges)

18. Did he play sports in high school?

Not so much, although I'm sure like all French kids he got in some physical activity every week, but the French don't do school-sponsored sports teams and it's not a big thing here as it is in the States. I don't think he specialized in any one sport; he was more academic in his interests.

19. What could he spend hours doing?
Playing the piano; playing a few favorite computer games (he's also invented a computer game or two); and reading... a lot of reading, now mainly on his iPod where he downloads his favorite classics as well as new things (he's currently reading the "Twilight" books -- in English -- that have been come so popular. I'm about to read the first one of those myself, in paperback).

20. What is one unique talent he has?
I can't pick just one. Part of how I fell in love with him was the first time he played the piano for me (he's much better at it than I am). He also was the one who helped me recover all my computer files when my hard-drive crashed -- even though it was a PC and he's a die-hard Mac user; he's very good with computer and internet things, even more so than I am, and I used to be in the corporate I.T. world for years and by training. He just comes by it more naturally, I think. He is an exceptionally kind, gentle, patient and unconditionally loving man, both with me and with his children, so I'd call that a gift as well as a "talent".

If your husband's not French, you can still do this meme. It's universal! (An aside to Georges: How'd I do, sweetie?)

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Hmmm, I wonder... if I can use this meme as part of my documentation for the préfecture de police in a few months, when we have to prove we've got a real marriage as part of my carte de séjour renewal?

What he has to put up with on a daily basis

I know I usually write about my new life and all that goes with it, from MY perspective... but here's a peek at what Georges has to tolerate from me (and believe you me, this is just the tip of the iceberg):

Now, Georges took this photo (of the dresser in our room at my mother's house in New Jersey, taken during our recent visit) because he thought it was a good collage of all my "girly stuff". He thought it was cute and amusing, perhaps even endearing, which is why I love him. I, on the other hand, see it as an example of how my life gets cluttered up with stuff, despite my own good intentions and best efforts to the contrary. Even when I'm on vacation. And what do I do when I go back home? I buy MORE stuff.

Note, however: the cute pink mouse... and the cute silver jewelry travel case... and the cute retro pink "rose colored glasses". Plus two pairs of drug-store eye glasses (because you can never have too many lying around for when you need them).

I guess it IS kind of girly, now that I look at it.

Oh, I'm a real Mother now...

It is 12:19 am on Sunday as I begin this post. Yes, it's unusual for me to be blogging at this hour, but I have just had to go upstairs for the second time in 20 minutes, following Georges making several similar trips earlier. Why? Because the Little Guy and his sleeping-over best friend were STILL awake, huddled over the friend's Nintendo DS or Game Boy or whatever it is. I walked in and they tried to hide the evidence and act like they were sleeping; I guess at age 7 or 8, it didn't occur to them that the door actually has a round port-hole window in it... it's not like I needed x-ray vision to figure out that they were up to no good.

Let 'em wonder how I figured it out, though. They quickly gave up trying to put on the "we're sleeping" act. This time, I tried my best to put on a serious face (not that the boys were buying it, judging by the mirth in their eyes) as I held out my hand to the friend and said, "Donne". That's polite French for, "Hand it over, right now." After looking at me innocently for a moment or two and hesitating, he pulled the game out from under his blankets and gave it to me. I told them it was after midnight and they didn't believe me. I told them that was it, time to stop talking and go to sleep as it was already Sunday, and the Little Guy smiled and said, "Oh, then it's time for breakfast!"

Oh, la la.

Walking back down to our room, shaking my head, I showed Georges what I had in my hand and I said, "I guess I AM a real Mother now... look what I CONFISCATED!" Then we laughed until we had tears in our eyes because (a) this is a boy who normally goes to bed by 9pm (he's in a very good bedtime routine) and after reading a book or two with his Papa, is fast asleep by 9:30. In all the time I've known him, I don't think this child has ever stayed awake this late and geez, we figured we'd worn him out earlier in the day taking him to the science center at La Villette, and friend or no friend I thought they'd be out cold by 11 pm. So it was just funny because (b) it is clearly a required part of the "sleep-over" ritual that there is actually very little sleeping taking place, and the later you manage to stay awake, the more you feel like you really put one over on the parents. And how naive of me to think that they'd just go to sleep without a little bit of a struggle. (Update: Georges just checked again and this time the Littles are really asleep at last. Whew.)

Actually, we're happy that he's starting to have sleepovers because it's a fun part of growing up and making friends, and the other boy is fairly polite and well-behaved. It's just that we seem to have a houseful this weekend. Not only are there the two little boys, but there are also three teenagers over because one of ours has had a friend visiting for the entire long holiday weekend, too. Even as I write this, the last one finally came home.

Welcome to Family Life 101. In which I get a crash course in Waiting Up Until All the Kids Are Home and In Bed.

