Just Two Years

THE NEW BLOG...

2010-03-17T13:44:00.000-07:00

www.way2homestead.blogspot.com

Come see what I'm doing now!!!

The End

2010-03-03T10:17:00.000-08:00

Yeah, so, it took almost a month to get on here. Wonder why. Part of it was chaos. Part of it was transition. But I bet a lot of it was procrastination because I'm just not ready to let you all go, yet. I mean, sure, I know many (most? all?) of you will follow me over to the new blog, but you know, I don't expect the new one to be that exciting. While I have already been tempted to write about a few of the characters I've met since I've been here, I don't have the same freedom here as I do over there. People here understand English and are pretty familiar with the verb "to google"... What happens if they find my new blog and read all the little things I'm writing about them? I care. In France, I didn't really. I knew I was there for two years and that I would be going home and that it was okay to be brutally honest. But here? I plan on being here for close to forever. I don't want to make enemies or burn bridges--something that wasn't as much of a concern while I was in France.

That said, I do hope you'll follow me. Though there'll be less of my own PERSONAL drama on the new blog, you'll get to see our (cuz I feel like you're in this with me if you've been reading this long) little dream come to fruition. You'll get to see the joys and complications involved with starting up your own self-sustaining homestead. Of course, there'll also be less of the cultural analysis--there'll be some, but it'll be more vague and much more anonymous for the above-mentioned reasons.

Okay, wanna know the run down?

The flight out of Lyon went just fine. We were a little late getting onto the plane because for some reason, between the time we checked in and the time we boarded, Lufthansa had CANCELED Sam's ticket. Mmmhmmm you read that right. They assured us it wouldn't affect our next flight or any of the bags and helped us out to the plane. The flight to Munich was without any further incident. It was actually kind of funny because Sam and I both sat with one of the girls and Ryan sat in the row behind me next to a guy who spoke English. SO, Ryan talked to him the whole flight. The stuff that comes out of that kid's mouth.

That, and as we flew over the Alps and the Jura mountains, we got some great aerial shots. We got in to Munich about 20 minutes before our international flight was supposed to take off. We rush as fast as we can through the airport but calm down when we see that there are another 300 people going through the same little security gate we're going through. We got through security and then got directly on the plane. When we got ON the plane, of course, though they said that the mix-up in Lyon wouldn't affect the Munich flight, it DID. They had given Sam's seat away, so there was a person sitting right smack dab in our row of five seats. So, we had to coax her to move. I was ready to flash my best smile and invite her to help my husband take care of our three kids while I went up and sat in Business Class where our other seat was supposed to be. She did hem and haw and sigh and moan a leeeetle bit, but I think she saw the situation pretty clearly when both Lolo and Lily started to scream and fight and cry and Ryan started in with the "But I want"s. She got up and got the hell out of there.

Then, as only they can do when you're completely stressed out, a flight attendant came by and started giving us shit about our car seat. *eye roll* We have made this trip HOW MANY times? I'm so sick of dealing with people who have a teensy bit of power using it to fuck with other people:

"Well, ma'am, I'm fine with it but the pursor has said that the baby will not be able to ride in it in take off and landing."

"Oh," I plaster on my sarcastically polite smile. "A new law? Because to be frank, we make this trip twice a year and have done so for six years, so if there's a new law..."

"How old is the child?"

The child? *eye roll* Don't get me started. "She's two and a half, but I can tell you right now, though she fits in the space without the car seat, she will not stay there and it will not be a pleasant flight for anyone if she's not buckled down. That's includes the crew."

I had my sleeves rolled up ready to duke it out with her but Sam, for once, stepped in with some sang froid and said, "Well, do you have one of those seat belt exenders for kids? Would it be okay if she sits on my lap for take off and landing and THEN we fasten her into the car seat?"

"Yes, that's fine, if you are okay with that." She looks at me.

"Sounds like a great plan!" I say, with some surprise that it was Sam's idea (he's not usually the one coming up with solutions, as you know).

The rest of the flight was fine. I with Lily and Ryan. They both watched TV, ate and slept and drew and didn't pitch any kind of major fits and didn't spend too much time with their feet kicking the seat in front of them. The dude sitting next to Ryan was a German dude and Germans have this cool love of children in general (I'm not trying to generalize, but Germans really do seem to have this culture of child-love... that whole "it takes a village" mentality), so he helped Ryan in and out of his seatbelt, helped him with his dinner and let Ryan kick and push on him the whole time he napped. And the dude did it very matter-of-factly... very fatherly as if it was just normal for him to do it. I thought maybe he WAS someone's father (maybe he is) but he seemed to be a butch-ish homosexual traveling with three other closely-placed similarly homosexual men. *shrug* (that doesn't mean they weren't all dads... just seemed interesting how natural it seemed for him to help out)...

ANYHOO... all went well until time for us to land. Things got bumpy and Ryan puked up his nasty little spicy breakfast sandwich they had given him (first time for me to ever actually NEED one of those airline puke bags... handy little suckers...). Luckily, looked at me and said, "Mom, I'm going to throw up." And then, he sorta waited until I got the bag ready before he made good on the announcement. He was white like a sheet. *shudder*

We got there and zoomed through the border because there were so very few Americans on the flight that we were in the short line--thank the UNIVERSE for dual citizenship! BUT, in spite of the rest of the smoothness, as soon as we got to the baggage carousel, I got a bad feeling. And my gut was right. They had left ALL but ONE of our NINE bags back in Munich. We had ONE bag. Guess what was in that one? The TOP half of our car seats, some diapers and our air mattress. LOL! So, we had a bed to sleep on, dipes for the Lolo, but were screwed if we wanted to change clothes or actually have the kids sit in the rental car.

This British lady who I've actually seen before was working near the carousel and told me that she could get one of the airlines to lend me car seats after I reported our luggage. After I described in detail every piece of the left luggage, she told me that there wouldn't be any more flights in from Munich until Monday afternoon. That meant no clothes for two days. No sweat. I know where Goodwill is.

Sam went down to the Enterprise desk to get the car, while I went and waited in line to borrow the car seats (I won't go into it but the asses at the U.S. Airways were douchebags about the whole things, finally making a copy of my driver's license so I wouldn't try to run off with their ratty, scabes-infested car seats, *eye roll* I expect nothing less from U.S. Air... Par for the course, crappy airline!). All I wanted at that point (having slept only half an hour in the plane) was to get my family to the hotel. As we got on the bus to head to the Enterprise, I looked at Sam and scowled, "Well, you got what you wanted!" And this was referring to something Sam said right after we had gotten on the international flight when a flight attendant came and asked to see our baggage claim receipts: "Well, with any luck, they'll lose our bags and deliver them to the hotel for us. Or maybe all the way to Virginia!"

Sam answered with a tired smile. He was relieved. True. Because it would have been impossible to get all of our bags to the hotel in one trip. So, I was grateful to fate as well, but I would have been MORE grateful if we could have had the bag with the bottom halves of the car seats. Or maybe the one with the kids' clothes in it. Still, no problem. Goodwill.

We got a Chevy Impala and after about 5 miles, I was screaming at Sam to let me drive. I HATE the way he drives (like a French dude) and I don't drive in France. Once I'm in the States and CAN drive, it's all over for Sam driving unless I am physically debilitated. So, he pulled over and for the first time in months, I felt some healing seep into my tired mind. Driving is SO soothing to me!

At the hotel, we got in, got our shoes off and sent Sam down to try out the Drury Inn's new complimentary dinner buffet. Oh sure, it's junk food. And the microwaved from frozen fast food, but it was free and we weren't in the mood to move. We hosed the kids down, threw them in the bed and conked out.

I woke up at 4. Starving. We held out until about 5:30 before I finally said that one of us (Sam) should go down and check to see if there was ANYTHING of the breakfast put out yet. Sure enough, Sam came back to say that there was fruit, donuts, cereal and bagels. It was all I needed to hear. We rushed down there and ate (where the kids rediscovered their love for bananas) while Sam pouted about not getting to have hot breakfast that wasn't set to be served until 7:30.

After eating, we went back to the room where the kids re-discovered Nogging (Nick, Jr.) which is one of their favorite channels. More fun than Disney and NO COMMERCIALS! In the mean time, I wrote Rachel to see if she was up. My plan was to buy some milk and donuts and take 'em over to her house and loiter until they got ready to go to mass, at which point, my family could go to Goodwill to find an outfit each (so we could all take a real shower). And that's what we did.

Rachel looked awesome. Bulbous and obviously psychologically/emotionally/physically ready to pop out her new baby girl. Her other three kids--angels straight from heaven, full of love and spunk--tackled us with love and hugs and screams of joy. They shared their toys with my toy-starved children and ate donuts with us.

Sam said, as we left, "Maybe you'll have it before I go back to France." Rachel gave him a look like, "Don't tease me." I remember being that ready to get a baby out. What I like to call the "get-it-OUT" weeks.

We went to Target. Sam and the girls napped as Ryan and I found some toiletries and sandwich makings. Then we went to Goodwill, where Sam and the girls napped while Ryan and I found outfits for all of the kids and a sweatshirt hoodie for Sam (but nothing for me because just when I was getting ready to look for myself, Sam started calling and hounding me).

Back at the hotel, more TV and finally a nap for me. Sandwiches for lunch. Still no shower for me because I HATE to put dirty clothes on a clean body (or vice versa, *shudder*)... Kids can recycle clothes, but grown-ups are gross. We went back out towards the mall so the kids could play, but the play area was closed. So, we had a quick pretzel at Auntie Anne's before dipping into Borders for a book I meant to buy back in October (sequel to Octavian Nothing). Get this, as I'm standing there paying, this pretty chick walks up to me and says, "You know what? I'm the one who wrote you about having read your blog." And then she told me her name, L. She had recognized Sam from my pictures on the blog. Isn't that some cool shit!?! She herself is a mom who goes back and forth between two countries (here and India) and can relate to a lot of the crap I've been through. Plus, if I remember correctly, she speaks French (sorry, L, if I got that wrong... I've had an organ removed since then and am not quite over the trauma, LOL).

I wished I could stay there and hang out with her and talk to her and get to know her, but Sam was shooting I'm-sick-of-these-kids-let's-go darts at my head with his eyes. So, we left. And after a quick dinner of hotel junk food, we all conked out.

The next day, I was SO excited. After breakfast, we were going to go to Target, get a TV, go to Goodwill and get me some clothes so I could take a shower, run back to the hotel so I could get ready and THEN, I was going to my sling party I had organized weeks before! (Back when I was still pregnant... truth be told, I sorta organized it for someone else... and then, I ended up making it more about Flavia who was actually really interested in looking at different slings, so even though I wasn't pregnant any longer, I was very excited about finding something cheap and used for Flavia so she wouldn't have to spend a freakin' fortune on something--I still haven't found any decent thrift stores in France, *shrug*). And THEN, AFTER the sling party, in which I'd be able to spend some time with other moms WITHOUT my children and butthole husband there, I was going to get to come back to the hotel to my LUGGAGE!!! TV, shower, party and luggage all in one day. And then the next day would be about moving to my homestead.

Well, all of these plans came to an abrupt halt as we stood in Target looking at TVs. As the girl told us the TV we wanted was sold out, I was struck by the strange feeling I was hungry. We had just eaten, so I knew what that meant. I was about to have a gall stone attack. That meant that I was going to have to go to the ER. That I was going to miss the sling party that was ALL MY IDEA. That I was going to miss meeting some kick ass people I've been talking to online for a couple of years. I was mad and in major pain.

Sam dropped me off at the ER where within roughly half an hour, I was in a room getting hooked up to an IV and getting morphine (which didn't work). They took me in to do another ultrasound to confirm my stones and then put me back into another room where they gave me a stronger form of morphine that worked IMMEDIATELY. The lingering pain went away. People cared about my story and shared their stories with me. The nurse teared up when I explained what had happened with Aaron. TEARS, yo. A lady in the waiting room actually bowed her head and started praying for me aloud. Whereas I might have been a little uncomfortable with that at another period of my life, that day, it just brought tears to my eyes that a complete stranger could love me. It made me remember. I had become a turtle during my time in Frogland... hardening myself and shutting myself away in order to protect myself from the constant scrutiny and rejection and here was this little old stranger woman chipping away at my shell.

It sucked to miss my party. It sucked to be zonked out on meds the rest of the day. It sucked to miss getting to see Rach again. But it was AWESOME to be home in so many other ways.

BUT, then, it sucked that the airport delivery dude said he'd be at our hotel before 3:30 only to have him show up at 7:30 (DOUCHE) and have him threaten me that we wouldn't have our bags until we gave him back the ratty ass car seats *eye roll* whatever... felt like France or something. Then again, I doubt the airline has car seats they lend out to parents in France.

We ate crap hotel buffet food and sandwiches and went to bed early.

The next morning, we got up super early, called our ex-neighbors who live next door to our house in Charlotte and woke them up. We went to the grocery store, grabbed some bagels and cream cheese and headed to their house. We dropped off breakfast and our kids there and headed off to ge our Uhaul. We got it and then hauled ass to our storage space. With the two of us working, we were able to load the truck within an hour. Afterwards, I raced back to the hotel, grabbed our bags and checked out, all before late checkout deadline and then zoomed back to the neighbors' house. We ate a quick bagel, squeezed our neighbors, picked up our lawn equipment from them (plus a dehumidifier they gave us for our basement that I suspect we won't need to use based on my dry flaky skin), picked up our kids and headed out to VA.

Okay, so, we drive the 3.5 hours to get up here before it gets too dark (it starts getting dusky around 4:30pm right now, not DARK, but dusky if you know what I mean). All month long, George (my contractor and friend) has been warning me that I might want to rent a 4x4 because I'm not going to be able to get up my driveway, but when he sends me pix, I can't see the "ruts" he's talking about and I sorta chalk it up to his being from Jersey. And the whole drive up, there's no snow anyway.......... UNTIL we get across the Virginia state line... It starts in patches. Then becomes fields. Then drifts. Then, shimmering white spanses of ice. I'm starting to bite my lip with worry.

Before we left Charlotte, I called my neighbor Mr. F and asked him if he'd mind taking a look at the driveway, doing what he could to it and letting me give him a little cash. He said he'd smooth over the driveway, but wouldn't take any cash since I'm already letting him use our outbuilding for free. I thought that was cool of him. He told me to call when I was about an hour out. So, I did. He said I should call back if I get stuck. I figured I'd see him later in the week.

I start up the driveway in the Impala and I'm holding my breath the whole time. And I do slide a bit, but I get up the driveway. Well, up until the last hill. I start to spin out. So, I see a little back out spot. So, I back up into it and face the car back down the hill so I can make a speedy getaway before it gets dark and will have gravity on my side. I leave the kids in the car about 12 feet from our new house and I go up there. I let myself in and pee and do one of those Cinderella ballroom spins in my new living room. I'm torn between bliss and fear.

I walk back out toward the car and Sam calls from the Uhaul. "I'm stuck." My heart creeps up until it's a huge constipated lump in my throat. I hear a voice in my head, This is your fault. You're weak. You're a quitter. You shouldn't be moving here. Should have stayed put. Sam's going to be angry. The Uhaul will be damaged. The road will need to be fixed. You'll have to stay in a hotel and it'll all be so so so expensive. All your fault.

I call Mr. F. He says he's coming over with his tractor, so I get back in the car with the kids and start giving them a snack and some water. After a good half hour, it's dark in the woods and it's only 4:45. I put the car into gear and head back down the hill. We won't be able to stay in the house that night and I'm crushed with guilt and disillusionment. And doubt. And ANGER. Why can't I just catch a break?

When I get down to Sam, I see him talking to Mr. F whose tractor is parked behind the Uhaul. I keep wringing my hands because I'm scared we'll damage the truck. Sam comes up to the car and says he got the truck unstuck. Mr. F comes up and shakes hands.

"The truck won't make it up there," I say, nearly crying.

"I bet *I* can get it up there," Mr. F insists. And I sorta believe him but I don't want to imagine at what price. The truck needs to be returned in the morning and I'm afraid if we get it up to the house, it won't come back down.

I shake my head no.

We start to discuss options:
* We can park the truck at the bottom of the hill and take the car to the house.
- I veto that because I don't want the truck to be stuck and frozen. Plus, I don't know what all is in the truck; I don't want to rish anything freezing. It has spent nearly two years in a climate-controlled storage space.

* We can park the truck at the Food Lion and take the car to the house.
- No WAY am I leaving my grandmother's china, my family Bibles, my hand-crocheted heirloom stuff from my great-great-grandmother, etc.in a parking lot to tempt someone. Just not work the risk

A few more options get thrown around, but I've already got it stuck in my head that the only solution right now is to get a night in a hotel and SOON before it's too late. I don't mind the Uhaul being in a parking lot under a flood light with security cameras and parked in plain sight of our hotel room.

So, we go to the local library. I'm trying not to cry as I go to Expedia and find us a night in the Extended Stay. We get there and while they are nice downstairs, the room is a joke. I felt like my feet were going to go crashing through the floor if I stepped too heavily. Even though we've paid over $100 there is no breakfast. Not even continental (we stayed in a Marriott Extended Stay in Charlotte before moving to France and they had all kinds of breakfast goodies you could carry back to your room). And there was no free internet. Had to pay $5 for it. I felt like I was on a U.S. Airways flight.

But it was a bed and a place to think and strategize.

As soon as we got there, I sent Sam to Little Caesar's down the street for some pie. I came up with a plan:

In order to be able to turn our Uhaul back in, we would go to a nearby storage place and rent one for a month. We'd unload our truck and just give ourselves a month to find a way to get it to our house. George has a big 4x4 and is very helpful so I figured maybe he'd help us out. There really wasn't much, anyway.

That solved that and it would save us from having to pay another night of Uhaul AND keep us from having to lug that stuff around.

But we'd still need a way up that drive way if we didn't want to stay another night in a hotel. And we DIDN'T wanna stay another night in a hotel. The whole point was to sleep out at our house and SAVE ourselves the $100+ per night and use that toward "setting up house" expenses, etc. But how the hell were we going to get back up there?

While we ate pizza, Sam tooled around on the internet.

"Hey, Mama, come look at these cars for sale," Sam called through a mouth full of pizza.

"Not right now," I grumbled and went into the bathroom to take a hot bath. I needed to deal with some of the guilt knots that had taken up residence in my shoulders and back.

Afterwards, I felt better. The kids slept. Sam, too, was half asleep. I went over to the computer to look at the cars Sam was surfing. Camry. Camry. Camry-esque car. I shook my head. There'd be no Camry. Not until we got the road fixed. I scrolled down and a red Jeep jumped out at me. 2007. 31k miles on it. Seats 5. Not GREAT gas mileage but not a Hummer, either. I saw the message "4x4" written next to it and then saw that it was the same price as a Camry.

"Sam, come look at this!"

He sprouted out of bed, panting, awakened from a bad dream. "Dude!"

"Come look at this SUV."

"Yeah, right," he said, about to lie back down.

"Seriously. Go look at it. It's the perfect compromise," I said, yawning and walking back to the bed, brushing my hair. "We need that Jeep."

Sam snorted.

"Buy me that Jeep."

I fell asleep staring at his face lit by the blue light of my computer.

Around 5am I awoke and left in search of breakfast. As I drove around, I noted a business here and a business there, memorizing. This is what I do when I move to a new place. Reconnaissance. I drive around and observe and note landmarks. Places that may be of use to me later. I considered going to a bakery, it's windows all foggy and steamy, but kept driving because what I really needed was more sandwich stuff for the rest of the day, not just breakfast. I found a Kroger, shopped, got a Shopper's card and came back to the hotel.

I rolled up my sleeves and got onto the net while the bagels toasted. I found a storage place just down the road from our hotel. I found the DMV just down the road from the storage place. I wrote down all sorts of information, soaking up as much internet access as I could since I knew I wouldn't have any until we went back to Rustburg.

After I hounded the shit out of him and ended up calling the storag place myself (because Sam didn't believe they'd be open before 9, THEY WERE), I talked him into going to the storage place to unload the Uhaul and gave him strict instructions to go straight to the dealership afterwards and buy my Jeep.

So, he did.

I nearly killed my kids those four hours we waited because they were being REALLY bad. I can't blame them. Stuck all day and night in either a hotel room or a car? What a frickin' drag! And no toys either!

Sam called to say that he was driving the Jeep out to the house to see if it'd make it up the hill. He called again to say that it did. And that he was coming back to see if all three car seats would fit in it. I figured that was a good opportunity for him to help me load the kids up because it was time to check out.

By then, the kids were good and tired, so they slept in the car as we waited in the dealership parking lot for Sam to take care of loan, insurance, etc. When he came back out, I followed him in the Impala out to the Uhaul pickup site and then we drove back into town to get the Jeep. We also stopped at Target to get our new TV.

We drove out to drop the Uhaul off at the Rustburg Uhaul drop-off site which actually ended up being a trailer in a FIELD in the middle of nowhere. I was VERY skeptical about leaving there because I could have sworn I heard someone playing the "Deliverance" theme (Dueling Banjos, btw) on a banjo nearby, but I called the Uhaul 800 number and they said that the place was a safe one, so with a shrug, I gave in as Sam left the keys somewhere in the truck and left one of the doors unlocked.

We drove back to Rustburg, loaded as much of our stuff as we could out of the Impala and into the Jeep and then made a trip up to the house. And sure as shit, that Jeep climbed straight on up the hill. I thought the kids were going to go CRAZY.

We let them into the house and they DID. Go crazy that is. Screaming and running around everywhere. It was all Sam and I could do not to yell at them. We had to keep reminding ourselves that there was NO DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR and that we were HOME and that they were KIDS and were finally fucking ALLOWED to be themselves. It was a strange, stressful, wonderful and liberating experience. I stayed at the house and tried to sweep up some of the dead bugs to keep the kids way from them while Sam took the Jeep back down to the Food Lion to unload the rest of the stuff from the Impala. When he got back to the house, I realized we still didn't have everything we needed. Most of the blankets, all of the dishes, etc. etc. were in the storage place. It'd be smart to take another night in a hotel, just to sleep, so we could regroup and prepare ourselves for a day of cleaning and organizing and, well, moving. So, that's what we did. We stayed in a Super 8 RIGHT down the street from the Extended Stay. It was $40 cheaper and they had breakfast. We went to dinner at Applebee's which the kids loved but which made me never wanna walk back in there again. Our waitress was cool and very interested in all of us, but dude, the grease. The crappy food. Even the beer I had remembered with nostalgia was sub-par. How can anyone mess up a Yuengling?

Ahem, sorry, but life stuff took me away from here for a good 36-hour detour, but I'm back to finish up (I hope). Where was I?

Oh yeah, the kids loved Applebee's. The waitress loved US. She told us so and then said that we'd HAVE to come back soon and often. I smiled and nodded but I can tell you it WON'T happen. Remember back in France when we went to the Buffalo Grill with the kids and how disappointed I was? Yeah, well, let's just say that I had some wicked deja vu at Applebee's with all the grease, etc. When we left, there must have been 60 plastic disposable kid's cups on our table. I get that waitresses don't carry pitchers around as often as they used to because of health codes and stuff but ALL THAT PLASTIC, yo. Straight into the trash. Choking the planet. *shudder*

ANYWHO, so, the next day, we load up on continental breakfast, go to the storage space and load up the Impala with a butt load of our stuff and take a trip to the house. Sam spends the day running the Jeep back and forth to Food Lion, the storage space and back up to the house until most of the stuff is there in the garage.

We made another run or two into town to get little odds and ends (and to "walk" the children, because even though we were then finally living out in the woods, the woods were covered in ice and snow too deep for them to play in and it was driving them stir crazy... Like a starving kid staring at a bakery's pastry case you know?).

That night, we slept on the air mattresses. I am naturally warm-blooded. I LIKE the cold. I like cold rooms. I like cold weather. I used to take ice cold baths and showers and I still prefer a lukewarm one when it's not winter. But that night, that first night on the air mattress, I turned into an icicle! I was really worried about having to do that again. On the one hand, it was AWESOME waking up to the sunrise peeking through the woods; on the other, I was petrified at the thought of sleeping on the mattress again. Our air shipment was scheduled to arrive that day, but there was NO WAY they were going to be able to get it up the driveway.

We went to the library to email them and tell them not to deliver to the house, but rather directly to our storage space. BUT, when we got there, there was an email telling US that because of bad storms, delivery of our shipment had been delayed. It was the best bad news we had received in days!!! We just crossed our fingers and prayed that the road would dry out enough for them to be able to deliver to the house.

The GOOD thing was that the phone had already been connected for us before we got there. So, that worked (though the line was VERY noisy). The bad thing was that the internet HADN'T because of some strange modem mix-up with our new provider. The problem with THAT was that the modem was scheduled to be delivered to us directly. By UPS. How the HECK was a UPS truck going to get to our place? It wouldn't.

Then, the satellite guy came out and said that there was too much snow and ice on our roof to affix the dishes to the eaves (the ONLY place they determined we would get any signal). So, we wouldn't have good phone, internet or TV for several days, maybe longer.

I decided to let it go. The kids would just have to deal. They'd have to play in the empty house and we'd just have to let them scream bloody murder as much as they wanted.

That night, I slept better. I put flannel sheets on our bed and slept in it fully dressed, snuggling up to my Lolo to keep warm and it worked. Then, lo and behold, as we woke up to get the day started, the air shipment guys arrived to unload stuff. Sam drove me down, kids in tow, to the Food Lion where we had been stashing our rental car, and dropped me off so I could go to a doctor's appointment to talk about getting my gall bladder removed.

That was crazy easy. I got there, waited ten minutes, filled out some paperwork, got shown to a room, sat and read my book for an admittedly short half hour, talked to a cute young doctor about all that was going on and got a referral for a surgeon. I explained to the doc that I needed to have gall bladder surgery before Sam left because otherwise I'd be left alone with Ryan during recovery. He said he didn't think it would be possible but that he would do his best. I left there with an appointment to see a surgeon. After I left, I went straight to the surgeon's office just to drop off my ultrasound printout from France and to go ahead and fill in my paperwork.

I stopped by Ryan's school to see what we'd need to get him in. A doctor's appointment and a form or two faxed from France. The doc's appt. went off without a hitch. The doctor (different one from mine but on the same team) said Ryan was great, hearing was fine, sight might need some amendment some day in the near future, but for now was fine. He wouldn't need any shots (Ryan liked that part). And voila! But Sam said that getting Ryan's school to fax us ANYTHING would be a pain in the ass. I told him to try anyway. He called Ryan's school in France. CLOSED for vacation and their phone Inbox was full and blocked. *eye roll* Ryan was so mad that he wouldn't be starting school right away, but part of me wondered if it wasn't a good thing to let him spend just one more week soaking up his sisters.

After we had made another trip or two to the storage space in the Impala, using the Jeep to get up and down the hill with it, I got the idea to check on-line how much it would be to simply drop off our Impala early because I figured, otherwise, it was going to spend two useless weeks in a parking lot doing nothing while we paid for it. Sam found out that we could drop it off and that we'd have to pay the $150 drive-back fee, but that even with that fee, we'd save nearly $200.

Okay, so to summarize all that, the first week was ROUGH, but somewhat productive. We were in the house. We had our luggage which meant we had clothes and reading material and toiletries. We had our Jeep, which I named Brutus the Wonder Jeep because it was short, stocky and stubbornly powerful, and so we didn't have to worry about transportation or whether or not we could get in and out of the BOG that was our driveway. We had our air shipment, which meant that we had TOYS, beds to sleep on, dishes, a couple of rugs and various other sundries. We went to Kroger and spent $400 on set-up groceries (including freezer stuff, flour, sugar, other baking essentials, spices, etc.) during which time I did my best to go organic and local and seasonal, but because I have other priorities right now (mainly saving money so we can fund our ROAD REPAIR), I had to make compromises.

The second week went smoother. The sun came out and started melting the snow. That made our driveway muddier for a day, but then it made it drier. I went to the library and got a library card and stocked up on books for the kids. Sam bought me an electric tea pot and a pancake griddle. So, I was already making homemade stuff--pancakes, biscuits, beans and rice, etc. because I had all my old appliances and a coupla new ones.

I went to see the surgeon. He was awesome. He looked at my ultrasound and said that the five stones in there combined with the four attacks (Oh yeah, didn't I tell you that I had an attack over the weekend? I did. Thank GOD the ER in Charlotte had given me some Percocet because I took two of those and the pain mostly subsided after about an hour), was evidence we needed to get 'em yanked out. He said the earliest he could do the surgery was the next Monday. I explained the Ryan factor. He left the room to talk to the hospital. He came back just a few minutes later and said that there was a time slot open on Thursday morning. That would be cutting it close as Sam would be leaving Saturday morning, but it would have to do. I couldn't say no. So, I agreed to the surgery and then the surgeon and I stood there shooting the shit about Europe and our respective impressions/experiences.

He sent me to pre-op, which was fine and easy except for the fact that the lady taking my blood asked me how my baby was doing. I guess she had seen on the form that I had recently had a baby, but didn't see the other side of the form where it said the baby had been stillborn. So, I had to explain. And she was kind and sweet and gentle and she told me how strong I was being. Same goes for the pre-op counselor who sat me down in her office and explained how everything was going to happen with the surgery. She wanted to hear the WHOLE story and for some reason, I really didn't mind telling her. It actually felt GOOD. It felt like therapy. And she actually came to tears and told me that I was an exceptionally strong and inspiring woman to have survived these experiences and THANKED me for sharing my story. She hugged me before I left.

The next day, I was driving the Brute somewhere to get something and I saw the UPS guy pull into our driveway as I pulled out and drove away. I immediately turned around and went back. He had left our modem on the neighbor's porch. "That's what we always did with the fellar who lived up there before you," he said.

"Well, I don't know this lady yet and I'd hate to impose on her."

"She's really nice. I don't know her really well, but I know her son. He lives back on over on..."

I realized that though he was wearing his brown uniform, he was a local. Just like the phone guy. And the satellite guy. And even the air shipment movers. They were all local and all had worked with the peole who sold us the house. It was awesome and strange and wonderful all at the same time to have this realization. That I was becoming a part of the community. That people would know me. It woke me up to a new sense of responsibility. For one, I'd have to watch myself better. I'd have to make sure and not cuss as much in public (because um, they understand English here), to not yell at my kids as much in public and to be my old Joelie self (not the turtle I had become in France). So, I told him that I'd go ahead and introduce myself soon so that any further packages could be delivered to her porch.

I drove the modem back up to the house and gave it to Sam. He called me soon thereafter and told me we had internet! YAY!

Things became normal-ish. We didn't have TV, but by Wednesday night, we were comfortable in our new home and were sitting down to eat taco salad! LOL! It felt great! Except that I started to get sad that Sam and the girls would soon be gone. Don't get me wrong, another VERY big part of me was RELIEVED because I hadn't had any peace and quiet and alone time in weeks. AND the kids were getting so bored of the few toys we had that they were fighting ALL the time. AND Ryan was getting sick of the girls trying to mess up everything he did whether it be drawing, building a tower, playing with his cars, whatever, the girls would come into the room and mess it up. So, I was having some major mixed emotions. Part of me was so glad we were all there together as a family. Another part of me wanted to go ahead and get the separation stuff overwith for so many reasons.

The next morning, we woke up early and Sam dropped me off at the hospital at 7:45. Up to that point, Sam had been pretty non-challant about the whole thing. But as I turned to go into the hospital, he gripped my arm and kissed me hard and long. "I love you," he said.

"I know. I love you, too," I replied and walked away.

"Hey," he called.

I turned, "Yeah?"

I really love you.

Standing there, shoulders drooping, face unsure, eyes all glazy, the sun shining behind him and making a halo around his head, I felt his love and my heart melted and dripped right into my gall bladder. A second's glimpse into my past. A quick flitter of an image of my boyfriend of 11 years prior. My lover. My love.

"I love you, too." It was barely a whisper, but I know he heard it.

My in-take was at 8 and my surgery would be at 10. In-take was easy. They did all their administrative stuff and then showed me to a room. A nurse came in with some little medicine-moist towelettes (with which I was familiar because I had had to use some the night before) and went through the prep again. Wipe down, air dry, put on a gown and lie in the bed and wait. The one things I HADN'T expected was when she said, "You know you're staying, right?"

The surgery was supposed to be outpatient.

"Yeah, your surgeon is a stickler for keeping people overnight for observation."

This didn't bother me because I thought he might be onto something. An overnight break from the kids for my post-op sounded just fine. Actually, just that morning, I had asked Sam if it might not be a good idea for me to get a hotel room by myself for the night so I wouldn't have the girls jumping on my belly. The only thing that worried me was that Sam might be FREAKED OUT to hear it, thinking that the hospital had kept me because something had gone wrong. I asked her to call him and let him know for me.

Another nurse came in about 15 minutes later. At first, I thought she was going to be all snippy, but after a few minutes, she softened. In the end, she bugged me until I told her my story. She said that she had lots of experience couseling women who had had early pre-term losses. I could tell that was true because everything she said or did after that was right and comforting and just what I needed.

At 9:30-ish, an interesting (and almost surely gay) man came in with scrubs from head to toe (like he was wearing this head thingy made out of scrubs material that looked a lot like the cloth "helmet" of Ryan's knight costume, LOL). He was taking me down to surgery. He talked to me about piercings and tattoos. I liked him instantly. He got me downstairs and into a "dock" (the little curtained enclosures where they prep you) but there was a problem. A 400+ pound woman was in the dock I was supposed to be in and she was apparently in respiratory failure. Everyone was rushing around, trying to calmly do whatever it took to take care of her--even calling her pre-op physicians and stuff.

When my pre-op prep nurse finally came in to work on me, she apologized. I said, "I'm okay. Is SHE gonna be okay."

The nurse made a sad face. "We don't know. We hope so."

After that, everything's sorta fuzzy. I remember talking to the nurses and anestesiologist about the stent surgery where I woke up during the procedure and they said they'd put a brain activity monitor on my head to avoid me slipping out of the drugs. The nurse gave me a small local shot to deaden my wrist so she could put in my IV. THAT impressed me because I HATE the moment of GETTING an IV. Then, she started an antibiotic drip that she said might make me a little dizzy and sleepy. She was right. And before you knew it, I was in an operating room with an oxygen mask and conked out soon thereafter.

I woke up in recovery and in pain. But they gave me some good strong drugs (something they said was 10 times as strong as morphine). Then, someone wheeled me to a room somewhere but I was still pretty out of it so I don't remember much. Then, there was this sweet, blonde nurse, Bethany, who took REALLY good care of me, listened to all my stories, shared some of her own and was just a pleasure to be around. They did a pretty great job of controlling my pain. I had Vicodin every four hours and then in between, I was allowed to have a morphine shot. That worked really well until my IV failed. I asked them if they could just take it out and let me try to manage my pain on the Vicodin alone (a question I would later regret).

Another thing that impressed me a lot was the fact that they had me up walking soon after my surgery. They said that movement post-op was really good for you because it aids in digestion, respiration and all over recovery. And it's true. As soon as my pain pill kicked in, I'd get up and do a lap around my end of the ward. I did one loop and was exhausted. Then, I rested, took another pill/shot, got up and did two loops. By the evening, I wasn't even counting loops any more.

The only problem was that I was still in a pretty big amount of pain. Mostly in my right lower back. It was a pain I had already had prior to surgery so I figured it was related to possible kidney stones in my RIGHT side (well, I mean, THINK about it... wouldn't that just be my luck?). But sometimes, the pain would crawl around to the front. And I asked myself if maybe it was my appendix (again, my luck).

Some time during the night, I realized that the next day, Friday, would be the last day I'd have to spend with my girls for FOUR MONTHS. The reality of that realization hit me like a dam bursting.