I am suddenly reminded of all those times I had sleepovers as a kid and kept my own mother up until all hours... or the times when I was older, driving and out late with my friends. And it hit me: the Mother's Curse works.

You know this one because you probably heard it from your mother: "Some day you'll grow up and have kids, and I hope you remember this when YOU'RE losing sleep!"

[sigh] Oh, hell. Remind me to send my mother an extra bouquet of flowers for Mother's Day.

Spring Rentrée

We're back. It's spring rentrée week.

Can you hear the groans? From us, not the kids, I mean. Jet lag sucks.

Our Air France flight yesterday was uneventful, if a bit on the turbulent side. I just fine it nearly impossible to sleep sitting up and those seats are damned uncomfortable. Georges finds it a bit easier to sleep so he got some rest; I had to crash for a long nap yesterday afternoon here at the house, and then we both were ready to go to bed by 8:30 last night.

Anyway, seems we're already falling back into routine. Crazy cat who follows me around crying to be fed (yesterday she was so freaked out by us being back, and scared we'd leave her with the Oldest Boy again, that she actually followed me to the neighbor's house and sat at the foot of their staircase, crying for me). Cleaning lady is here, doing all the ironing (God love her), and she also came last Friday and therefore I came home to find our room all nice and neat with fresh sheets. Will go to bank today and to do a little food shopping. Then some client projects to work on, and also looking for some part-time work for myself. Same old, same old.

The clear high point of my day yesterday was when the Little Guy came home from school for lunch, as usual. I heard him and the other boys entering the courtyard so I went outside, and as soon as he saw me, he FLEW at me with the biggest leap and longest hug ever. I only let him go so he could go and give the same to his Papa. (Then of course there were some souvenir American Pokemon cards to be given, and a few yummy treats for him and his little friends next door.) I just adore this little boy and I really missed him. How could you not miss someone so cute and cuddly?

And so, la vie continue. The weather is cool and the skies are gray; it rained last night and may do so again today. Yet I don't care. I'm home. Paris, it's good to be back!

Uh-oh, she's up to no good again

I think she's up to something, people. Has she joined a human-hating cult? Should I be worried?

First fight

Last night over drinks at the Luxembourg (just next to -- amazingly enough -- the Jardins du Luxembourg), for the first time since we met, Georges and I finally found something we really, truly disagreed about. While it might be stretching it a bit to say we FOUGHT about our difference of opinion, this was the first time that we really did not see eye to eye on something, the first time we took opposite sides on an issue.

We're so disgustingly, overwhelmingly compatible in all the ways that really matter that it was sort of a surprise to both of us that we disagreed about this thing. We have similar energy patterns, neither of us being morning people. We both agree that he's better at cooking than I am, but I'm better at noticing many of the small details that go into daily living, like when we're about to run out of juice or toilet paper. We both lean liberal when it comes to politics; we both agree that my last president and his current one left/leave a LOT to be desired as leaders. We're both reasonably calm people who don't enjoy conflict but neither of us is a doormat, either.

Sure, there are ways in which we're both very different, mostly stemming from the fact that he's French and I'm American, so sometimes there are some significant gaps in our cultural frames of reference. For instance, he'll never understand my addiction to Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. I can't laugh with him about what a total bitch Marcia was, and how I always though Jan was right to hate her guts. I didn't know who "Le Prisonnier" was until he introduced me to it on DVD (it's actually a British TV series but it was apparently popular here in France). I've never read Flaubert or Dumas or any great French writer/philosopher, although I'm trying to read Hugo now.

We will always have things about us that are different because of the cultural thing, and that's maybe part of our attraction to one another. It's boring to be with someone who is exactly like you in every way, n'est-ce pas? Yet we have enough in common to make being together so pleasant and effortless and comforting that being in a room together always feels like home.

So discovering that we finally found something about which we really could not come together on, was a bit unsettling... if also a bit amusing. Because what was this big issue, this monumental thing that had us talking for HOURS last night?

It was The DaVinci Code... and whether we loved it (me) or hated it (him). Sure, the movie rendition wasn't so wonderful (though I didn't think it was awful, either) and it really pandered to those that might materially object to the plot line, but it was the BOOK that I really enjoyed so much and simply couldn't put down and have read at least three times... and that Georges felt was more the sort of drivel one might read at the beach on vacation.

I wonder if we'll ever be able to look at each other in quite the same way again.

Jongleuse

Allow me to introduce myself. Je m'appelle la Jongleuse.

Juggle. Juggle. Juggle. All day long, I'm trying to keep those balls in the air, just like a lot of other women and a fair number of men, too. I will spare you the gory details of just what and how much I am trying to juggle because it will tempt us both to draw comparisons (the "Oh, you think YOU have it bad; you should see MY life!" kind of thing), and I don't think that's fair to anyone as it would be like comparing juggling apples and oranges. Instead, I want to talk about how I am really, REALLY struggling right now with the juggling act.