I needed to get home.

This only spurred further loops around the hallways at 4am because I wanted to get strong enough to get the heck out of the hospital and see my girls.

Bright and early the next morning, I hoped to see the doc. Sam called and asked if I had any news. Then 8am went by. 9am. 10am. The hospital resto called and asked if I needed to order lunch. I told them no because I didn't plan on being there that long. They told me to order, just in case. I had visions of all the great hospital food I had post-partum in Houston (not being snarky... the food was AWESOME) and decided to go ahead and order a cheeseburger (EXACTLY what I needed after invasive surgery, right? *eye roll*). 11 came and went. 12 rolls around, I eat my cheeseburger (but I also ate a fruit plate with cottage cheese, so, gimme a break). Immediately after I eat, I feel like crap. Not having really eaten in 24 hours has really shrunk my stomach and that food was too much for it to handle. I got up and started walking.

After three laps, I thought I would collapse I was in so much pain. Mainly the pain in my right side. I went back to my room to lie down and that only seemed to make it worse. And now, I couldn't breath very deeply because it felt like I had a charly horse in my side. I tried to ride it out, but I panicked. Not just about the pain, but about the passing time. I felt like a freakin' prisoner. I felt like I was back in that Hell clinic in France, the one where Sam wasn't allowed to come in and see me. I felt like, because I was stuck at the hospital, I wasn't going to be allowed to see my girls!!!! It was like losing Aaron all over again. And over. And over. And over. I really started to panic and I hit the red button.

I couldn't breathe.

And OF COURSE, my surgeon chose THAT moment to show up.

"I can't let you go home like this. How are you going to be able to recover? I need to keep you here."

I was almost hyperventilating as I said, "I can assure you, I will NOT recover if you make me stay here." I tried to explain calmly that I needed, NEEEEEEDED to see my girls before they left.

He made me promise that if anything happened, I would come STRAIGHT into the hospital and said that Ryan could sleep on the pull-out bed in my room if absolutely necessary. I promised. I could tell he was very uncomfortable with it but he let me go home. I wanted to run screaming after him down the hallway apologizing to him for my outburst. I had won but I was so embarrassed and beat down. They gave me instructions on care afterwards, gave me some pain pill prescriptions and told me I was free to go. I changed my clothes, called Sam and then walked a few more painful laps around the ward. When I got home, I planned on writing the doc with a full, detaile explanation of my behavior, but I didn't. I'm supposed to go see him in a week, so I'll do it then.

Home was hard. The girls were happy to see me but then they started fighting again. Sam, instead of rushing me home and getting me comfortable, he wanted to stop here and there, check the mail, etc. I was SO MAD that he seemed so calm about it. I had HOLES in my belly, yo! HOLES. All I wanted was to lie down.

When he started up our road, the ride was so bumpy, I made him let me out, SOBBING from pain, and told him I'd just walk up the hill. Which I did. And I was a LOT better than I would have been had I ridden with him in the Brute. He went out and got my prescription (thank GOD and the Universe we have a little pharmacy here in Rustburg!!!) and then went to Bed, Bath and Beyond to pick up my new body pillow (I had meant to buy one before the surgery but didn't have time). We ate leftovers for dinner and then I stuffed myself with pain killers and went to sleep.

Ironically, the satellite guy had been out to the house just that morning to hook up our TV. We had TV now. Hours before the kids left. I figured it was just as well. Gave the kids a chance to play--mandatory playing since they couldn't veg in front of the TV--and it meant that Ryan and I were all set.

Of course, Lolo and Lily came into our bed in the middle of the night. I didn't mind. In fact, I had sort of counted on it. I spent the next few hours soaking up my babies. Kissing them, talking to them, snuggling with them. Trying to memorize all their little everything.

The night before, I had done their laundry and packed their suitcase (YES, with HOLES in my belly!!!!!!), so we just loaded up and went to the airport (me driving) so Sam could get his rental car (we had PLANNED on me driving them to Charlotte, but because I was still so sore, he rented a car). We both went to the mall where he ran in and shopped around for a minute to find some Converse canvas sneakers for Emma and Antonia (their one request) while I spent time with the kids in the Jeep. I couldn't really play with them or even REALLY appreciate them, but I let them take their seat belts off and play around inside the Brute. I must have kissed, hugged and told them I loved them a THOUSAND times or more.

And then, when Sam got back and started moving car seats, loading up suitcases and taking my girls, I started crying. SOBBING. And it hurt my belly SO bad. And it BROKE my heart in half. And I felt bad. And it felt WRONG. And I felt instantly guilty and like everything, this whole idea, was a crazy mistake.

"I'm sorry," I said, sobbing in Sam's ear. "This is all my fault."

"No, Mama. We'll be okay," he cooed. "It'll be fine." But then, HE was sobbing as he hugged Ryan.

I waved goodbye over and over to my baby sweeties and then cried all the way home.

As soon as I got home, I popped some pills (because I hadn't had anything for hours, not wanting to drive around on Percocet and get a DUI) and went to sleep. Ryan and I watched TV, went for a walk out in the woods to get me moving around, ate leftovers, played Battleship, read bedtime stories and then went to bed.

Sunday was a tiny bit better. We didn't really do much or go anywhere because, like I said, as long as I was in pain, I'd need pain pills and as long as I was on pain killers, I couldn't drive. But I think we were both okay with that. Ryan really likes being here and wasn't in any hurry to go anywhere. I made chicken salad sandwiches out of a chicken I had cooked in my brand new Crock Pot *happy dance*, we played Uno, watched TV together and took naps. We did walk down to the mailbox and that was awesome. Ryan loves gravel. LOL! He wants to put every little shiny rock in his pocket to take it back to the house. I thinkt that's adorable because I'm the same way.

Monday morning, I called Sam to see if he had gotten a chance to drop by Ryan's school to ask them about faxing a transcript sorta thing to the Elementary school here. Sam said that he had gone to Ryan's school and that 1) they don't HAVE a fax number and 2) they don't have "official" transcripts. They told him that the only thing they have is the evaluation form they sent home with us. All of that threatened to piss me off because I knew that if we asked the French school to do something out of the ordinary, they were going to make a big stinking deal about it. So, instead, I just took Ryan down to the elementary school and told them the situation.

They told me not to worry about it. They said they were going to have to evaluate him themselves anyway, so they'd just let it go. They told me to bring in his birth certificate and ss card later, too. And when they asked when he'd like to start, I turned and asked him (in French) if he wanted to start that day. He shook his head no. So, I said, "I think he's a little shy, maybe he should start tomorrow." But Ryan piped up and said, "NOOOO! Mom, I wanna start today. I wanna start right now!"

"Right now? Right this second?" I said, grinning.

He grinned back and nodded his head.

So, that was that. After a quick tour, an introduction to his teacher, the librarian, the lunchroom director and the principal, (and after one of the office ladies lent him a package of crackers for his snack), we walked him to his classroom, where I felt like I was dropping of my tiny baby! I cried on the way to the car.

Promptly, at 3:10, I pulled into the parking lot to get in line for pick-up. When it came to be Ryan's turn to get in the car, I waved him over to me and almost got him in trouble. But when he got into the car, he started gushing... GUSHING... about his day. "Mom, you know what we did? We..." I started crying again as he talked about how they cut out paper coins and glued them into columns and how much fun he had and how yummy his lunch was (yeah, we'll talk about all that mess later, on the OTHER, new blog, I guess--three words: cheesburger and fries), and how he had made a little girl friend. *sigh*

In that moment, everything was better. Since we got here, I mean, since we lost our luggage, since I had gall stone attacks, since our road was too muddy, since we couldn't get anything hooked up at the house, since my dreams of cleaning up the woods were covered in ice and snow, since my baby girls left, since I had spent two scary nights alone in our new home, I had been wondering if maybe this whole thing was a mistake. If maybe I should have just stayed in France and waited it out. But in that moment, as my sweet Ryan turned back into a normal, happy American six-year-old, I saw that I had made the right choice after all.

And it was like that all week long. Ryan makes up songs about school every morning and about how much he loves it. He goes on and on about his teacher. His teacher writes me home notes about how Ryan may not know how to read many words in English, but he writes the French ones beautifully and she nearly SWOONS as he reads them to her in French. I love that she appreciates the intelligence he HAS and isn't trying to stifle it. I love that she trusts me to help him catch up on his sight words. I love that she tells other people (a lady in the office told me) that Ryan is SOOO SMART!

I'm happy.

Finally.

Okay, of course there are a kazillion things I could tell you about our new life, but I think that's enough for this blog.

What I would like to do, real quick, is to take a look back about the two-year France experiment as a whole. Remember if you will, going over there, I was skeptical but driven by a purpose that I hoped would be for "the greater good." I went there because my husband had followed me back to the States so I could finish up what I had started here and so that I could succeed (I mean, I DID follow HIM to Houston, TX for the same reason, but then HE moved to Charlotte, NC because *I* wanted to... even changed his job). I went there because my husband's parents only get to see my kids a couple of times a year and when they DID see them, my kids couldn't understand or communicate. So, I went there so my kids could learn French. It was a difficult decision to make because there were risks.... 1) I already KNEW that I HATED living in France (visiting is tolerable), 2) my kids could suffer major culture shock, 3) my career could suffer since I had JUST gotten my MLS the summer before we left for France... Among other risks.

I also went there for the money. Working in France as an expat, my husband would rake in the extra dough. And if we were careful with our money, we could save a lot of that extra money. We could pay off our credit cards. We could buy a farm!

I also went there to practice. Not being able to work as a librarian would give me the excuse to spend my days researching all my farm-dream stuff. I could practice living a life of eating 90-100% organically and locally grown food. I could practice weaning myself off of plastic and pushing more natural materials in my life. I could practice giving up my dryer. I could practice canning and dehydrating and freezing fresh foods. I could make my own pasta, bread, sauces, etc. and avoid all the waste and expense of packaging and KNOW what is in my food. I could learn to really, REALLY cook. For real.

I also went there to write. And to run. And to read.

Guess what? I did all that stuff. And more. AND, if you ask me, I did a damn fine job of it.

I will be the first to suggest and admit that I didn't "be all I could be." I could have integrated more. I could have swallowed my ego and let bygones be bygones and really SWIM in the culture and really try harder to participate with the French. I could have traveled more and learned more about local culture and history and stuff. I could have gotten involved with local sports groups, run more races, swam more laps, visited more local vineyards, volunteered with the local homeless, volunteered on a farm, etc. etc. etc. I could have done all that. And maybe I should have. But, I'm not sweating it because... well, all that stuff isn't why I went there.

When I look back over the whole thing, I got there ready, sleeves rolled up, strong and stubborn. And I was pleasantly surprised that though nothing seemed to have changed on the shell, the guts of France seemed a little different. People were nicer, somehow (turns out it was a natural reaction to my age). There were things that I hadn't noticed about France the first time around that I actually *gulp* liked BETTER than the way we did things or what was available in the States. There were actually a LOT of those things. Things I knew I would miss.

But, by the time I lost Aaron, I didn't have much of that strength and energy left. Had I lost Aaron early on, while I was still nice and strong, I might not have needed to come back to the States to recuperate. But things happened the way they happened. And I DID need to come home. And it was right. Okay, sure, stuff didn't happen the way I had expected and wanted right away. BUT, the smiles were immediate. The kindness. The "stranger love" was OBVIOUS and INSTANT and I felt it. And I soaked it up. And it's working. It's recharging the battery. Back to the energy level I had before leaving here.

I actually have France to thank for a lot. You all know what I'm talking about because you stuck with me through it all, so there's no reason to list it all. I maintain all I've said before with regards to the blame and animosity I've expressed towards France. But, I'll go ahead and admit that I SHARE a lot of the blame. I could have fought harder. I could have stood up for myself. I could have insisted. After that first miscarriage and my one bad experience with the OB, I could have put the idea of having another baby out of my mind completely until we got home to the States. There are a lot of wouldas and couldas and even shouldas. But things went the way they did and I refuse to waste time regretting. I will regret NOTHING at all. The way I figure it, we're even.

I think this is pretty much the end. I'm going to put some pics on here since I haven't in so long. Pix from the end in France and the beginning here. And after that, if you wanna know how the story goes, you'll have to go to the sequel site. The address is going to be at the end of the pix.

Christmas 2009:

Santa ATE it!!!

Happy Dance:

Chillin' with Pepe:

Snowy Lyon:

Hot Chocolate!

Snowy Pepe's House:

King Cake!!!!:

Ryan's rendition of the future... Look closely...

Princess Time!!!

Last visit with Pepe/Meme/TaTa Nanou (Mama's first French best girl friend!)

Views from the plane as we fly to Munich:

Grafiti:

VIRGINIA!!!!

Hotel togetherness:

Play area outside our fave bookstore:

Snowy Virginia:

It's a SIGN!!!!

Ryan likes putting up signs outside their room:

Sunrise!

Camping out in our new house!

AFTER SAM AND THE GIRLS LEAVE:

Hurricane and aftermath (this is what happened when I let Ryan watch "When the Levees Broke"):

My Archeologist:

My Knight:

Snow (beautiful and GONE by noon-ish! *grin*)

Sign of spring!:

Ryan's in a Maze Phase:

Okay, as promised, here's the address of the new blog, "Adventures in Homesteading: Friendship Farm": http://way2homestead.blogspot.com/

Hope to see you there soon!

Au Revoir and kiss my grits!

2010-02-12T14:11:00.000-08:00

It's late-ish (well, I'm tired, so it doesn't really matter what the clock says, eh?) and this is my obligatory "in case I die in a plane crash"-slash-"France can kiss my grits cuz I aint comin' back"-slash-"I'll see y'all on the other side"-slash-"don't forget to check out my NEW blog" last-ish post on this blog. I mean, this is the last post from France.

The name of the blog is Just Two Years. I only made it Just 19 Months (and this past month, I have barely left the apartment, so my heart and head were no longer REALLY in France) before giving up and hitting the road.

It took me about 8 years to heal from my LAST break-up with France. I'm PRETTY sure that it'll take a good 20 or so for me to even consider coming back here for longer than the necessary week I have to to let the grandparents see the kids. I may not even make it back for that.

I probably have a lot to say. Like I could say that the past two weeks have been bearable-ish. That I have really great friends over here. Some that I've known almost the whole time. Some that I just met a few months ago. And I thank them for making me smile and for letting me cry on them. I'll remember all of my friends fondly and I'll never forget the sunshine they brought into my life.

Still, I had to pour my son's ashes into a little, tiny, snack-sized zip-lock baggie today. The U.S. Embassy suggests you not take remains in un-x-ray-able containers. So, Aaron's urn will be traveling separately while his remains will travel with us in our carry-on. And my divorce with France was pretty much final as I washed Aaron's dust tumble into the little baggie.

Oh, I know it's not fair to blame everything on France. Shit happens. That's the circle of life and whatnot, right? I know. Buy you and I know why I feel the way I do. You who have read me.

Speaking of which... Like I said, I'm moving on. I'll probably post an "I'm here!" post when I get things calmed down back home, but after that, I'll probably leave this blog in the same place I'm leaving France... In the archives of my DISTANT memories. Again, I hope you'll hope on over to the new blog. I got it set up and will publish the link in my final post... I'll keep posting what I'm reading and I'll carry all of my blog list over there to the other site, too.

I'm also thinking about starting a separate blog for my writer-ing stuff. My life stuff will be on the homestead blog, but if you wanna know the gorey details of my haggard journey to becoming a published author, you can skip on over to the writer-y blog (I'll post that addy in my final post, too).

If I die on the plane tomorrow, just know that it's been a blast sharing this time with you. I thank you for sticking with me, for the comments on here and through email. Cross your fingers for me! I had to spend the evening in the ER last Saturday because now my GALL STONES are attacking me, *eye roll* (I'll detail that in my final post, if I remember), so now I'm just hoping my gall bladder doesn't swell up and explode during the flight... I'll try to get that sucker yanked out as soon as I get home.

Anyhoo... alright... I'm stalling....

Happy trails!

I've wondered...

2010-02-04T05:20:00.001-08:00

...over the past, I don't know, SEVEN of the eight and a half years I've been married how a relationship that was so dreamy and exciting and fulfilling and flirty and yummy could turn into a marriage that has become grumpy and blame-y and yell-y and cross-armed.

The man who used to sit out on the tiny balcony with me and play with my hair as I smoked a cigarette and watch the sun set with me, listening to me babble on about my life so far has turned into a guy sitting on my couch scratching his balls yelling at my kids because their need to pee has interupted the snarky French news he keeps having to pause in order to put them back to bed.

The man who used to call in sick to work so that we could spend the morning or afternoon in bed together, staring at each other, kissing, tickling or other, ahem, things has turned into the guy who comes home to shovel food in his mouth, check his non-work email/the latest sports scores/the financial accounts and run on back to work because "I gotta go."

The man with whom I spent an entire month never turning on the television because we were so intensely in love with one another's faces that we fell asleep with the light on. The man with whom I shared a TWIN bed on the floor and neither of us minded. The man I used to draw baths for and bathe and massage before we went to bed. The man who used to write me love letters. Cry on the phone when we were separated even for a weekend. Bring me home surprise household appliances, just because. Grab my butt in passing. Hold me tightly, sighing, as we passed in the middle of the night, taking turns going pee.

That man has become that guy who does things half-assed, doesn't turn his nasty socks right-side-out and leaves them for me to do it, puts the butter container back into the fridge empty, wakes me up with his noxious farts, doesn't help me clear the table in the morning, stacks the dishes in a precarious way so that I have to tiptoe while running the dishwater, puts WAY too much cover overhang on his side of the bed whenever (seldom) he makes it--leaving the mattress showing on MY side of the bed, the dude who sighs and whines when I ask him to do me a favor and go get the kids because I don't feel well.

What happened? Where did my boyfriend go?

He got old and married.

I didn't figure it out until he called me today, mid-morning and when I answered, he whispered, "Hey."

I whispered back, "What?"

"You wanna go to the movies?"

"When? At 11?"

"Yeah."

"Why am I whispering?"

"Because if you don't, maybe I won't either."

We both snicker.

"So?"

"Yeah, I'll go to the movies with you."

We work it out in giggly whispers that I'm to go to the resto close by, get us some sammiches and meet him at the theatre right at 11 to see Up In the Air (or whatever it's called in English).

I get there, get the sammiches, get my popcorn and read until he shows up. We watch the movie. GOOOOOOOD movie. Funny. Makes me SO GLAD I'm going home. I even rapped during all of the "Bust a Move" scene as he tried to shush me.

Afterward, I got a Velov and he got his regular bike. We rode home together. I felt like he was my boyfriend again. He had played hookie to go to the movies with me... just cuz. Cuz I'm leaving and he knows he's gonna miss me. Cuz maybe he wants to feel like he was my boyfriend again. I asked him if he wanted to ditch work some more and see another movie. He said, "I can't" and that sucked, but at least he sounded disappointed.

I said, "You wanna ride bikes around the park once? Since it might be our last time?"

"Nah. I really can't." Again, he sounded tempted.

I docked my Velov and kissed him goodbye. He waved and said, "Thanks for the movie. That was really fun!" He said it as though we had never done that before. He sounded like a twenty-something. It made my heart race. It made my belly warm. You know what I mean.... It gave me a hard-on, okay? And as I walked away, I realized that somewhere in there, buried under the disillusionment, under the unmet expectations and the misplaces assumptions... lives my young, hot boyfriend, trying hard to hold onto his girlfriend long enough to get these kids raised so we can run away together again. The hard knocks of having to be responsible and mature have made us resentful... Spiteful... Immature. But if we can just hang on, maybe we'll find little hints and glimpses of who we used to be--who I hope we still are deep down--until a time comes when our lover selves get to come out and play again.

*shrug*

Who knows?

Packin' it up...

2010-02-03T04:37:00.000-08:00

That's what I'm doing. Systematically going through every cabinet and cupboard in this BOAT of an apartment and putting things into piles... And then putting the piles back into some sort of organization whether it be BACK into the cabinet/cupboard, a suitcase or a big clear plastic storage tub.

The air shipment (yes, got approved for an air shipment, did I already tell you!!??!!) surveyor chick was here on Monday to tell us how if my futon and Ryan's bed would fit. The answer is yes and no. Futon: yes-ish. Ryan's bed: Just the mattress. But then, Sam came home for lunch today and told me to scratch all THAT because the container we're allowed is even smaller than we thought, so Futon: yes-ish, Ryan's bed: huh-uh... not even the mattress. I think that's a load of bullhockey. I think that Ryan's mattress could fit in the foot and a half of room UNDER the futon. And if they take the futon APART, all of it will fit. At this point, I'm tempted to sell the freakin' futon and just buy another and get an Ikea bed for Ryan to sleep on that we'll just give to Lolo when she gets to the States (and move her out of her toddler bed. Hmmmm... Yesssssss... That IS sounding like a good (though, expensive, idea)... Off to research prices... be right back...

Mmmmm, yeah... nevermind. I didn't realize that our futon cost us $300 (probably more) withOUT the cover and mattress stuff. And the cheapest bed I could find was a $60 toddler bed. So, I'm thinking... I'll push HARD to get the futon into the air shipment and let Ryan sleep on the air mattress in the tent as if he's camping. The air mattress is a DOUBLE so it'll be more comfy than his single mattress anyway and I'll just make sure and keep it aired up (check it for firmness once a week or so). Heck, *I* might end up sleeping on an air mattress, too, if they get here and say that the futon won't fit.

I wouldn't give a rip if the whole purpose of having an air shipment hadn't been to get the beds over to the States. At this point, it's almost MORE important that my food processor make it back, LOL! I'll use the food processor as much as I'll use the futon.

Anyway, so I'm organizing and cleaning and actually PACKING suit cases because I need to know how much they weigh. Ryan and I will live out of our suitcases for the next ten days. No biggie. At least the bags'll be ready to go.

At night, I bug my girls by squeezing them and sniffing them and tangling myself up in their hair. I close my eyes and memorize everything and I hope that it'll tide me over until July. I'm bummbed that I'll miss Lily's birthday and the whole Easter Bunny thing with the girls this year. But it's just a price we have to pay. It's not like I'm having second thoughts, because I'm not. Plus, something happens EVERY DAY to confirm that I need to get the hell out of this country. It doesn't take anything big. Just a little glitch here or there. And only one a day, really. That's all it takes.

And my builder keeps sending me pics of the house... The finished deck... the stairway he's building onto the deck, the road leading up to my house (which is in need of HELP), etc. I see little hints of the yard and where I plan to put the garden and I STARE at the pictures as if pining for a long lost lover. I plant rows of vegetables in my mind and heart. I already smell the dirt and the dead leaves. I imagine myself with callouses on my hands and I shiver with anticipation... I'm a hippy dork, aren't I? Mmm hmmmm.

Yesterday, Ryan peed his pants at school. Why? Because he was too afraid to ask the teacher. Why? "Because she's going to say no." When I try to reassure him that she WON'T say no anymore, I can see in his mind, even as he's nodding, that he doesn't believe me.

He also got into a fight. Or, he got pushed down to the ground by another kid. Why? Because he was bullying. Why was he bullying? Elliot again. I don't know if I've talked about Elliot before, but this kid has truly plagued my existence for the past year or so. I saw him once. At the organic grocery store. And he was so cute and angelic looking that I was glad to see that Ryan was friends with him. Turns out, he's a wolf in sheep's clothing.

First, he told Ryan not to play with girls. Okay, whatever. I asked Ryan how he felt about it. If he liked playing with girls or if he agreed with Elliot. Ryan confirmed that he missed playing with his girl friends and wished Elliot would "let" him *jaw drops to the GROUND*. I told him to tell Elliot to take a hike and to go play with his girl friends.

Then, there were rumblings of violence. Elliot threatened to hit--or DID hit--if Ryan didn't listen to him. Then, Elliot hit Antonia. Then scratched her. On and on and on... Every week, I hear about a new Elliot fiasco.

THEN, last week, Ryan got off the elevator at Antonia's house to walk to school with them, but the minute he stepped off the elevator, A's mom pointed her finger at Ryan and said, "Ryan, I need to tell you one little thing... I heard that Elliot made Antonia cry because he said that if her parents were getting separated it was her fault. And YOU didn't do anything to defend Antonia." Then, she continued to jump all over him. I heard this story second hand from Sam (who actually called me immediately) and I spent the rest of the day trembling in anger because of how A's mom had treated Ryan, as if it is HIS responsability to defend his friend who is bigger, older and taller; especially since I've taught Ryan to always WALK AWAY from conflict. In fact, I specifically told him to walk away from ANY conflict that involved Elliot. I rehearsed what I would say to A's mom when I saw her, but unfortunately, I saw A instead. I pointed my finger at her and said, "A, I need to tell you three little things... ONE... Elliot is a little asshole. Understand that people are not born mean, but become that way because someone is mean to them. Someone has been mean to Elliot and that makes him mean. When he's mean to you, do NOT cry and snivel. Just realize who it is that's speaking, his reason for being a jerk and then WALK AWAY... TWO... YOU need to learn to stand up for YOURSELF and make your own decisions and STOP blaming other people for your unhappiness or you are NEVER going to be happy. You KNOW that your parents adore you and that their separation has NOTHING to do with you. If anything, they've stayed together as long as they can FOR you. Because they both love you so much. So, you KNOW that Elliot is full of shit.... and finally, THREE... It is never RYAN'S responsability--or anyone else's--to defend you. If someone were hitting you or hurting you, that would have been different, but when some stupid kid starts saying stupid things to you, don't look to Ryan to stand up for you. Just... walk.....away..."

I know that was sort of a tangeant, but I wanted to illustrate Elliot's involvement.

Well, yesterday took the cake. Apparently, Elliot told Ryan that he had to pretend to make "pates a la Bolognaise" (a pasta dish) or Elliot would "strangle" him. *shrug* I don't know if Ryan did it. What I DO know is that Antonia (who is a pretty trustworthy source about happenings at school) said that Elliot forced Ryan to "attack" the other kids at lunch and try to "kill" them. Ryan went along with it and some kid fought back, pushed Ryan to the ground and Ryan got hurt enough to have to limp his way home from school (not to mention, Ryan was covered in piss).

Up until yesterday, my solution for the Elliot problem was for Ryan to walk away. Ryan has been told over and over not to participate in Elliot's schemes. To play with Elliot as long as he's being nice but the second he starts being mean to other kids, Ryan is to walk away because Ryan is a nice person (I'd like to hope so, anyway). But, apparently, Ryan can NOT say no to this kid. My first impulse was to say that Ryan would NOT be returning to school over the next six days of school he has left. BUT, that would be punishing Ryan, I think. So, instead, the only thing I can think to do is forbid him to play with Elliot AT ALL. I don't want Ryan coming home with bruises and scrapes because he's being a little douchebag in school and other kids are fighting back. I don't want Ryan learning stuff from this Elliot and then taking it to the States and being in trouble all the time over there (he's already going to have some obstacles to deal with as it is).

What do you guys think?

Parenting is hard. I figure the only thing I can do is do what *I* would do if I had someone trying to turn me into a bully: stop being around that person. I wonder if Ryan CAN avoid Elliot. (That's why my first instinct was to make him just stay home and do exercises in English... but DUDE... my kid is SO social... I don't want to punish him for Elliot's crap.)

Sam asked me over lunch, "You're telling me you're not going to miss this," and swept his hand over his own view. I replied, "Uh, I don't even SEE this. YOU DO. I see THAT" and swept my hand over MY view from the table. And then I said, "I never said I wouldn't miss the view. Maybe I will in a couple of years or decades. But no, right now, this *sweep of hand* only serves as a reminder of my empty uterus and my withering heart."

I'm sorry to be all dramatic and whatnot, but I've been here before. I've been unhappy in France before... Like, say, a decade ago when I left the FIRST time vowing never to come back. I KNOW when it's time to go. And actually, if I could get on the plane TODAY, I wouldn't hesitate.

I thought about it and wondered if people (or even myself) would see me as a quitter. Or maybe not strong enough to hack it. Under "normal" circumstances--meaning just normal old France stuff--I might say, yeah, okay... But I tell you now, had circumstances remained "normal," I wouldn't be leaving. It was Aaron's death that prompted my leaving. And there was nothing "normal" about his death.

After his delivery, I searched and searched, my mind, heart and gut, looking desperately for whatever tidbit I was supposed to learn from this experience. I always try to find the positive. I know that sounds hokey and corny and Stepford-y and whatnot, but I've been through a LOT of shit and it seems to be the only way to NOT go insane and to keep a peaceful, zen-full, smile on my face. And for almost two weeks now, I've wondered and sought. But now, I know. The positive is that I'm leaving. Like I just said, had Aaron not died, I wouldn't be "quitting." I wouldn't be going home early. And if I wasn't going home early, Ryan wouldn't have the opportunity to experience a few months of Kindergarten. If he doesn't go to Kindergarten, he might not have any summer friends with whom to play (and I might make some friends myself through him and his friends). And if he didn't make summer friends, he might have felt THAT much more out of place next fall when he started Kindergarten--and not just socially... think about all of the stuff he wouldn't know. I mean, he knows how to read, but not in French. When you ask him to spell things, he says "i" for "e" and "g" for "j" (long story). This way, he'll have the basics of reading but will learn a new set of sounds with which to read (and believe me, we'll still be reading together at home in French).

If Aaron hadn't died. I wouldn't be going home early. Without going home early, I would have missed a whole four months of garden/soil preparation, sowing seeds, pulling weeds... If I don't go home and start our garden now, we won't have anything to eat this summer from our own land. That would have sucked.

If Aaron hadn't died, his name wouldn't even be Aaron. His name would have been Cedric Aurelien Ledger Tissot. I wouldn't have gotten the opportunity to name my son after my friend and one of my heros (Heath Ledger), something that has become very important to me. When I speak of Aaron, when I think about him, I feel the same way I felt about my other Aaron. I feel loss. And I feel resolve. And I feel change. And I feel strength. These are things I need right now.

So, while I hate France for indirectly taking Aaron from me (maybe directly... we may never know), as well as for a nice long list of other reasons, I do thank France for giving me a reason to go home and start my happiness. I remember coming here whole, happy, sleeves rolled up and ready to fight and work. But over the months, I had become beaten down, despondent, embittered and downtrodden (sorry if that sounded redundant... I wrote what I feel and I've lost a lot of my English). Aaron's death has brought back my resolve and reminded me of the purpose I felt so strongly a year and a half ago.

I'm ready.

Sam also tried to find other things he just KNEW I'd miss, but I found other things to fill up the holes he thought he'd find.

Velov=YMCA and running and Zumba and swimming and spin class... Yeah, okay, it'll suck to drive everywhere, but I'll get over it.

The Unlimited Movie pass=Um, I'm gonna have a sattelite dish and I'm going to get back on Netflix, dude... for that I won't even NEED a Velov.

Farmer's market=I'll grow my own.

Old buildings= meh.

The only thing he could really mention that I would REALLY miss were my friends. I'll miss my friends. Old and new.

I'm surprised how well his parents took it. How cool they were. How "Okay *shrug*" they were. I guess because we've just shocked them so often with our "recklessness" that they have a nice thick scab and nothing surprises them anymore. Back when we told them that we were moving to the States, Sam's dad and I actually had a screaming match. And now, they're like, "okay."

This same reaction does NOT go for Sam's older sister. She was very clear about her level of disapproval. But dude, I really couldn't care less. If anything, it only confirms the "rightness" of this move.

Okay... I came in here to blabber and babble and I've done so for a little over an hour... Guess I should get back to work on the apartment. Just wanted all y'all to know I'm okay. I mean, I still cry. But it comes in short, intense spurts and most of the time, it's okay. I asked myself if I would be this okay if I didn't have the knowledge of my going home to look forward to.... I'm sure and certain that the answer is no.

Yet another good thing coming from Aaron's death. Ironically, his death brought about the cure to my grief.

Last Goodbye... for awhile...

2010-01-29T02:20:00.001-08:00

If you'll remember, back when I had my first baby, when I was 19, I had a song that I felt spoke my heart (I Will Remember You by Amy Grant). Well, I've been listening to the Dixie Chicks a lot and couldn't help but think about this song as my "Aaron song." Sorry for the sappiness... must be the hormones in flux.

"Godspeed (Sweet Dreams)"

Dragon Tales and the "water is wide"
Pirates sail and lost boys fly
Fish bite moonbeams every night
And I love you

Godspeed, little man
Sweet dreams, little man
Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings
Godspeed
Sweet dreams

The rocket racer's all tuckered out
Superman's in pajamas on the couch
Goodnight Moon, will find the mouse
And I love you

Godspeed, little man
Sweet dreams, little man
Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings
Godspeed
Sweet dreams

God bless mommy and match box cars
God bless dad and thanks for the stars
God hears "Amen," wherever we are
And I love you

Godspeed, little man
Sweet dreams, little man
Oh my love will fly to you each night on angels wings
Godspeed
Godspeed
Godspeed
Sweet dreams

Moving on...

2010-01-28T00:38:00.000-08:00

Okay, it's been almost a week. I've tried three or four times to sit down and write but something either comes up or the sight of the cursor makes me break down. But I'm not a big dweller... I'm a mover-onner. As much as I'd love to wallow--and trust me, I have and will continue to have pockets of time steeped in desperate mourning and loss--I gotta get moving on from this spot.

But first, lemme tell you what happened.

Thurs. January 7, drunk with happiness at no longer having the stent, I nearly glide on air all morning. I walk into my OB's office and am delighted by the pictures of my baby on the screen. She says it's growing fine. Tall even. But then, at the end, she says, "I'm a little concerned that there's not very much amniotic fluid in there." But she doesn't say it like she's concerned. Then, she tells us that we need to go get a test right now. She talks about possibilities, but she doesn't seem too worried, so I don't worry.

We go immediately to the hospital where I get the same interne guy I got last time. And like last time, he says, "Go ahead and get situated" which means "take off your panties, spread your legs and show me your stuff." I do. And while my legs are spread and my junk is all out there in the breeze, he and his assistant flirt and talk about their holiday activities. They do a "leak test" to see if there's any fluid in the canal. Then, they do an ultrasound and confirm a lack of fluid. Then, as I'm still doing the spread eagle, they call in another chick. She comes in and verifies that yes, there's a lack of fluid. We are told to sit in the waiting room for the results and for an appointment with an even higher higher-up.

The higher up gets there, I lay back (no spreading this time) and let him confirm, there is a low level of fluid and he says he'd like me to get another ultrasound with a stronger machine so we can see if the baby has kidneys. But after much standing around and waiting, we find out we have to come back the next day.

They call to say the leak test came back negative... that means there's something wrong with the baby. Maybe no kidneys.

I go home and cry myself to sleep.

Friday, January 8, I go in and see a lady who barely speaks above a whisper who says, yes, I'm low on fluid and she can not yet see any kidneys. She wants to redo the leak test and then wants me to come back to see someone on Tuesday for a Pre-natal Diagnostic to figure out what the heck is going on and how to proceed.

I go home and start Googling. I read horrific things like Potter's Syndrome and shit like that. But, I also go onto CharlotteMommies and talk to my fellow mom's and ask if anyone has ever been through it and yes, there are a dozen moms who tell me that they were found to be dehydrated and were sent straight to the hospital to be put on observation and IV fluids and ended up having their babies just fine. There was only one whose story was not similar and whose babies didn't make it.

I sent Sam out for some Power Ade and started drinking like crazy.