I've always thought of myself as a pretty successful juggler, although not in the literal sense; if I tried to juggle raw eggs they'd end up smashed on the floor during the first rotation. But in life, I mean, I always have had to juggle things like multiple work responsibilities, clients and projects, and I was always damn good at it. I was always known as the kind of person who could be relied upon to get it done, and get it done well and on time, and I was proud of that reputation.

And today I am wondering one thing: where in the hell did THAT woman go? Because that part of "me" seems to have completely disappeared, and I'm not at all happy about it as I really need her, now more than ever. Without her, I'm dropping balls right and left, and constantly feeling the need to apologize to people because of it. "Sorry, I didn't get to the supermarket today, we're out of juice, and there's nothing to eat for dinner." "I know I promised I'd have that chapter written three days ago but I need a few more days." "I feel like a bad friend because I haven't called you/seen you in AGES, and I'm so sorry!" I am as sick of apologizing for my lapses in productivity as other people probably are of listening to the apologies.

Maybe it's that I'm coming to the REAL juggling act -- love, marriage, children, house care, friends, PLUS career -- later in life, and that's why lately I feel like I am absolutely drowning when it comes to my professional productivity. Or more to the point, the LACK of it. Is this the "can't teach an old dog new tricks" syndrome? Am I too old now to leap-frog from one thing to another and still be able to accomplish something? I am finding it much harder than it used to be to handle interruptions in my work, or even to get myself started to work. I am feeling completely overwhelmed by the sum total of the massive life changes of the past couple of years, and it's affecting my ability to focus on something that is actually really important to me:

WRITING.

I have two big client projects that need to be finished but which are in some state of partial completion, crawling along at a snail's pace for well over a year now; and while some of the delays were not of my doing, many of them were. I have a book I want to write, a book I am dying to write and which I think about writing every single day, but a book I'm completely stalled in even really starting. I also need to get out there and pick up some new projects to keep some kind of cash flow going because it's not like this blog is making me any money. And what am I doing? NOTHING. Well, nothing productive, at any rate, and nothing that is advancing the cause, so to speak.

Logic, of course, has nothing to do with any of this stuff I'm struggling with. I know all the things I'm supposed to do; I've coached dozens of people in this exact situation for years. I know all the time management tricks, and I know that if I (for instance) lit a fire under my own butt and finished even one of those two client projects, I'd feel like a zillion per cent better about everything.

Yet I feel completely stuck. I have hit the proverbial wall like a cartoon character, and haven't managed to peel myself off yet. Every day I wake up and resolve to do better; an hour or so later when I could be and should be writing, I am frittering instead.

I can feel that I'm utterly distracted by "things". The things I'm doing when I should be doing other things; the things I'm not doing but want to do; and future things. On the one hand, some of the things I'm distracted by are really good things. I'm still head over heels in love with the love of my life, and every day he gives me something to smile about. Marrying Georges, despite the peripheral challenges that went along with merging our two lives together, is still the best decision I ever made and really it was the most effortless decision, too. There are challenges in the step-mom department from time to time with one or another of the three kids that sometimes stress me out, but then there are also really GREAT things that go on nearly every day that make me feel I'm doing at least some things right as a novice parent-figure. And there are some plans on the table for the future that are all good as well.

But even the good stuff can distract a person and turn her from a poster child for efficiency into the most scatterbrained wreck of a woman. And right now I feel a lot closer to "wreck" on the spectrum.

I have people I look to as role models in my life, people I know who have had even more challenges in the whole "life balance" department than I am having, and who still managed to write books or run businesses, or even get a hair cut. I feel like I am turning into one of those fat, frumpy, haus-fraus who feel lucky if they manage to take a shower every other day. I know I am just as smart as my role models, and in my own way (again, trying to avoid detailed comparisons) I'm just as brilliant and talented, and just as capable.

And I feel completely stuck as to how to sort this out and get the pendulum swinging in the other direction.

The good news is, I'm not on my own in all this. I have a husband I can actually TALK to about these things, and he's fantastic. But I don't expect him to shoulder the burden of all my emotional needs, so I've recently reached out to a friend/coach who I'm hoping can shine a little light on things for me, to at least give me a gentle shove (with a cattle prod) in the right direction. She's one of those role models I mentioned who has successfully "been there and done that", and more than once, too. I think I will be in good hands.

I also have enough life experience and perspective to know that this, too, shall pass in time. I may feel stuck now, but I know it won't be forever. After a roller-coaster of a year where my life completely changed just because I decided to step off a bus and meet a new man one Tuesday afternoon, now I am having to deal with the aftermath, as well as to seek new dreams to chase. I have these bold new dreams in my sights -- both of them -- and now it's a matter of getting my act together so I can actually get there, and sooner rather than later. Those dreams, once attained, will change my life once again in ways I probably can't even imagine at the present time. And I'll have to learn to cope with THAT new reality as well, all over again. Juggling, juggling and more juggling.

C'est la vie pour la Jongleuse.

Sunshine on a rainy day

Because someone loves me, he gave me some sunshine on this rainy Paris day. And now I have an art gallery in my office.

Why dogs are easier than cats (or, Why I'm afraid to take the cat to the vet)

... because the vet might tell me she needs to take some pills.

My mother forwarded this to me this morning (she knows all about Clachat) and I nearly peed my pants laughing. Don't know the original source.

How to Give a Cat a Pill

1. Pick up cat and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby. Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand. As cat opens mouth, pop pill into mouth. Allow cat to close mouth and swallow.

2. Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind sofa. Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.

3. Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away.

4. Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm, holding rear paws tightly with left hand. Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of ten.

5. Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe. Call spouse from garden.

6. Kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, hold front and rear paws. Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth. Drop pill down ruler and rub cat's throat vigorously.

7. Retrieve cat from curtain rod, get another pill from foil wrap. Make note to buy new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines and vases from hearth and set to one side for gluing later.

8. Wrap cat in large towel and get spouse to lie on cat with head just visible from below armpit. Put pill in end ofdrinking straw, force mouth open with pencil and blow down drinking straw.

9. Check label to make sure pill not harmful to humans, drink one beer to take pill taste away. Apply Band-Aid to spouse's forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap.

10. Retrieve cat from neighbor's shed. Get another pill. Open another beer. Place cat in cupboard, and close door onto neck, to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessert spoon. Flick pill down throat with elastic band.

11. Fetch screwdriver from garage and put cupboard door back on hinges. Drink beer. Fetch bottle of scotch. Pour shot, drink. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus shot. Apply whiskey compress to cheek to disinfect. Toss back another shot. Throw Tee shirt away and fetch new one from bedroom.

12. Call fire department to retrieve the damn cat from across the road. Apologize to neighbor who crashed into fence while swerving to avoid cat. Take last pill from foil wrap.

13. Tie the little bastard's front paws to rear paws with garden twine and bind tightly to leg of dining table, find heavy-duty pruning gloves from shed. Push pill into mouth followed by large piece of filet steak. Be rough about it. Hold head vertically and pour two pints of water down throat to wash pill down.

14. Consume remainder of scotch. Get spouse to drive you to the emergency room, sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearm and removes pill remnants from right eye. Call furniture shop on way home to order new table.

15. Arrange for SPCA to collect mutant cat from hell. Call local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.

How To Give A Dog A Pill
1. Wrap it in bacon.
2. Toss bacon in the air.

Clachat still needs a home!

Despite serious inquiries from two très sympa readers, Clachat has unfortunately still not found the right new home. However, we are not giving up and are convinced there is some loving person out there who is tailor-made to be Clachat's new owner. If you are in or near Paris and would consider adopting her (or if you know someone who would), details can now be found here.

Please continue to scroll down to see the latest blog posts, as I'm keeping this top-of-page for the moment.

On frog legs and other delicacies of marriage

Yes, apparently Georges DOES eat frog legs. The wife is always the last to know.

After watching Obama being sworn in as the 44th President, we decided to quit the overcrowded bar in search of a nice meal out, à deux. I suggested we go up to Montmartre to the little Vietnamese place where he gave me my engagement ring last year, because the food and service are great and we hadn't been there since that one big night.

Once there, he looked at the carte and then smiled, pointing to his selection. And I was all, "You're REALLY going to eat those?" And eat them he did, with great relish.

He tried to encourage me to eat just one -- I said, "Next you're going to tell me it tastes just like chicken, right?" -- and while I will admit they did look somewhat like the chicken dish I had ordered, I just couldn't quite bring myself to try one. I'm simply not ready. Maybe some day. Or maybe not.

I did feel honor-bound to point out that I eat and really enjoy certain other French delicacies like escargots and foie gras. I don't want him to think I'm a total wuss. And you know what? I don't see him offering to try a little peanut butter or Kraft Mac & Cheese (I'm secretly glad that no one else in the house wants to eat the latter -- that way I get to keep it all for myself!) But these are the things you learn to accept about your spouse when you're in a cross-cultural marriage: the "weird" foods you each love that the other one hates. And you have to do so without rolling your eyes or making a disgusted face, which is maybe the hardest part of all... although I think a small shrug or a dismayed shaking of the head is permitted.

And I AM getting better at pronouncing "grenouille" -- even if I don't want to eat it.

We interrupt our normal programming to report...

... that my new washing machine is arriving this morning! Woo-hoo!

[Picture one Bold Soul doing a little Bold Happy Dance around her house.]

I've been doing the laundromat thing for a couple of weeks now and while it hasn't been all that bad (being very close to home -- I can even come back to the house to wait for the wash to finish), not being able to just throw in a load at night before bed (or whenever we feel like it) is a real inconvenience. I've adapted to not having the clothes dryer and hanging up the wet wash around the house to dry; that's normal life for the majority of people in France. But being sans lave-linge? I don't recommend it!