Tuesday, January 12, I go in and talk to the doctor. After a million questions, he puts me up on a bed and does an ultrasound. There's more fluid!!!! AND we can see kidneys!!!! My baby is SAVED!!!! All the drinking, all the PowerAde has WORKED!!!! But instead of confirming that, he says that it could not possibly be dehydration. He does find a weird thing hanging off the side of the baby... It looks like a membrane, like there was a twin in there who passed away. I'm not sad about that. Those things happen. Or maybe, he says, it's a bit of the placenta that has pulled away. But he doesn't seem to worried about that. He doesn't say anything about bedrest or anything else. He simply says, come back in a week. He does ask me, before we leave, if I came in there thinking that the pregnancy was "foutue" which literally means "fucked." I told him no. The baby has kidneys. I saw kidneys. That's all I wanted to hear.

Tuesday, January 19, I go in, ready to see that the baby has lots more liquid because for the past couple of days, I haven't felt it move. I took this as a FABULOUS sign because it meant that he had more room to move around. All of my fears are gone. All of my problems solve and I am confident that I'm going to see an even bigger, more healthy baby.

Only....... in the back of my mind, I worry that I haven't had to pee as much. That my boobs hurt in a strange way. That I've LOST four pounds. That I haven't felt the baby move. That I've had nightmares.

But all of that stuff has been pushed back into a dusty closet in my mind and the door has been locked.

I get up on the table. The ultrasound thingy is pressed onto my belly. Immediately, I see that the shape of my uterus is not round. It's all funky looking. There doesn't seem to be more liquid. The baby's head looks, sorta.... caved in on the sides... I see no movement. "I don't see a heartbeat," I say to Sam.

"It's not good Madame Tissot," the doctor says.

I nod, still not wanting to believe what I know to be true.

My baby is dead.

"It looks like the pregnancy has terminated. And there are signs that it has been this way for a couple of days."

I blush, because as he put the ultrasound wand to my belly he had asked if I had felt the baby move. I had said, yes, and had thought to say, "well, I felt SOMETHING, but I'm not sure what" but thought better of it. At that moment, I'm wishing I had. I'm embarrassed that I seem to have been caught in a lie. And I think about that some more because if I stop thinking about that, I'll have to think about the fact that my baby is dead.

I'm looking at his limp figure, curled up inside my body, not moving. The doctor turns on the speaker to look for some sign of heartbeat. There is none. I start crying. The doctor turns off the machine and says he'll give us a minute, but what he means by that is that he'll go on the other side of a short partition. Fucker.

My first thought is this: "I'm going home." And then, "I want my mommy." And then, "I hate France." And then, "I need to text Flavia and tell her that I can't make it to the movies."

I have gone insane. I can't think about the baby. I can't think about anything. I don't want to face this doctor and his smug face and his lack of concern and his bullshit. I hate him. But he makes us sit down and wants to tell us how things work. I'm thinking I'll be admitted right away, they'll induce, I'll deliver, they'll do a D&C and I'll go home that night or the next day. Babyless.

But it's France, you see. That bitch France. Things couldn't possibly be quick or uncomplicated here. Things MUST drag out and hurt as much as possible. Otherwise, they would have fucking put me in the hospital for observation and fluids a week prior, right? That's what would have happened in the States.

No, the way things work in France is that I have to take some pills to "prepare my uterus" (that means stop the pregnancy for real) and then, I have to wait a few days to let that medecine prepare me. To carry my dead baby around in my belly. Then, I'll be admitted on Thursday and STILL NOT INDUCED until Friday morning. I'll have my D&C immediately after and will go home on Saturday morning. Think about that. What takes one night in the States (even if it costs more) takes five days in France. I'm not even allowed to take my "abortion" pills right away. I have to wait until 8pm that night to take 'em.

I go and have blood drawn in hopes of finding out what went wrong. But I sit in a dimly lit waiting area while people clomp by in their fucking high heeled boots (it's boot season here right now) and drink their coffee and laugh at each other's jokes in the break room right near me. I'm told over and over "courage"... Why the fuck should I be expected to be courageous? Why can't they just not say ANYTHING and leave me alone. Let me to think and let my loss sink in. I was supposed to have a baby. I'm a healthy young woman who has babies EASILY... Why was all this shit happening to me and my baby? And then, things flitter through my mind... the kidney stones. The stent. The way my belly was flatter IMMEDIATELY after my stent removal. They way the urologist told me with a weird look that he had emptied my bladder for me after the surgery. What was that about? Did he accidently bump into something? Did some of the medicine I was taking to keep my body from rejecting the stent backfire and cause the placenta to tear away? Did the stent rub against something in there and cause a leak? Did the general anesthesia have a strange side effect that made me lose my baby? Was it the morphine? Why? WHY was my baby dead and why were these fuckers laughing over their coffee while I sat there trying to figure out how I was going to survive this?

She took about 15 vials of blood and led us into another room. She gave me a box of pills and explained again, not to take the pills until 8pm. She blah blah blahed over and over. And then, she talked about funeral shit. Cremation. What happens if we decide to declare the baby, but DON'T want to be a part of the arrangement for its remains. When she said that we could bring a lovey to put in his coffin and that he'd be buried in the hospital's baby cemetary, I lost it. Body-wracking sobs. I couldn't look at her or listen to her any more. She said, "courage." I wanted to beat her face in.

She said I'd have to see an anestesiologist right away in case I'd want an epidural (*eye roll*... I've never HAD or NEEDED a fucking epidural and my last baby was over 8 pounds) and because I'd have to have the D&C right after the delivery so that they could get the placenta out... Because my body wouldn't know to expel the placenta. I frowned at her, because I know my uterus.

I met the anesthesiologist. He was kind. He said that he didn't know I wasn't French until I said that I didn't know how to say "rotator cuff" in French. He said, "You have absolutely no accent." I wanted to beam, but I couldn't. For obvious reasons, my mouth wasn't working. He checked my heart and blood pressure and re-explained what would happen. I told him how I had awakened mid-surgery when they put my stent in, just as a precaution so he'd make my knock-out medicine nice and strong. I can still remember his face. It was so so kind. So warm. The eye contact, the soft voice, the smile at the corners of his mouth. The sense that he understood what I was going through and that he respected me and wouldn't condescend to me like all the other French fucks.

As I left the hospital, I had only one thought.... That at least if my baby had to die, he got to do so inside my belly where it's soft and warm and safe instead of outside in the cold mean world of France.

Sam and I went out to eat. I ordered an alcoholic appetizer drink and then drank a LOT of wine with my meal. And then, when Sam said something about something, I said, "Yeah, of course, after the baby's born." And then, I thought about it. After the baby is born. Dead. And then, I lost it again, right there in the restaurant. And then I got drunker.

I went home and slept. And wept. All day. I took my three pills and then updated my status on Facebook to reflect the short version of our news. It just seemed easier to do that than trying to call people one at a time. I just didn't have the words and didn't want to see anyone. Or even talk to anyone.

Ten minutes after I took the pills, I went to the bathroom and saw that I had some spotting. I figured my body already knew that the baby had died and had ALREADY prepared itself to let the baby go. The pills would help, but I had a feeling that my body already knew what it had to do.

I had cramps all night.

Wednesay, January 20, Sam took the day off. He helped me with the kids and then watched a couple of movies with me while they napped or played in their room.

I had cramps all day. I had contractions all night. And nightmares.

Thursday, January 21, I had plans. I had a house guest coming in for the weekend to stay with us while she went to her classes during the day. I didn't see why we should cancel that, putting her out in the cold, just because of our predicament. I would be at the hospital, theoretically, the whole weekend anyway. So, I decided to prepare some meals so that Sam would only have to warm them up for her and the kids. Sam took the kids to school and came back and got me. We went to the supermarket and got provisions. I had contractions the whole time we were in the supermarket, but that never stopped me before. We got home, Sam cooked the taco meat while I diced tomatoes (nearly taking off my left ring finger with a knife--Sam said we should go in early to the hospital so they could give me a couple of stitches on my fingers). At 11:15, Sam went to get Lily because exceptionally that day, her cafeteria had gone on STRIKE. Yes, folks, you heard it correctly. Cafeteria workers all over France (and basically all French "support staff") decided to go on strike. As if my life wasn't shitty enough, we had to worry about getting Lily and feeding her/taking her back, while I sat at home in labor.

I woke up knowing that the baby would be born that day. I've had four babies. I know what it feels like. The contractions I was having were fairly regular, so I knew that they wouldn't need to induce Friday morning. I knew that I'd have the baby without assistance some time on Thursday. So, knowing that, I didn't eat breakfast and I didn't eat lunch because I knew they'd need me fasting in order to safely perform the D&C under general anesthesia.

So, I sat in my office playing Spider Solitaire while Sam and Lily ate taco salad. But while Sam was gone getting Lily, I had already started feeling "serious" contractions. Those are the ones you have when things are getting, well... serious. When you know that it won't be long before you have to push. I started to worry that I might have the baby at home. With Lily there. And then, by noon, I knew that it wouldn't be long. I called a new American friend I've met recently. She has a daughter who is in Lily's class. And they live about a block away from Lily's school. AND, I "storked" her right after the birth of her baby here a few weeks ago, taking her meals for a couple of nights while her husband was away. So, I was pretty comfortable leaving Lily with her.... And at this point, I didn't see that I had any choice. I felt like I was imposing, but the contractions really were getting serious. So, I called and she told us to come over right away.

I sat in the car and timed my contractions. Really starting to get worried. But also, buzzed by the experience of labor. I kept waffling between the exhileration of feeling my body work and the horror of the knowledge that my body was working to bear a dead baby. I was scared, because I knew I'd want to see the baby and I was scared I wouldn't like what I saw. By then, I had already had two days to mourn. To say goodbye. To resolve myself to the fact that Flavia and I wouldn't be pregnant together. That I'd never be able to nurse this baby. To stare at its sleeping form lying in bed next to me. To nuzzle its soft head. No. I was about to bear and then bear witness to what would probably not look very human. I mean, the doctor had warned me that it wouldn't be "un beau bebe" (a pretty baby) when I had asked if I'd be allowed to see it. Can you believe that? Who ASKS if they are ALLOWED to see their own baby? Who has to ask that? It's France. I'm telling you. It has beaten me down. I've become subservient to the bitch.

As Sam walked away with Lily, I could see in her eyes that she understood. I waved at her and flashed her my most convincing happy smile, but she looked right through me. She knew.

We got to the hospital and they got me right into a room. The midwife who took us in had NOT read my file and didn't know anything about us, so she asked the most inappropriate questions, like, "Has anyone already checked your dilatation?" and just things you would ask someone who might be having a baby a couple of weeks early... not less than half way through their pregnancy. She had me get into a pair of those funky underwear and gave me a pad and told me to lie down so she could check my dilatation. She said that I was about 60% effaced and dilated to a 1. And then, she left.

Sam had to go move the car so it wouldn't get towed. I figured we had enough time for that. When he came back, we started timing my contractions. They were pretty regular. About three minutes apart and about a minute long. The weird thing is, normally when I have contractions, they're way up in my ribs, you know? Because that's where your uterus ends up at term. But these contractions were way down in my belly... even below my belly button. I'm pretty much a champion laborer and deliverer. All OBs who have delivered my babies have been astounded at my uterus... Like my French, my uterus is something of which I have always been proud. And I so got into the whole fun of being in labor that I completely forgot why I was there.

The only thing that really reminded me was having to fill out the "Stillborn Baby" form. I had already decided to name the baby Heath Ledger. We had toyed around with Heather if it was a girl, but I'm a big fan of keeping a name the way it is, boy or girl (I would have named my first one Ryan whether a girl or boy), so I decided it would be Heath even if it was a girl. A few minutes later, a face popped into my mind. A smiling face with glittery eyes. "Give me that paper," I said to Sam, and I scrawled the name Aaron in front of the Heath Ledger. Aaron, my friend from college who passed away without my even knowing it until over a year later. Aaron Heath Ledger Tissot sounded like music. I could always remember two of the brightest lights who'd been extinguished way too early by naming my own after them. He would join their ranks. Wherever wonderful people go when they are taken too soon.

Sam played with the TV but only one channel would come on and it was infomercials non-stop. A girl came in with a clipboard and asked if we wanted to pay to have TV for 24 hours and asked us to pay the 3.50 Euro fee (yes, that's $5... it was like being on a U.S. Airways flight and wanting a beer).

After about an hour, it appeared that my contractions had stalled and I started to feel tired. I had contracted all night and all morning and I think the lack of sleep and the force of the constant effort had made me tired. Sam said he was going to go down to the front desk and get the administrative stuff out of the way since I seemed to be in some sort of break period. He lowered my bed and told me to nap. I lay on my side and opened my book.

I had a strange contraction that pushed out some fluid. I felt something twist and figured it was because I was lying on my side.

I felt something come out. Something wet and small. I knew it was probably blood, but figured that lying on my side was probably not a good idea anymore because it would leak all over the bed. Plus, I had the urge to pee. I got up and headed toward the bathroom but stopped because I had a contraction. When it passed, something small came out.

I said, "Oh no."

I pressed the nurse call button.

I called Sam. Got voice mail.

A nurse came in. I said, "Something's coming out." She left to get help.

I called Sam again. Voice mail.

Something big and warm came out and I spread my legs to let it fall into my hospital shorts.

I knew it was the baby and I was horrified that I had given birth to my sweet dead baby in my pants. HORRIFIED. As if things weren't shitty enough. Right at that second, but just for a fraction of a second, I hated God.

The nurse and Sam got there at the same time. I was leaning over the bed, my face stiff. The nurse told me to lie down. I said, "It's the baby. The baby came out. It's in my pants."

She didn't believe me. She said I needed to lie down so she could check. She put a bedpan under me.

She pulled my shorts down.

The baby fell into the bedpan and I felt the familiar tickle of the umbilical cord hanging from my vagina and rubbing against my labia.

My thought: My baby is in a bedpan.

I looked at Sam, who held my hand. "It's the baby, isn't it?"

He said, "No."

"Yes it is. I can feel the cord."

The nurse started to pull on the cord as if reeling in a fish. Then I saw Sam's face change and contort into a sob.

"It's the baby, isn't it?"

He nodded and squeezed my hand.

I heard the familiar sound of clamps on the cord. And a snip.

"I want to see it!!! PLEASE!!!" I said as the nurse tried to carry it away. "I want to see my baby!!!"

"Ma'am," she said, "we really need to get you upstairs to the block so we can get the placenta out. You can see it afterward."

"No, I want to see it now."

The nurse or midwife or whatever she was looked at Sam and pleaded with him to talk to me. For once, in our lives together, Sam looked at her and said, "No, she wants to see it."

"Is it a girl or a boy?" I asked Sam.

The nurse looked at him. I had said it in English.

"She wants to know the sex."

"It's a little boy," she said.

I burst into sobs. I wanted a little boy so so bad. Ryan had pleaded for me to make him a brother. A boy. It's what I wanted. I wanted him!

"I want to see him now."

"Ma'am, it's really a very shocking sight. I think it's better if you go upstairs and have your 'curetage' right now and then see the baby when you get back. If you see him now, it can raise your blood pressure. That could be dangerous for your surgery."

I wanted to say, "If you DON'T show me my baby, my blood pressure's going to be worse." but I couldn't find the words.

"I think she insists," Sam said.

The nurse raised my bed and brought a tiny bundle wrapped in one of those plastic/cotton pads they put on your bed to catch leaks. She pulled it open and I almost gasped. I looked like a huge blood clot. Just a red handful of tissue.

But then she turned it. And I saw a face. A beautifully, completely formed face. She moved the other fold of tissue back and the baby's mouth dropped open.

Lolo, I thought.

She said, "Do you want to see his little body?"

I said yes.

She moved the tissue. I saw a little limp arm at the end of which was a tiny limp hand, resting on a belly.

Ryan, I thought, when I saw the hand.

Lily, I thought, when I saw the belly.

I looked at the face again. The little nose. The closed eyes. I saw glimpses and ghosts of both myself and Sam. There in a little red, skinless, form. Gorgeous. A representation of all that is good in the both of us. All that is beautiful.

And suddenly, I was filled with a strange feeling.

Gratitude.

I felt peace wash over me and I was overcome with joy and honor at having gotten to carry this little body inside me, even for such a short time.

I was completely and utterly in love with this tiny little boy.

"Thank you. Thank you so so much," I said over and over to the nurse/midwife.

She said, "There's no reason. He'll be right here when you get back. I promise. And you can see him whenever you want."

Another very sweet nurse came over and started an IV and the two of them wheeled me to the elevator, still in my bed, and took me upstairs to the operating room. After we got there, the main nurse explained to the doctor the situation. Saying that I had lost the baby at 18 weeks, that the baby had come even earlier than planned (he was supposed to be born the next day) and that I hadn't birthed the placenta. And then she said that I was bleeding a lot

I felt a contraction. I grunted. Something came out into the bed pan. The nurse lifted the sheet and her eye brows raised. That had been the placenta. That's not something they were used to because apparently, placentas don't come out on their own at that early in pre-term. Again with my superuterus.

The elevator door opened and the anesthesiologist stepped off it and smiled at me. "Remember me?" He said with a warm smile. I smiled back. He seemed so fatherly and kind that just his presence soothed me.

The sweet nurse gave me a small shot glass with a sweet liquid to drink that was supposed to lower any reflux during the surgery.

They wheeled me into surgery room and asked me if I could move from my bed to the table. I did. Because of the chilly room and the drop in hormones, I started shaking, my teeth chattering. They got some warm blankets and stretched an upper body warmer (flooded with warm air), adjusted the bed and got me prepped for surgery. The nurse at my head stroked my hair gently. The kindness in that touch made me start crying. I'm so used to such a LACK of tenderness in this place that just that small gesture caught me off guard. She then put the oxygen mask on my face. I shook it off and told her that I was a bit clostrophobic, so she held it above my mouth.

After a while, they said that if I didn't get sufficient oxygen into my blood, they wouldn't be able to start the anesthesia, so in the end, I had to deal with the oxygen mask pressed to my face. I was told to breathe deeply to make it go faster. I did. It did. And before long, they said they were pushing the first dose through.