I'm also realizing how sort of sad it is that I'm THIS excited about a household machine. Am I turning into Martha freaking Stewart now?

(Uh... not bloody likely.)

First tree

Our first Christmas tree. Decorations by the Little Guy (with some assistance from his "helper" -- me).

I would have liked a slightly bigger tree to commemorate our first Christmas together (although I DID buy one special ornament for the occasion), but since we were going to be away for so much of the holidays I knew it would be as dry as kindling by the time we got back. So my idea was that if we got a small LIVE tree that still had its roots, I could re-pot it and water it a lot before we left, and it would still be fresh and green when we got home. I also had a hope that maybe I could keep it alive during the year in the courtyard with all the other plants, and then we'd have a tree to re-use again next year, and wouldn't that be environmentally smart?

Well, it didn't quite work out that way. The person who was taking care of the cat while we were gone was also supposed to water the tree but I think maybe she forgot, and the tree was brittle and sagging by the time we got home. I watered it immediately, but it was too late -- no hope for survival. Still, we lit it up and put the presents from Père Noel underneath and enjoyed it anyway. Now, it's outside, still in its pot in the freezing cold with bits of snow stuck to it's lifeless branches, fit only for the poubelle.

"Best laid plans" and all that... well, next year we can get a taller cut tree, I guess. They don't really seem to "do" fake trees here... I'm not sure I've ever seen one for sale and we have no place in which to store it off-season anyway.

The After-mas

We are back in Paris at last! On the one hand it felt like we'd been gone for ages, and on the other it felt like our visit in the States went too quickly because we really enjoyed ourselves. Many thanks and much love to my family for their hospitality over the entire 11 days. Georges especially enjoyed playing pool with my brother-in-law and his brother, and my niece and nephew. I played once as well but of course I totally suck at it, although Georges is good at coaching me and giving me pointers.

We came home yesterday morning to a dark house: no electricity! Something had tripped the circuit breakers, and this morning we discovered what it was -- our washing machine has sprung a leak, and I guess it shorted out the electricity which is actually a good thing rather than having a fire start! So for the moment we have a non-working washing machine plus a non-working dishwasher (pipe leaking behind it -- we knew about that one before we left for NJ), and a leaking pipe under the kitchen sink which has been that way for a while but which has gotten worse. Is Mercury in retrograde or something, and does it cause plumbing/machinery malfunctions? 'Cuz we've sure got our share right now.

Consequently, I spent an hour or so today at the local laundromat catching up on the laundry. At least it's close by, right on the corner about 40 paces from our building, and on a Monday afternoon it was nearly deserted so I could run three loads of wash at once. We had come home to a spotlessly clean house thanks to our cleaning lady who erased any latent evidence of teenager parties that we are certain occurred in our absence, despite our "no parties!" mandate. Yeah, like THAT was gonna work, right? Because they're teenagers and of COURSE they're going to party when the parents are out of sight. We figure the neighbors will give us the low-down while complaining about the noise level at the same time. Anyway, although the house WAS clean and neat yesterday, it is now back to its usual chaotic state thanks to suitcases, our food shopping delivery and things not being 100% put away, and the mess of wet towels and buckets in the laundry room area which is also our bathroom/pantry/cleaning supplies area. I hate seeing the house in a messy state so soon after coming home, but I'm trying to see it for what it is: temporary.

On the brighter side, the Little Guy is back with us for this last week of his Christmas school break and he arrived at the house to discover that Père Noel had left some goodies for him here, as well as what he already received on Christmas! That Père Noel sure is a nice old guy; he even left extra packets of M&Ms and mini-Nestle's Crunch and Dove Bells for the entire family, in addition to what he left in the kids' stockings under the tree, only he had the foresight to hide them in the kitchen cabinet where we keep all the snack foods. The Little Guy has been enjoying all his new gifts, and we're enjoying his enjoyment! I was so happy to seen him when Georges brought him back... I really missed him while we were gone. He's too cute for words sometimes.

The older kids will migrate back to the house some time over the coming week, and it will be good having them back, too; the oldest is actually skiing with his girlfriend somewhere in the French alps, so we probably won't see him for another week at least, and his 20th birthday is next week! La jolie fille has school holidays this week as well, and I'm guessing she'll come and go with her boyfriend and her friends for the most part. C'est normal around here and probably normal for every family with teenagers; we ought to install a revolving door in place of our front entrance! They'll have gifts waiting for them, too, when they finally decide to put in an appearance. Next year we're hoping to get everyone's Christmas schedule coordinated so we are ALL here together for at least part of the school holidays.

So life is back to "the usual" already, and we're just back a day already... food shopping, faulty plumbing, a cat that can't seem to keep her food down despite wanting to eat ALL THE TIME (also normal for her, I'm afraid) and needing to deal with my French bank which for some reason blocked usage of my debit card while in the US even though it works fine here and it worked fine the last time I was in the States (yeah, we tried calling the bank from New Jersey but of course never did get a straight answer or a call back from anyone).

We're hoping a few friends will decide to drop by and drink some left-over wedding champagne with us on New Year's Eve, because we're planning on staying home and doing exactly that (and we can't drink 18 bottles by ourselves!)

This pretty much sums up the after-math of our holiday and our rentrée to France, other than to say the flight home to Paris was fine, albeit running about an hour late on account of very foggy conditions in NJ, and that yes, I have the usual crippling jet lag to get past.

I also have a lot that I am grateful for, when I think back over the past year and how much my life has grown, expanded and changed all in 12 short months' time. A year ago today, I was still in NJ on holiday without Georges and missing him like crazy; my grandmother had just died at the age of 95 and I was planning her funeral to take place just before I left for France again; and I had told my family I would most likely be getting married in the coming year because Georges was the One. And even though I'd only been with him for two months, the writing had been on the wall from the beginning and as far as I was concerned, that was that and everything else was just a matter of time and taking things as they came.

Now here I am: a wife, a step-mother, a resident of la belle France, and of course, still a writer with a lot of big ideas who also needs a big push now and again to make them happen (same old story there). My washing machine and dishwasher may be on the fritz, my banks (on both sides of the ocean) may be driving me crazy, but that's just about the "stuff". And the stuff will work itself out eventually.

What matters is the love and the life we have built together, me and Georges. We're still evolving as a family, I'm still getting adjusted to the language and culture, and the kids and I are still getting to know each other better, and all of those things will continue to take time. Yet at the core is love. Unconditional, beautiful, abundant, radiant, profound, bold LOVE.

Can you think of a better way to end the old year and start the new? I can't.

In short

Too busy.
Can't write.
Quick update.
Husband home.
From India.
Safe, sound.
Very relieved.
Kids fine.
MUCH work.
Clients nagging!
Projects overdue.
Hair pulling.
Maalox-popping.
Stress eating.
Weight gaining.
Still coughing.

Dammit.

Scenes from a step-mother's weekend

With Georges still away on business and this being our weekend with the Little Guy, I was on solo step-mom duty for the past few days. This didn't faze me much, as I've spent entire weekends with my sister's kids as their designated auntie/babysitter on many occasions when they were younger. And the Little Guy and I get along very well despite the fact that I'm still not fluent in French (he is my petit professeur in that respect).

Still, it's a lot of work entertaining a 7-year-old pretty much on your own, and that's why blogging was out of the question the past few days. I'm only blogging now because it's 7:22 am and I haven't woken the boy up for school yet. And my own brain isn't firing on all cylinders yet, either, so forgive me if this isn't Jane Austen (ummm... not that it ever is). I just wanted to capture some highlights of my weekend:

• Having a small face peek into the bedroom door early in the morning, then having a small person run and jump on the bed to wake me up with a big smile on his face;
• Making shadow puppets on the wall;
• Having him lose his 5th tooth during lunch out at Hippopotamus (a family-friendly restaurant chain in France - they give free coloring books, pencils and balloons);
• Going to a small aquarium with him and our neighbors, and watching his enthusiasm for all the fishes and especially the crocodiles;
• Getting to make sure the "souris" (mouse, a.k.a. the French Tooth-Fairy) did her job properly, and she did, leaving the Little Guy 2 euros and a book about the friendship between a village and a vegetarian talking crocodile;
• Doing a daily webcam with Georges so he could be caught up on what we've been up to, and also see the space where the tooth used to be;
• Having him eat the meals I cooked without much of a fuss at all;
• Playing computer games together and watching how quick his mind is when he's doing problem-solving;
• Watching "E.T." together and loving it when he laughed out loud, and also when he patted my cheek during the sad parts at the end (did I look like I might cry? Wouldn't be the first time I've cried at that movie);
• Having a small hand to hold as we walked around the city;
• Reading together every night at bedtime -- very good practice for my French, by the way;
• Lots of lovely hugs and kisses pretty much all of the time.

All in all, in spite of being tired and having a little bit of a headache this morning, it was just one very special weekend for me.

P.S. Just had to add one: after walking him to school, hand in hand, and exchanging bisous at the door -- having him turn around once he's inside, look for me, and wave with a big smile. Doesn't get any better than this.

Blogging promotes domestic bliss

I now have scientific proof (OK, maybe not SO scientific) that blogging can foster better communications between domestic partners.

After reading the post I wrote the other day about our morning routine, Georges came into my office laughing, and said, "Mon amour, I loved your post. And I had to read it to learn that you have been putting THREE sugars in my bowl of coffee."

"Oh! Is that too much? I was putting in two sugars when you were drinking coffee in a mug, but the bowl is so much bigger I thought two wouldn't be enough! Why didn't you TELL me it was too sweet?"