They asked me if I felt the room spin. It did, but I was still awake. They pushed the second dose through. My eyes closed, my arms nice and warm, my legs up in the air, strapped to leg stirrups.

I woke up in recovery and the first thing I said was, "I had a little boy."

Sam came in long enough to tell me he had to go get the kids. Said he'd be back later.

They wheeled me to my room. I asked to see my baby. The nurse brought him back in. He was cold--I assume because he was being kept in a cooler--and the nurse had put a little white bonnet on his head. His face had already deteriorated a bit, but his little hands were just as well-formed as at the beginning.

"Can I touch him?" I asked, timidly.

"Of course."

I played with his little toes. Patted his belly. Took his tiny fingers on the end of my index finger and held his little hand. Again, I was filled with gratitude and love. So strange. I think the nurse started to worry about me getting too attached or maybe she was worried about him being out of the cooler too long (as we had agreed to an autopsy) because she put the little napkin back over him. I patted him and said, "Goodbye sweet baby boy."

I now wish I would have insisted on spending just a little more time with him. Or maybe even holding him in my arms. I didn't because I felt prohibited. But he was mine. I wish I would have realized it then. But, at least I don't wonder. At least I got to touch him and stare at him. Memorize him.

After she left, another nurse came in and gave me a stack of pads and brought me a snack of tea and biscottes. I watched bad TV and couldn't believe I had paid for it.

Sam got there later. We talked. We cried. We laughed. We cried some more. He left. He called me on my cell and let me talk to my babies.

I didn't sleep much. Sometimes I just stared, thinking, wondering how I was ever going to get over things. Sometimes I read. Either way, I counted down the minutes until the nurse would come in and give me the sleep aid Sam had requested for me before he left.

Even with the sleep aid, I woke up at 4am unable to sleep. I read. I dozed. I woke up and read some more. I tried the TV but the later (or earlier) it got, the worse the TV got.

I ate my breakfast at 7 when they brought it and then counted down the minutes, watching CNN, until Sam would get there around 9. At 9:05, I picked up my phone to call him but he walked in.

We had been told the day before that before we would be allowed to leave, we'd need to speak with a social worker to figure things out about Aaron's remains. Sam wanted to know if the hospital could cremate and then let us pick up the ashes or if we had to do everything through a funeral parlor, but we were told we'd have to talk to the social worker about that and that she would be by in the morning.

That, and a quick consult with the doctor was all we'd need to get out of there.

We played cards all morning, trying to forget why we were there... Why he was off work... Why we were able to sit there in the middle of a work day and play Milles Bornes. Hours went by and this social worker chick never showed up.

Finally, at 11:30 (which is just barely "sometime this morning" as 11:30 is "almost lunchtime"), the social worker came in wearing, you guessed it, BOOTS and clomped over to my bed. "You requested to see a social worker?"

I looked at Sam. He looked at her. "Well, no, we were told we'd need to talk to you about the remains." He explained to her, as she took my belongings off of the chair next to the bed and moved it over to sit on it (!!!), what we wanted to do. When he got to the part about picking up the ashes, she said, "Uh, no sir. That is impossible."

Had she said it in a nice, polite, respectful tone, I might not have gotten so mad. Had she seemed like she had even fucking GLANCED at my chart and gave a shit that I had just lost my little boy, I might have been able to hold back. But she was a bitch. That's the nicest word I have for her. Sam tried to explain that we wanted to take the ashes to the States. She said that there had been a new law passed and that that would be impossible. Again, she said it like we were stupid, like we should have KNOWN that and that such an idea was idiotic to begin with.

I couldn't hold back any more. "That's ridiculous. You're telling me that if I were in France as a tourist and one of my children died, I wouldn't be able to take the remains back to the States? I doubt very seriously that that is true."

She said, "I'm sorry, but I do believe it's very complicated. You're not allowed to take the remains back to your residence."

"Look, I don't care if they put the remains in a locker until I get on the plane, but I'm taking my baby back to the States if I have to go to jail to do it."

Let me inject here that before seeing Aaron, I didn't care about "remains." And for the most part, I still don't. When I die, I want my parts split however peeps can use them, the leftovers can go to science and if they wanna do something with me after that, they can cremate me and have Sam spread my ashes at my Grumps' waterfalls in Arkansas and if he needs a place to come "see" me because he wants to be "close" to me, let it be there. He can even plant an azalea or a field of daffodils for something, because if I hang around here, odds are good, it'll be there around those falls... the wonderland of my childhood. I just can NOT imagine going back to the States and leaving my tiny boy here. Does it make any sense? I'd feel like I left a part of me here in France. And I want NOTHING to do with that.

"I'm going home," I said under my breath. But I meant it. I think it was when that social worker looked at me over her glasses and started talking down to me that the camel's back broke in half. I decided then and there that I wouldn't be coming back to France after the February vacation we had planned in VA. I would take the kids with me (or not, if Sam wanted it that way) but I was NOT going to come back.

The discussion went on and on while I stared at the wall, thinking about my garden. When it was over, she got up and went to her desk because she needed to do some research. She'd be back later.

Sam stared at the floor.

"You have to call someone. The U.S. embassy. A funeral parlor. Someone. SOMEONE has to know how this goes, Sam. And it's not that empty-headed bitch."

He continued to stare at the floor like he couldn't hear me.

I lost it. I grabbed my phone, called Flavia and had her give me the phone numbers for a funeral parlor, the U.S. Embassy in Paris and the Consulate's office in Lyon.

"You gonna call, or are you gonna make me do it while I sit here and bleed out the rest of my baby into my pants?"

Okay, I know it was harsh but I was PISSED. I feel like if you PUT UP with incompetence the likes of that social worker, you are, in essence, encouraging her to stay the way she was. She needed to be called out. She needed to be corrected. It should have been OUR DUTY to keep her from doing this to another couple some time down the line.

Sam called and got the info from the funeral parlor. Sure enough, there are new laws. If you take the remains back to your house, you have to sign a paper. Otherwise, you can leave them at the funeral parlor for up to a year. As far as repatriation, we might need to call the Embassy to get some kind of form, but with the birth and death certificates, we would probably be in the clear.

An hour later, the bitch came back and told us some OTHER story. I just smirked and rolled my eyes. Sam told her he had called the funeral parlor.

She looked at me and asked if I needed a psychologist. I remarked that she was trying to make an effort, so I said, "I appreciate that, but I've found that French people react differently to situations than Americans do, so I'm not sure a French psychologist would really be able to understand my particular reactions. But thank you. I'm a member of a mommies forum, though, so I'll take solace in my mommy friends."

She didn't seem to like that answer, but shrugged and rolled her eyes.

She then asked me if I wanted a puericultrice to come to my house. I thought about this... Pueri is the prefix that has to do with babies... I don't have a baby. Why would I want one of those? So, I asked, "Um, what is a puericultrice?"

She looked at me over her glasses like I was an idiot for asking... though I had JUST told her that I was American and said, as if speaking to a child, "A puericultrice is someone who knows everything about babies and the care of babies."

"So, why would I want one?"

Sam interrupted because he heard my voice escalating. I think he could tell I was about to deck the bitch.

I just leaned back and watched the muted TV until she left.

As soon as she left, the new nurse/midwife came in the room with a phone and said, "Um I have an American insurance company on the phone for you. They want to speak to you."

Sam took it, started in French and then switched to English. He started to tell the story, but he was leaving things out, so he passed me the phone. I told the nurse on the line everything that had happened since the beginning of the problems (going to the emergency room in the States back in November) up through Aaron's delivery. She said she just needed someone to give her that information but that, in order to send through a "recommendation for coverage" she'd need to hear all this info from a doctor or medical professional. She said that she had asked the woman who had answered the phone but that they would give her no information. I took down her number and said we'd have a doctor call her back.

The nurse/midwife came back in and I told her what the call was about. "Oh," she said, "well, I'm not allowed to give out information without your permission. If you'd have just given me permission, I'd have talked to them."

Okay, but um, I didn't know that's what the call was about... She had just walked in and handed us the phone.

"Well, tell them to call back with a French translator and I'd be happy to talk to them."

At that point, I ALMOST wrote down a little note, giving her written permission, but she was, at that point, in the middle of taking out my IV, because, get this, I didn't have to talk to the doctor AFTER ALL. So, I didn't need to talk to the social worker, and I didn't need to talk to the doctor, so WHY THE HELL was I still at the hospital when I could have been home in my own bed?

Sam and I left the hospital and went straight to the movies. Why not? We were out of there just in time to go to the movies. Sam had taken the day off. What ELSE were we going to do? Sit at home and stare at the walls?

As soon as the movie was over, we went in the van to get the kids. As I was sitting there in the van, waiting for Sam to come back, a pair of boys crossed the street and because Sam had parked on a crosswalk, these 10 year olds started cussing at me as I sat in the vehicle. I could have flipped them off. I could have stuck out my tongue. Instead, I just stared at them. Filled with ire. Packing my suitcase in my mind.

When I saw my kids, I had to pretend to be okay. I had to BE okay for them.

The rest of the night and the days that followed are all jumbled...

My houseguest came. During dinner, two bouquets of flowers were delivered--one from Rachel in CLT and one from Mariann here in the States (Mariann is the friend who watched Lily and walked her back to school while I gave birth to Aaron). My houseguest having learned "feet" that day gave me a foot massage. The left foot was heavenly and it is all I remember. I fell asleep near the beginning of the right one. The next night, she massaged my arms.

I hid out as much as I could this week. I didn't want anyone to ask me how I was. I didn't want to find myself curled in a ball on a floor somewhere sobbing. Instead, I cleaned and organized. I didn't sleep much.

Sam moped because I wouldn't stop talking about leaving. Taking the kids with me. He didn't want to stay in the apartment all alone. He'd miss his kids. He'd miss me. I tried to get him to see how great it would be for him to have some time to himself. He could ride his bike during lunch. Run at night and on the weekends. Lose some weight. But he still moped.

Then, I had a Eureka moment in the middle of the night. I had a new plan. I would stay in the States, but only with Ryan. That way, the girls would keep Sam busy and keep him company. They'd be in school all day long, he'd spend a couple of hours with them at night and then they'd be in bed until morning. He'd have to practice putting together their outfits and we'd need a Lily solution (she'd need someone to walk her to school, feed her lunch on Mondays and watch her all day Wednesday) but for the most part, it seemed do-able. Sam was absolutely against it from the start, saying we shouldn't separate them. But he told me later it was because I had talked him into spending more time on himself, going to the movies and riding his bike. While I think he probably deserves that kind of alone time, it's going to have to wait until he retires.

Throughout the week, we found Lily solutions. By yesterday it was pretty much official. We found out tonight that we can even do an air shipment of some of our stuff... meaning that Ryan and I will have beds and a couch instead of camping out on air mattresses.

I'm ecstatic. I can't get out of this place fast enough. I'm mourning the little pockets of happiness I've found here, but since Aaron's passing, they're not the same. There's a shadow on everything.

Going to the States is going to be so good for Ryan. I've already researched modern Kindergarten in the States (a lot has changed... when I was a kid, it was about coloring, cutting and pasting... go figure) and I'm excited for Ryan to have this opportunity to prepare for first grade. I have spent so many hours trying to search for good things that have come out of Aaron's death and this is one of the big ones... I wouldn't have gone home had Aaron not left me... and without going home, Ryan wouldn't be starting Kindergarten. Without starting Kindergarten, I am CONVINCED Ryan would have had a tough time in first grade.

That, and the garden. Because I'm not going to spend my days lying around on my butt. I've been dreaming of getting this soil under my fingernails since BEFORE we came to France. I'm finally going to have my farm. I'm going to spend my days working on the woods and the gardens and whatever else needs to be done. I'll invite my hippie Charlotte friends to come up and help on the weekends if they wanna. I have a couple of friends whose families live in the Lynchburg area who'll come to visit from time to time. I have at least one long lost friend I re-discovered during my last visit to VA who lives in VA!!! (Hi Travis!!!)

And maybe, just maybe, I'll finally finish revising my books and get those bitches published. I feel like I owe these things to Aaron. Nothing could ever make his death "worth it," but at least his passing will have sparked something positive instead of the wallowing in despair it COULD have triggered, right?

I have two big regrets. One is that during the early months of my pregnancy, Sam and I had a fight. I actually said, "I'm worried about this baby because I don't want to be with you any more. What kind of beginning is that for a child?" What I was essentially saying was that things would be easier for everyone, including the baby, if the baby weren't born. I'd take that back in a heartbeat if I could. I never EVER didn't want that baby. I was mad when I said that. I'll never say anything like that out loud again and I'll try very hard not to think it.

The other thing is, early on in my pregnancy, I said, "I'm not going to spend 10 months lying around on my ass. If this baby is going to survive being a Tissot, it's going to have to pull its own weight and hang on tight." I've never regretted anything I've ever said more than that right there. I'd lie around for the rest of my life if it would bring my Aaron back.

But I can't, and it won't, and he won't. And it's time to move on.

So, I'll be ending this blog a little earlier than I had planned. Not tonight of course. I'm here for another two weeks. But after that, if you wanna know what I'm up to (up to my elbows in dirt, hopefully), you'll have to go to the new blog...

I'm looking forward to moving on. I hope you'll come with me.

Goodnight, sweet boy.

2010-01-22T07:13:00.000-08:00

Our angel baby boy--Aaron Heath Ledger Tissot--was born around 3:30pm yesterday. May he rest in peace.

I'll write about it when I can. But not yet.

:-(

2010-01-19T08:38:00.000-08:00

The baby died some time this week. They were unable to find a heartbeat and there were "signs" that the baby had been dead for several days. I'll be admitted to the hospital Thursday and will deliver Friday.

I am devastated and just want to go home.

Oh, FRANCE!!!!

2010-01-17T20:07:00.000-08:00

I'd just like to take a moment to thank France for making it that much easier to leave. Within the past week and a half, little things have happened that reminded me of how much I want to go home.

Up until then, part of me was even biting its nails about having to say goodbye. I was like, "Am I really ready to leave? What about all the things I'm going to miss when I'm back in the States." And sure, those things still exist, but all the little things... those little things... are making me say, "Know what? SEE YA!"

At this point, I'm even considering campaigning to leave two weeks EARLIER than projected. Partly because it would be easier for the pregnancy, but mostly because I don't know how I'm going to NOT go crazy over the next coupla months (short of just hermiting myself in this apartment).

To be fair, as you all know, I've discovered a lot of things about this place that I like. There are things that I like A LOT. There are things I like less. There are things I HATE. And... well... the things I HATE have become starkly OBVIOUS and are daily becoming more so.

The funny thing is, just when I put my hatred aside and try to reach back out to France in friendship, it acts like a douche. I'm done.

I GUESS it's only fair to give you an example.... I had my guard down yesterday because we were visiting Sam's family. I'll insert here that Sam and I made a little bet and he wasn't allowed to shave his face until we got an answer about leaving and had shown his new beard to both Flavia AND his mother. Sam's hair grows ridiculously fast and in less than three weeks, he has become a bearded man. I can't tell you how HOT it was, but it was... Anyhoo, so, we're visiting and some peeps arrive and one of them--who I'd grown to feel LESS disgusted about--scrinched up her face and said, "You look like you just stepped off the plane from Iraq or Afghanistant!" And she wouldn't even kiss him hello (you know, like the French DO), but held out her hand to shake.

I threw up in my mouth a little.

I'm tired of being somewhere where that kind of ignorant behavior is tolerated and mainstream.

That's a mild example. There are so many others. But I don't wanna nitpick. All's I'm sayin's it's just fucking time to go home. Sure, I don't fit in THAT well at home, either. I'm a bit of an oddball, but in recent years, peeps in the States seem to appreciate difference like I've never known before.

So, France, I'm glad we got this ALMOST two-year chance to get to know one another again, but as of now, you're raunchy little habits have plucked my last nerve. I'll try not to let the door hit me in the ass on my way out if you'll try to resist the urge to write me postcards. :D

Know what all this means? This blog will end in May, the time of my return to the States. Thanks all for following me and reading me and indulging my bitching and my dreaming and whatnot. Of COURSE, there'll be a new blog... In fact, I'm going to set it up today... Adventures in Homesteading: Friendship Farm... Soon, you'll be able to go there and hear me bitch and moan about the hardships of small farming! YAY!!! The cool part is that there'll be PICTURES. LOL!

I'll be back Tuesday and let you know what's going on with the Bud in the Gut. Cross your fingers!

Quickie before bed...

2010-01-12T11:41:00.000-08:00

Just to let you know, there was more fluid today and the doctor thinks he saw what appear to be kidneys!!!!!!

We're not out of the woods and EVERYONE around me (except for mothers who WENT through this) tell me that it could not POSSIBLY be due to dehydration. But I am the one who has been drinking three Power Ades a day as well as at least three litres of water since Friday... and I think it has a LOT to do with the increase in fluid, PERSONALLY... I'm no M.D. or anything. *eye roll*

Whatever. I'm not going to argue. I'm only going to say Thank GOD and the Universe and all the Fates that things seem to be getting better and without even ONE NEEDLE poking me ANYWHERE.

Okay, now I'm going to bed.

I love you all. I mean it.

I probably shouldn't....

2010-01-11T08:42:00.000-08:00

...blog while I'm pissed, but tough shit.

Okay, where were we? Oh yeah, so, Friday, I go in and have the "more precise" ultrasound from a "more experienced" ultrasound doctor, right? Guess what she told me? Nothing new. There you go. She made me another appointment to come back tomorrow, Tuesday, to do a "diagnostique ante-natale" (prenatal diagnostic).

I Googled it when I got home and other than ANOTHER ultrasound, it's supposed to involve amniocentesis (sp?)--which seems pretty impossible since there ISN'T any damn fluid in there, taking blood samples from the baby (!!!!!!) and taking samples from the placenta (!!!). Why is no one talking about dehydration?