So my husband has been drinking too-sweet coffee for weeks, without telling me it was too sweet, so I had no idea. And he had no idea I had added a sugar cube.

Until the blog.

One morning in a Parisian life

It's 6:45 am. The alarm is set for 7, but through my foggy brain I realize I seem to have been awakened early, by... by what? Oh, that's right... Georges is snuggling closer to me, every so slightly awake as well. What probably awakened us both was his daughter in the room directly above us, getting herself up and ready for school, the sound of doors opening and closing, footsteps as she moves through her own morning routine.

We laze in bed for that precious 15 minutes, curled up together, drifting in and out of sleep again until the familiar beep-beep-beep of the alarm begins. I hit snooze to buy us a few extra minutes. We murmur things to each other, sweet things, loving things, some in French, some in English, some in Franglish. This is one of my favorite parts of my day, the part where we wake up and just enjoy BEING, together. The cat, outside our door, hears us whispering (she could hear a flea belch at 50 paces, that one) and instantly starts yowling to be fed; she's like our back-up alarm clock and she's relentless, too. The only "snooze" alarm she has is a full stomach.

Finally he gets up to face The Beast (I mean, the cat) and feed her so she won't attack me when I get up to make the coffee; she is both impatient and vicious when she wants food, one of the most neurotic animals I've ever seen. He flips on the radio and I hear the dulcet (ha!) tones of the French broadcaster. Still talking about Obama and the U.S. elections of course; the French love discussing politics, ANY politics. I turn on the light, drag myself into an upright position, grab my reading glasses, and throw on a robe and my summer flip-flops from Saint Tropez which I now prefer to slippers as long as it's not too cold.

I shuffle slowly into the kitchen like a sleep-walker, where he's leaning against the counter, listening half-catatonically to the radio. We are neither of us "morning people" but it's both a school day and a work day again, the first day after the Toussaint holidays. I put my head against his chest and rest there a moment while he puts his arms around me, drawing me in close for a calin and a kiss. I sigh, and then say, "OK, coffee's coming" while he moves off in the direction of the shower. A moment later I hear the water running.

I begin the usual breakfast routine: cups, glasses, plates, spoons, knives. Sugar cubes in coffee bowl/cup: three for him (he gets the bowl, French style) and two for me. I slice an "English" muffin and pop it in the toaster. Place the butter and confiture on the table. Pour the juice. Prepare some things for the Little Guy who is still upstairs sleeping. When Georges and I were first living together, he used to tell me to stay in bed and sleep in, but then I noticed he never ate breakfast, just drank some O.J. and headed off for work. Soon I started getting up with him, just to make sure he'd eat something to start his day with energy. Now he confesses how much he likes the feeling of being taken care of when I make breakfast for him, even though it's just a toasted muffin, juice and coffee. I'm no domestic goddess and he cooks most of the dinners, so now I look forward to being the Breakfast Queen because it's my way of doing something loving for him, something I know he enjoys and appreciates. Plus it gives us a little extra time to spend together, whether or not the kids are here with us, and if they are here then the more the merrier.

La Fille comes downstairs ready for school with her book bag and makes herself something to eat, and we say our good mornings. Georges comes back all shaved and showered and so handsome, and we have our breakfast before he goes up to wake his son. She eventually goes to catch the bus and says she will be home for dinner tonight (I always have to ask because we never quite know what her schedule is, being a busy 17-year-old). Georges carries the Little Guy downstairs; he's too sleepy yet to walk down our spiral staircase, and he curls up in a ball on the sofa trying to catch a few more zzzz's. Eventually we wake him up enough so he can dress himself, then a hug from me turns into me carrying him to the table. He's a picky eater most times and this day is one of them, but his Papa gets him to eat something and drink some juice, then brush his teeth. In his sleepy morning state, he's soft and affectionate and clingy this morning; we won't see him until a week from now because we have to go out of town to visit Georges' sister.

Finally, it's time: my "boys" have to leave. They bundle themselves into coats and hats and gloves; the Little Guy has his cartable on his back and Georges has his laptop, comme d'habitude. All is ready, except for the goodbye kisses and "bonne journées" all around. The door closes... alone again, naturally. Well, except for Psycho Cat.

If it weren't for the French guy on the radio that is still playing in the kitchen, I realize I could be anyplace, living this morning life with my new family.

Then I smile. Because I'm not just anyplace. I don't have to pinch myself to wake up from the dream, the dream of living in Paris. Because I AM living in Paris. Really LIVING.

Hooky

Remember when you were a kid, how great it was to play hooky from school once in a while? Of course it was never fun being home sick if you were really sick, but sometimes if you were just a little under the weather, your mom might let you stay home. Or if you got a snow day (for those of us living in snowy climates), that was the best EVER... listening to the radio hoping you'd hear your school's name in the list of school closings, you'd cheer out loud when you heard it. Even when I was a working adult in the corporate world, I'd take the occasional "mental health day" where I'd phone in sick even when I wasn't, just to give myself an unexpected day of fun or relaxation or just some much needed breathing room from my normal routine.

I'm playing a bit of hooky this week from my daily life. Georges is away on a business trip. All the kids are now out of the house on school holidays or trips. It's just me and the crazy cat here until Sunday.

I don't know what to do with myself.

It's not that I don't have dozens of things I could be doing. I have a closet I want to clean out and reorganize. I have clients clamoring for work I've promised them. I have a book of my own to write. And I have plenty of friends to catch up with here in town. For instance, I had a very nice afternoon today, despite the overly cold and now rainy weather here, where I first met Linda for lunch and for a visit to the Picpus Cemetery (more on that tomorrow) and then I later met Kyliemac for a hot chocolate at Starbucks near St. Michel. Starbucks isn't my favorite as it's too commercialized for my tastes but on a cold rainy day, I'll take it. It felt so great to get some time with some of my girlfriends and I plan to see other friends over the next few days as well.

Now I'm home, and everyone is finally gone. The last kid left this morning. With the time change, it turns dark much earlier. The rain is pouring down; I can hear it tap-tap-tapping on the skylight above my head as I echo my own tap-tap-tap on my keyboard.

I spent years being alone and most of the time, liking it quite a lot. Now... I feel strange. Something (someone) is definitely missing and there is a big hole there for the moment. Fortunately it's only for a few days and we have phone and SMS to keep in touch until then.

But it's strange, and rather interesting, how uncomfortable I feel being alone and knowing it's not just for a few hours (in which case I would relish the alone time) but for several more days. It's 6:45 pm and I have already put my warm cozy jammies on, having changed into comfortable dry clothing as soon as I got home off the overcrowded rush hour metro. I have a scrumptious glass of pineau des charentes close at hand to warm me up... because my central loving husband is out of town and we have no fireplace, so good liquor is the next best thing.

Just one more way in which I am still adjusting to married/family life. This time, I'm getting used to the occasional time apart; not loving it, but tolerating it. And mostly just counting the minutes until he walks in the door and I can run into his arms again.

Playing hooky isn't as much fun as I thought it would be.

Snippets

Bits and pieces of my daily life -- just so you don't get the idea I'm swimming in a bathtub full of champagne EVERY day (we only usually do THAT on Tuesdays when the kids aren't home):

Took the bus to go to the Social Security office, to get an attestation that I am now linked to Georges' insurance coverage. But was so tired this morning that I somehow took the wrong bus, realized it immediately and got off at the next stop, and had to walk back to get the RIGHT bus. Upside: I got the attestation which now means I can get HEALTH CARE COVERAGE AT LAST! Will go to pharmacie tomorrow to stock up, and make my next doctor's appointment ASAP. Also need: dentist, gyno and eye exam. Americans freak out at the word "Socialism" because they think it's spitting distance from there to Communism (and it's not) but you know what? This is the first time since 1998 that I've had good health care coverage that isn't costing me thousands of dollars a year in insurance premiums and high co-pays. And what a relief THAT is.

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Stopped at a Chinese supermarket and had a great time stocking up on little dim sums and nems for dinner tomorrow night. I picked up a bamboo steamer a couple of weeks ago and we're putting it to good use. We also got, as a wedding gift from our neighbors, a really nice set of little cook books, and we just love them and are putting those to good use, too. Georges' daughter even started leaving Post-its on the recipes she'd like us to make, or maybe she'll cook one night. It means we're getting more variety in our diet and we're less bored with the usual fare. And I'm picking up some new vocab along the way, too; for example, "estragon" is French for TARRAGON... not ESTROGEN.

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My step-daughter had some kind of little flu or virus this week, which gave me an opportunity to be a little nurturing for her. Thank God I had several packs of Ramen noodle soup, chicken flavor, because it was the only thing she could eat all day yesterday. And she even tried my American Pepto-Bismol tablets to avoid drinking the nasty-tasting Smecta, which works better than Pepto but tastes horrible.

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Tonight my older step-son did his own laundry, learning to use the new washing machine for the first time (OK, I did talk him through it and made sure he separated his whites from the dark colors first). Then, when he was hanging up his laundry to dry, he even took it upon himself to hang a bag of other wet laundry as well, without being asked. It's a minor miracle. Picture me smiling from ear to ear... and hoping this is the sign of a new trend, the end of "Hotel Marcadet".

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Today I told our cleaning woman that I loved her, really loved her. She cleaned the oven today, on her own initiative, while I was running around taking the wrong bus to Social Security and shopping for dim sum. Proof once again that she is worth every centime. I am tempted to slip her an extra 20 (euros, not centimes) this month for tackling that oven... well worth not having to do it myself.