Today, I asked Sam to call our regular OB (because she wasn't there on Friday when he called) to talk to her about all this. She said for us to keep the appointment tomorrow because it's what she would have eventually told us to do. *fuming* When Sam asked her if it might be caused by dehydration, she said that she's "absolutely sure" that it's not because dehydration wouldn't cause THAT much of a lack in fluid.

So, I tell Sam I want another opinion. He sighs and tells me that he's worried about going tomorrow because he's afraid I'm going to diagree with the doctors and go against what they recommend. Um, no, I'm not going to go against it. But I AM going to refuse any needles being involved until dehydration is CLINICALLY ruled out as a possibility. That made him mad. I told him that doctors are not omniscient gods or superheros with special magic powers and that moms who have been through this at the exact same stage can NOT be completely insane. And it just seems freaking LOGICAL to rule it out. LOGICAL... Doesn't it to you? I mean, wouldn't you want to rule out the most obvious possible problem? He actually said that yes, he was going to believe the doctors who do this thing every day over a group of mothers who don't know anything.

Nice.

Asshole.

So, I feel pretty fucking alone and angry right now. I'm going to have to fight tooth and nail, all by my self, to insist they look at other things. To insist they look at problems in MY health before they go poking around on that poor defenseless baby, dammit! I just don't understand why he can't ever be on my side. EVER. Even if he doesn't agree with me, why couldn't he, for once, support me and my feelings and wishes? Why?

I won't forget it. I won't forget that, once again, I have to fight alone. That the person who is supposed to be my partner is on the other side of the fence from me. If we didn't already have children together, this would definitely be the end. I appreciate all the times he has been there for me AFTER procedures and stuff like that, but I'm getting sick and tired of fighting fights all by myself. And you know, this isn't the first time I've complained about this particular deal-breaking issue of his, is it? Look back over the past months since we've been in France.

But, I have news... of another kind.

We're going back to the States in 2010. When depends on the baby. I guess. Sam says if the baby is fine and is going to be born, then we'll go back in May as planned. If we have to terminate the pregnancy, he wants to stay through until July. He may be staying here with the kids by himself if it comes to that. Because if he can't be here for me now, how the FUCK is he going to be here and be supportive when I have to agree to KILL MY BABY?????????

I want my mommy. I want to go home to my bubble. My cushion of friends. My big hug. If I have to lose yet another child in this gods-forsaken country, I swear, I don't want to stay here another freakin' second.

I'm happy we're going home. I'm sorry for Sam and his obsession with the wallet. I'm sorry for his parents and family. But I'm happy for my children. I'm happy that we'll get to start our lives and get out of this unreality.

Oh, back to the medical shit. So, I remembered that the OB said that I had high levels of albumin in my urine. I googled that. Guess what's associated with that? DEHYDRATION as well as gestational diabetes (which might explain why the baby was "bigger" (according to the doctor) at this stage than he/she should be). So, I'm going to bring that up tomorrow at the meeting thing.

Okay, that's enough bitching for today. Thanks for indulging me. For sticking with me through this. Erica in Houston, I love ya, chick, and I'm sorry I haven't been in touch and that I haven't commented on your comments and I keep meaning to write you, but I have been really out of it (for reasons you've read here), but it doesn't mean I don't appreciate your continued readership, friendship and support.

Peace out until tomorrow.

Doin' the Limbo Rock...

2010-01-07T23:09:00.001-08:00

December's theme of Wait-And-See has spread it's raunchy fingers into January.

Lemme give you the timeline...

October--I'm on my way to our homestead in the forest with the thought in mind that we'll know something about whether or not we're staying a third year... I'll know "by the end of November."

November--I find out about my kidney stone and amongst the hustle and bustle of having the stent put in, Thanksgiving at my place for 25, Nanowrimo and Ryan's birthday party, the whole are-we-moving/staying question moves to the background but still scratches at the inside of my spine. Needless to say, "by the end of November" we still don't know about making this a trilogy.

December--We've been assured we'll know something the Wednesday before Christmas vacation. Part of me is FURIOUS that we don't know and that no one seems to care what this kind of limbo does to me psychologically. Another part of me couldn't give two shits--and that's the part that can barely walk, can't really stand for longer than a couple of hours and is told over and over by the medical community that there is nothing they can do for the pain, not even take out the damn stent until January or February.

Wednesday before Christmas Vacation--We still don't know and are told that we'll know the week OF Christmas. We find out I have some sort of staph infection attacking me at the stent. I'm not surprised as I have been pissing blood all month. Doc prescribes me some mild antibiotics but when asked for pain medication, I am prescribed Tylenol. *eye roll* He caves under our unrelenting hounding and schedules to remove the stent January 4th.

Week of Christmas--We are asked by Sam's boss to essentially "give him a deadline." Sam says, "We need to know by the end of the year." Meantime, the pain gets so bad, we call and beg the urologist and the OB to give me some pain medication but to no avail. I declare that, though France is WAY ahead of the U.S. in terms of many kinds of treatment (namely affordable access), they are MEDIEVAL in terms of pain management.

The End of the Year--Comes and goes and my husband only says, "I'm not calling him until next week." I am not surprised, but am still somehow disillusioned. I'm sick and tired of being surrounded by amoebae. Why can't anyone grow a spine? Why can't the boss make a decision or call the freakin' decision-makers and get an answer? Why can't my husband stick by his end-of-the-year deadline? I start to pack my bags in my heart... Why? Because I was ready to stay here another year under certain conditions. I had the baker's license project, but without knowing when we're leaving, I can't rightly even register for classes. Also, because of the lack of pain managment, I'm getting nervous about delivering my baby here in France.

January 4th--I go in for my stent-removal operation, fasting, and tell them to please jack up the dosage on the anesthesia so I don't wake up in the middle. The doc is supposed to take out the stent and then send a camera up in there looking for the kidney stone, find it and remove it. I find out that since I'm past week 15, I am safe for a higher dose of drugs and shouldn't wake up! I do a painful happy dance. I go in for surgery, the guy uses gloves to take out my tongue piercing this time, doesn't warn me when he flushes the druggies through my veins and I barely have a chance to say goodnight before I'm out. I wake up in the recovery room, NOT INTUBATED AND FIGHTING TO BREATHE, but rather comfortable. Elated even. Knowing that it's all over and it's not even 2pm. But, as the anesthesia wears off, a pain in my left side starts to gnaw and then over an eternal quarter hour becomes so intense I'm gripping the bedrails, hyperventilating and crying big fat tears. The anesthesiologist comes in and shoots me with morphine into my IV (which is in my hand... BURN like crazy) and after another eternal quarter hour, I'm not in so much pain and very out of it.

When I get back to my room, my sweet hubby is there, worried and waiting. He breaks out the cards and I start to cry with gratitude. I beat him at Milles Bornes and then am told by the nurse I can finally drink. Good thing because I have a splitting headache I can only compare to moments of dehydration and hunger. I drink and drink and play more cards. My "collation" (essentially a big fat breakfast) arrives and I start to dig in... You ever seen a fasting pregnant woman eat? Not pretty. Crumbs were flying. Slurping noises echoed down the hallways. I'm sure I belched loud enough to rattle the windows.

The doctor came in and said that everything went really well. That he put the camera all the way up in my kidney and that there is NO OBSTRUCTION ANYWHERE. That means either the stone fell out on its own or it came out with the stent. Either way, it's GONE. \o/ We talked a little about pain and morphine and whatnot. I told him that other than some tenderness, I was fine but that I hadn't peed yet. He said he thought I should stay the night. That going home and chasing after the three kids was not what the doctor ordered as far as recovery was concerned. Sam agreed with him. I did not. He told us to think about it and to call him later. I thought about it and thought no. I didn't want to pay the 70 Euro for a night in a private room and I didn't want to spend the night with a roommate. I wanted to go home to my own bed; my soft warm bed that smells like Sam and the kids. I wanted to be petted and kissed by my babies.

All that water ready to make its exit, I got up to pee. Think tiny razor blades floating in lemon juice, squeezing out of your pee hole. Yeah. Now multiply that time a hundred and you'll have how freakin' bad it hurt to pee. It was so bad, I called Sam into the bathroom to help me to the shower so I could put some warm water on my parts.

I stood up from the toilet and got very dizzy. I broke out into a sweat as though I had been Zumba-ing for three hours (eh, Lisa?). The room started going grey and I had to keep swallowing to dam back the bile. Sam barely got me back to the bed before I threw up, in three sequential ralphs, right into my hot chocolate bowl. Grody, but convenient. Sam flushed it.

"You're staying."

"Okay."

We called the nurse in and told her about it. She called the doc and told HIM about it.

My head hurt worse than ever. I figured I had just puked up everything I had eaten and drunk, and now I was going to have to start all over. Sam had to leave to go get Lolo and he wouldn't be back until noon the next day.

I lay down and try to doze a little.

After a short mix-up on room numbers (they TRIED to stick me with a roommate, but I didn't think that would be fair to the roommate... I don't sleep well in hospitals and I tend to stay up all night reading), the nurse got me to my room and brought me in some dinner. Stuffed tomatoes and hot wheat cereal in its juice, a thin (but yummy) soupe, a roll and a pear. I ate this VERY slowly this time. And I drank very slowly, too. And every time I got up to pee, it got easier. And every time I peed, I drank another glass of water before I lay down. And eventually, my gut didn't hurt anymore, but MAN was my head still KILLING me and mostly just behind my right eye. While I was ecstatic that my gut problems were over, I was very worried I might have some kind of blood clot in my head.

I didn't sleep. I read an entire Laurie Halse Anderson book. Not that that means I stayed up all night, I mean the book was only 300+ pages long and it's not uncommon for me to knock one of those out in a few hours. That's just to say that I didn't sleep well. I dozed from time to time, but my headache finally woke me up for good at 4am. The nurses came in at 5:30 and gave me some Tylenol. I didn't want any more damn Tylenol, but it hurt so bad, I was willing to try anything. I had already finished off two 1.5 litre bottles of water and asked for a third. My new theory was that I was having a reaction to the morphine they had given me after the operation and that the best policy would be to flush that shit out.

Breakfast (bread and chocolate and LOTS of water) came and went.

The doctor came in a 9:30 to check on me and was surprised to find me curled up in pain with an ice pack pressed to my right eye. He seemed relieved that I was no longer in pain in my gut, but said he would send the anesthesiologist up to see me about the headache.

The anesthesiologist got there about 11:30. Funny thing is, at about 11, I realized my eye didn't hurt as bad. The pain was completely gone when he got there half an hour later (but the third bottle of water was also gone).

Sam came at noon and ate a sandwich while I had my hospital lunch (roast turkey with mushroom gravy and mixed vegetables), we stopped in the lobby to check out and for the doctor to wish us good luck with the baby and then Sam took me home. I was sore and groggy and still a little unstable as far as balance is concerned but for the most part, pain-free.

I slept the rest of the afternoon and jumped out of bed at 6 when Sam and the kids got home. I was SO happy to see them and to be able to hold them and not hurt. A few minutes later, a new (American) friend showed up with a steaming pot of soup his wife had just made and two yummy baguettes. I was in Heaven! To come home, to be stent-free, to NOT yell at my kids AND to not have to cook dinner (cuz while I like to cook, I wasn't feelin' like it).

Wednesday was a LEEEETLE rough only because Lily and Ryan were here all day and I was still sorta groggy. And the headache seemed to be coming back. I mean, the kids were good and played well together (I didn't even have to turn on the TV until 4:30!!!) most of the day, but I did end up taking a nice long nap when they did.

Thursday, yesterday, I woke up a new woman. Rested, pain-free, invigorated. I got up early and got the kids clothes lain out and started breakfast. We were all ready in record time. Sam dropped us off at the school and I was proud to stand there beaming and rosy-cheeked. The teachers and other parents were happy to see me and all kissed me happy new year.

I felt so good, I decided to go shopping for sushi supplies. I passed a homeless guy on the way there but didn't have any money. Since my organic store wasn't open yet, I crossed the street to a little grocery to get my surimi, avacado and a couple of other things. I picked up a sandwich and a box of cereal bars for the homeless guy, and since the organic store STILL wasn't open after I got done shopping, I walked back down to where he was. He didn't speak French OR English (probably from Eastern Europe from his features and accent) but seemed to appreciate the food. I felt bad I still didn't have any coins to be able to give him. Now that I think about it, I should have just led him to a cafe and bought him a coffee...

I got my nori from the organic store and walked home with a spring in my step. I almost stopped at this little international bookstore because Lily really wants this book about Meg and Mug, but I figured Sam and I could go after my OB appointment at 10:45.

I went home, put away the stuff and played on the internet until time for to see the doc. Sam met me downstairs and walked me over there, telling me that he spoke with his boss both here and back in Lynchburg and that he would have an answer no later than next Friday. I want to believe it. I do. He also said that he checked the baker's thing and got an email back saying that the courses run from September on and the whole thing lasts 8 months. So, if we stay, I can do the baker thing a few months after the baby is born.

We get to the doc and talk about all the stent-free happiness. She sends me into the next room to check me out. The scale says I've lost two kilos in the two months I've been seeing her. That makes her say, "Huh, looks nice and stable." *eye roll* Can't impress her, I guess. She does a quick pelvic and says the cervix is nice and firmly closed. Good news. She starts doing an ultrasound and says that the baby is growing just fine. Nice skull size, femur size, bladder is there, I see a foot! But then she says, "Hmmmm."

I hate Hmmmm.

She digs around a little while. Then, a little while longer... Then, after an eternity, she tells me that she's concerned there isn't very much amniotic fluid around the baby. Very little, in fact.

She sends me to the hospital to have a leak test done. If it's positive, at least we'll know it's a rupture of some kind and can act accordingly. If it's negative, and there is no leak, it could mean some sort of developmental abnormality in the baby.

She digs around a little more to make sure. To the point that my gut is actually SORE from her pushing on it.

I go home, pee, Google the whole "low amniotic fluid" thing and start to get worried. Sam and I get on the bus, stop at a new place (VERY YUMMY) for lunch and then take the car up the hill to the hospital.

Ironically, we get the same guy as last time. He's nice, but he's young and wears his inexperience on his face and in his flirty mannerisms as he interacts with his shadow/intern. SHE does a quick pelvic to take the leak test sample. HE does a quick ultrasound to check for amniotic fluid. THEY call in another person to verify. SHE does ANOTHER ultrasound and immediately confirms. THEY ALL call in their "boss" who does ANOTHER ultrasound to confirm. THEY ALL lead me to the stronger ultrasound doctor who can't take me that day. (Oh, by the way, the leak test comes back negative... BAD.) They give me an appointment for 11am the next day.

I'm PISSED. In the States, per my experience, I would have been sent right away to an ultrasound lab somewhere to get results as soon as possible. I want to see this baby's kidneys. NOW. If the baby does NOT have kidneys (hence, Potter's Syndrome... Google it, but beware if you are not strong in stomach or have a sensitive spirit... I cried a lot when I looked at it), I am going to let the little guy go. I do not want to have that baby squirming around in me only to have him or her stillborn later. I'd rather go ahead and say goodbye to the poor little sweety right now than to put him or her through a full term of pregnancy SMASHED in there with no water and lots of pain. Just thinking about it breaks my heart. Both things... The baby being in pain in there. AND thinking about saying goodbye.

I mean, I've already met this baby. I've seen its little feet. I've watched it dance on the screen. I'm in love. I want it to have little kidneys SO bad. Just thinking about it being in pain is like thinking about there being something wrong with Lolo. It's my BABY. My little PERSON. But I WON'T put my own wants ahead of it's comfort and peace.

I got online last night and asked around. Other moms came forward and told me that they too had had problems at 17, 18, 20, 24 weeks and that in those cases, they were just dehydrated. Maybe that's what's wrong here. Maybe I'm having a reaction to the procedure I had done on Monday. Maybe it's just a matter of drinking enough water to get things moving again. I DO feel dehydrated in spite of all the water I'm drinking. I wonder if there's something internally wrong with my kidney or something... SOMETHING keeping me from holding onto this water... Keeping me from using it.

Either way, I have been FLOATING away on water and juice since I found out it could be dehydration. I mean, that's the best case scenario. I'm still a little headachey, too. And my eyes are dry. And my mouth. And my calf muscles are cramping. MAYBE it IS just dehydration. I'm hoping so. I'm going to go have my ultrasound today. And then, I'm supposed to have another one next Thursday. In between now and then, I'm going to drink gatorade, water and juice like a madwoman and HOPE and PRAY that my water comes back.

So, a lot happens next week. Well, it's only two things but it's two HUGE things. One, we find out where we'll be living in May, whether or not we'll be going to VA in February, whether or not I'll be learning to be a baker. Two, we'll find out if we're going to still be having a baby.

Pray, light a candle (or two, even), burn some incense... do what you do... keep me in your thoughts, please. If not me, then the little baby's feet dancing in my gut.

I'll let you know what happens. And I'll post some pix again soon.

Happy New Year, by the way.

Ketchup...

2009-12-20T23:38:00.000-08:00

I really did TRY to blog in the first three weeks of DECEMBER!!! I promise. In fact, I have proof. I wrote the following post on December 8 (I think):

I had plans to spend the day at the cine because FINALLY all of the craziness of November (which actually stretched into December) is over and I thought I'd spend the whole day just BEING instead of cooking, cleaning and fretting. But, I just can't be bothered. *gasp* I know, right? ME, pass up a day at the cinema? WHAT? But the movies I had planned to see just don't seem like the right thing to do right now. One of them is a silly French comedy that I'll probably like but just not right this minute and the other is going to be one of those end of the world depressing things, and I REALLY don't need that right now.

I'll just start with the wah wah and move on to the update of November and projections for the rest of the year. The wah wah is that I am depressed. No, scratch that, I'm bipolar. I'm sure most of you know. I might have actually told you. I woke up this morning with a zest for life and looking forward to my "day off" and now, here I am, hunkering down in my sanctuary. I warn all of you close to me that I can feel the immenent reclusivity. So, if I pull away, turn down invitations, don't return emails right away and whatnot, it's not you, it's me. Part of the reason is that we still don't know if we're going to stay here or not. And Sam is such a brat that he won't ask again. The boss dude said he would let us know by the end of the year "but more than likely by the end of November" but obviously... well... it's December 8.

I just came to the sudden realization that if we're not going to stay here, I need to be doing some preparatin'... For one, if we're not staying, I'm going to make arrangements to leave early in order to have this baby in the States. Why? Well, because if I have the baby in late June, like my bitch of a OB is saying, and then am set to leave two weeks after that, I'll have to end up staying until August or so because the baby won't have a passport and you can't buy a plane ticket for a person who is not yet born. Not to mention all of the citizenship shit. So, it just seems to make sense that I go to the States sometime in late April or Mid-May and squeeze the baby out over there. Sam said that if we don't stay, he might just request to be relocated back early because of the baby, but either way, *I* won't be staying here. I mean, if I have to sleep on my sister's floor and have the baby in her bath tub, I will.

The other thing is that, if we aren't staying, in July, (or April/May if we leave early) our income will be cut by essentially 30% since we will no longer receive the expat bonus. That's some harsh shit. I've already looked and library jobs are essentially NIL right now. Plus, I'm supposed to start a full-time job with a brand new baby? Not gonna happen. I'll stay home and survive on ramen noodles before I do that. Maybe I'll be able to finally sell my book and that'll give us a little cushion. I've been considering going to school to become a French baker the short time we're left here (if we don't stay). Maybe I could start a free-lance baking thing on the side and sell to local restos in the States. *shrug* Who knows?

Obviously, we are by no means "down and out" or whatever. But things will definitely have to change if we're not staying.

And what if we are? Am I happy about that? I don't feel happy. I don't know if it's the season or the pregnancy or the complications I've had (don't worry, I'm getting there--those of you who have Facebook already know most of it), but I'm not jumping up and down about France right this second. I'm not jumping up and down about the States either, but I am dreaming of my little house in the woods. I am dreaming of hermiting myself away in my little homestead. Of drinking hot tea, wrapped in a blanket, fuzzy socks on my feet, sitting on a swing on my newly refurbished front deck, contemplating the world. Researching my milking goats and my cheesemaking projects. My brick bread oven that I'll build my goddamn self if it comes to it. My downstairs canning kitchen.

Would I rather be in Virginia but poor or be here and wish I was there? Ugh. Blah. Screwed.

Alright, so I guess that's enough of the major wah wah... Shall we proceed to the update and get that over with so we can get on with the short period of 2009 that's left?

PAIN IN THE BACK...
If you'll remember, on my return flight from the U.S. I had pain and cramping so bad I thought I was losing the baby. I went to the doctor and the baby was fine. A few days after I met my new BITCH OB WHO WON'T GIVE ME ANY F****** PRENATAL VITAMINS, I woke up in the middle of the night to pee and on my way back to bed, I collapsed on the floor with the worst pain I have ever felt in my life (keep in mind that I've had four babies with no anesthesia). I tried to deal with the pain by using my microwavable herbal heating pad, by taking a warm bath, by letting Sam rub me, but by 5am, it was obvious that the pain not only wasn't going to go away, but it was getting worse. So, we called the neighbor and asked him to watch the kids while we went to the ER.

We tried the place up the hill from our apartment but their ER isn't open until 8am. So, Sam took me to the hospital where he usually takes the kids when they're sick. It's a place called Femme, Mere, Enfant (Woman, Mother, Child) because I'm the first two and because we assumed the pain was linked to the third. After a short wait in the waiting room, a nurse got me into an exam room, asked a few questions (none of which was "how are you going to pay for this") and did a quick internal ultrasound. Baby was just fine and moving around like a champ. She asked me to sit up and describe where my pain was and then looked at Sam and said "these are classic blah blah blah symptoms" (by then, my pain is so bad, I can't really keep up with the conversation). She asks me to give her a urine sample "and don't worry if it's only a little bit." I'm relieved because I really REALLY need to pee anyway. I slip into the bathroom and pee, but when I look at the THREE DROPS that are in the cup, my mouth falls open. First of all, it felt like I peed out a gallon but there's really only 1/8 of a cup (if that). Secondly, IT LOOKS LIKE TEA. Not light and lovely green tea you get with your Chinese food... DARK AND MURKY sweet tea you get with your meal on the southern east coast of the U.S.

"Kidney stones," Sam translates. Instantly, scenes flash through my mind. The time a few weeks prior when I went to shop with Flavia and my back started hurting. The time a few days later when Flavia and I went out to eat and my back started hurting. The drive to VA and how my left side of my back hurt the entire way. The drive BACK to Charlotte and how nauseated and achey I felt. The cramps on the plane and how they seemed to be on my front left side leading down to my bladder. All along I thought it had something to do with the baby. I thought the blood was coming from the "birth canal" when really, some of it was surely coming from the urethra, based on the tea-colored pee sitting in the cup in front of me.

She wrote me a prescription for a pain medication and a kidney sonogram to be done by a more powerful machine. I did the sonogram and sure enough, my left kidney is extremely dilated (oh, and as a bonus, I get to find out that I also have GALL STONES... lovely, huh? no telling when those will creep up to wreak havoc)...

See? I TRIED to blog.

So, anyway, back to the story... Later that evening, the pain is back and is unbearable. We call the neighbors to watch the kids and we head to the ER up the hill because they close at 7 and we'll just barely make it. We get in there, wait in the waiting room maybe 15 minutes before they put us in an exam room (again, they do not ask for any proof of insurance or a credit card or anything). They ask a bunch of questions, do some research in a medical database on what they can give pregnant women with "renal colic" (I GUESS that's what it's called in English), hook me up to an IV and start pumping stuff into me. Within 20 minutes, the pain is gone. I seriously wanted to name this kid after that interne!!! BUT, if it's a girl, Franck is not gonna be a candidate.

He sends me home with some pills of the stuff he's just given me through IV and told me that if it happens again, I should head to the nearest ER that has a urologist on staff. That means, the private hospital on the other side of the park or the public hospital down on the south side of Lyon.

We get home and I'm feeling better... for about half an hour. Then it comes back. The pain. And with a vengeance. Now it's worse than it's ever been. I'm doubled over in pain, I'm bawling on the couch by the time the neighbor shows back up to watch the kids.

When we leave the house to go to the ER again, we have those two choices: We can go to the private hospital on the other side of the park, where we might have to pay more, but we should be seen pretty quickly OR we can drive all the way to the south of Lyon where we wouldn't have to pay as much but might have to spend hours waiting to get help. We made the OBvious choice.

And sure enough, as we walked through the door, they saw my distress and took me right away to a room and started prepping me to do an IV. They told Sam to go to the desk to fill out some paperwork (it's not a public hospital, so I imagine they wanted our address and phone number for billing).

The nurse comes in and tells me she's basically going to start a Tylenol drip. I try to tell her that at the other ER they gave me a cocktail of Tylenol, an anti-inflammatory and an anti-spasmodic, but she just tsks like I'm stupid. At this point, I don't care because I can barely speak. She starts the drip and instantly I start to feel better. It lasts for about 20 minutes. I start cramping again. At this point, I'm wondering where the hell Sam is. AND I'm starting to think it was a mistake to come to this hospital. The nurses at the public hospitals we visited LISTENED to me. They treated me like an equal. This nurse had treated me like a child before walking away and leaving me alone.

Before long, I'm rocking back and forth sobbing. The pain is back in full force and I can't take it. I text Sam to ask him where the hell he is. He says, "They won't let me in." I start to freak out! What does he mean they won't let him in? I text back, "Insist." He says, "I tried, but they won't let me." I text, "Talk to a goddamn supervisor or something." He doesn't text back for awhile.

I start to hyperventilate.

A man walks in the room. I can only see his knees because I'm spasming in pain and fear. He says, "Ma'am, what's wrong with you?" I can't answer. I can only gasp. He walks out without a word.

The nurse finally comes back in. I say, "I need my husband." She says, "He can't come in until the doctor has seen you." I say, "When is that?" She says, "Soon." But I can tell she doesn't give a flying fuck. She walks out and even her POSTURE is patronizing.

I start to beg. I try French. I try English. I'm pleading for someone to do something, to give me something. I'm texting Sam telling him it hurts and I need him because I don't think I'll even be able to talk to the doctor. He texts me back that he's trying. That he's out in the waiting room fighting with the nurses. Telling them that we want to leave and go somewhere else.

Finally, the nurse comes in and says she's going to give me some morphine. She tells me to calm down. I say, "I'm trying." She tells me that it's not good for my baby--AS SHE'S PUMPING MORPHINE INTO MY VEINS!!!! I say, "I NEED my husband." She says, "Not in THIS state." WHAT????? The absence of my husband is what has PUT me in this state. I'm livid, I'm in pain and I'm sick of her tone.

The man who left walks back in. The doctor. He smells like he's just smoked a pack of cigarettes. It's so strong, I almost puke on him. Now I know where he went when he left!!! Not to check on another patient. Not to look up my medical record. Not to speak with my husband. He went on his fucking smoke break.

He says, "How old are you?" I try to tell him but I'm gasping a lot. He says, "I can't understand you." But he says it in a bored tone. "I'm... trying... to... calm... down... and... tell... you..."

"Ma'am, I can NOT understand you if you continue to speak to me this way."

I want to punch his fucking face. I continue to hyperventilate, and I feel dizzy like I'm seconds away from passing out.

"Now......... How old are you?"

Right about then, the morphine starts to work and I can compose myself long enough to tell him my age, but I'm still shaking between sentences. After he's done with all of his questions, he leans close, his ashtray breath in my face, he sticks his hand up my shirt and down into my pants to massage my side as he patronizingly tells me that in order for my pain to go away, I'm going to have to calm down. Now I know how all old people in nursing homes feel. The indignity of being spoken to as though I'm a child. As though because he's a "doctor" he's somehow superior to me. I'm SHOCKED his hand is down the waistline of my pants, so shocked I can't even process it. I don't do or say anything but, "I need my husband."

"Yes, dear. I'm going to call your husband in here to hold your hand. Because that's a part of your treatment. To have your husband hold your hand."

He had better be glad I was incapacitated because otherwise my hand would have been pounding through his skull. Part of my fucking TREATMENT? I had been in that room for over an hour texting my husband.

They finally did let Sam come in. The doctor told Sam that he wanted to keep me for observation. Sam said, "She'll stay here? In this room?" The doctor said, "Yes." Sam said, "Because if I take her home, she risks coming right back here in a couple of hours, right?" The doctor says, "Right." So Sam kisses me, tells me he'll be back in the morning. The doctor says he'll call the urologist and get him to come see me the next day.

The morphine knocks me out for about half an hour but I wake up again in terrible pain. There is no call button, so I just have to wait for someone to walk by and say, "Excuse me?" and hope it's a medical professional and not a visitor. At one point, a male nurse with fifty piercings in his face (hey, I got piercings, I ain't judgin'... just sayin') comes in and leans down close to my face and tells me that he KNOWS how bad it hurts because he just had the same thing two weeks prior. He says I need to get some sleep and then he turns out the light.

Twenty minutes later, the lights come on all of a sudden and they wheel me out into the hallway between two curtains on the other side of which are two snoring old men. Observation my ASS. That doctor was a sadistic fuck who wanted to punish me for what he considered to be my "outburst"... I didn't sleep a wink. I was under bright flourescent lights the whole time, every time a nurse walked by, they called out to the other end of the hallway to another nurse, laughing and joking and etc. Patients came in, moaning and screaming like I had. I think my collective sleep count was about half an hour the whole night (and that's under MORPHINE, yo).

Whenever I needed to go to the bathroom, I flagged down a nurse to help carry my IV bottle or to disconnect me long enough to go. But he/she was never there outside the bathroom to help me back to my bed and I nearly CRAWLED back every time.

I finally woke up for good around 7am. I smelled coffee and fresh croissants and as much pain as I still was in, I was hungry having missed dinner the night before. But those goodies were not for us. They were for the nurses during their shift change. Holding their steaming coffees and they're buttery baked goods, they had their meeting right there in the hallway. To confirm my suspicions about my "observation" being my punishment, I sat, mouth agape, and listened to them tell the story about "The little American lady" who threw a fit, begged for her husband and had caused a big scene, blah blah blah. Everyone snickered and winked.

My bladder near bursting, I raised my hand. "Excuse me?" I got the attention of the male pierced-face nurse. "Yes, sweetie, we're coming."

No one came. They all left in their separate directions, completely ignoring me. I raised my hands several times but was invisible. Finally, when I couldn't take it anymore, I just lifted the IV bottle, wrapped the IV tube around my shoulders and carried the whole thing to the bathroom. As I sat there peeing out my three drops, I looked down at my IV and wondered how difficult it would be to pull out. I waved it away. This aint the movies, Joj. People don't REALLY rip out their IVs and leave in real life.

By 8:30, I'm texting Sam, telling him to come get me. He texts back saying that he's calling the hospital to find out the scoop. He texts again saying that a urologist has been called but they don't know when he'll be there. I text back that if no one comes to help me by 9am, I'm going to the bathroom, pulling out my IV and walking home across the park.

8:45 still nothing.

8:58 I get up, go to the bathroom, rip out my IV, staunch the bleeding with a bathroom paper towel, wrap my hair tie around the paper towel, put on my hoodie and purse, toss the IV stuff into the hazardous waste bin and leave the bathroom in search for an exit. But all the doors say "No exit." Or you have to push some kind of button. There are cameras everywhere.

I lose my nerve and go back to my bed. I sit up on the edge of the bed, waiting until I see a nurse walk OUT of the closest door and planning to tailgate him.

Behind me, I hear the doctor from last night talking to the doctor of the day... telling him again, humorously, my story. "La petite Americaine..." and whatnot. I start trembling with anger.

He makes his way over to me. I stare down at my feet. He says, as though talking to a child, "And how are we feeling today?" I say, "Not well." He takes my hand and in his slimy, handsy voice says, "Now, where are we going? Why are we all dressed up? Hmmmm? But first of all, don't we need to say Bonjour? Uh? Do you not say Bonjour to each other in the morning?" I don't answer. I'm ready to spit in his face. He repeats, "Now why are we all dressed up like we're ready to go?"

"Because I want to leave. I asked someone at 7 to help me go to the bathroom and then sat here for two hours without help until I had to carry my IV myself."

"Well, little lady, I saw you do that all night," he laughs nervously to his colleague.

I don't dignify it with an argument. I'm past arguing. I just want to know where the door is. "I want to go home."

"You want to go home? Well, the door's right over there."

I stand up.

"But at least let us help you get your IV out."

I said, "I already did it. It's in the bathroom if you need it."

"Well, then au revoir."

"Au revoir." I didn't even look back.

As I walked across the park, I called Sam. He insisted on coming to get me, but I argued that there was no way he was going to get the neighbors to watch the kids while he came to pick me up mere walking distance from home. I told him I'd walk to the end of the park and take the bus home. And that's what I did. I got home, fueled by anger and disgust. Determined to NEVER AGAIN go to a private hospital. They are supposed to be the places where people can get more personal attention if they are willing to pay more than the goverment set prices... but that's not what you get. What you get are NO RIGHTS and NO CARE and treated like an IMBECILE!!!

Okay, I'm going to take a commercial break to give you a few pics... take your mind off the prior scene...

Ryan's first day of CP (like first grade):

Lily's first day of public school:

The winery/hotel/castle I visited with Flavia and Gilles:

Paradis Festival (the nearly-rotten-on-the-vine last harvest grapes they use to make the last wine pressing of the season... they take the mashed grapes and cook this really yummy sausage in it... *slurp*)

I cooked this chicken:

Some kind of national holiday thingy going on at the park:

Our apartement from the national holiday thingy going on at the park:

Sometimes Lily likes to pretend she's a dog...lying on the couch... watching TV.

Somtimes she likes to put her head up Lolo's butt... while watching TV.

Pix from my trip to our new homestead in VA!!!!:

What I saw on Halloween night coming back from doing my laundry:

Our trip to Buffalo Grill (an American wannabe resto *eye roll* don't expect it to be "just like home" cuz it aint... notice the GLASS water glasses?):

Our trip to the bird park nearby:

We helped this baby bird get back into its cage. It's mama cried the whole time and then they hid behind this bush until it felt comfy enough to come out! Craziness!

Who's the vulture here?

In the "herb" garden... Hmmm wonder who's smokin' this?

Baby birds (in the nursery):

Baby humans... on the playground and obstacle course:

Big bird:

Buddies:

So, that day, I take a crap load of medicine (that the dude at the FIRST ER gave me) and we go to Sam's parents' house for the day). I was very glad to get away and VERY glad to see their appalled expressions as I told my story. I mean, these people survived World War II as near orphans! The fact that they are upset and surprised means that I'm not out of my head. That's really NOT how doctors are supposed to treat people. And then, Sam reveals that not only did they treat ME as "the little American", but they did the same to him. At one point in the evening when he told them that if he wasn't allowed to see me then he wanted them to release me and let us go to a different hospital where we could get some help. The nurse looked at him and said, "Oh, no, no. This here is NOT McDonald's!" *eyes bulge* Are you KIDDING ME?

So, the next day, Sam calls around and finds us an appointment with a local urologist who works out of a small clinic but who has an office literally one block away. I go see him. He's very no-nonsense and confirms, through ultrasound, that my kidney is even more dilated than it was during my first ultrasound and that if I have another bout of renal colic, I'm to call him and the clinic and he'll have them set up a bed and monitor me all night with an IV full of drugs, etc. The mere thought made me break out in hives as I stared down at the bruises the previous hosptial left all over my arms (I left out the part where the nurse missed my veins and completely messed one of them up... took four weeks for the bruise to fade). But in the car, Sam assures me that this is different. I'm not convinced.

Later that night, I have another bout of colic, but I take a crap load of medicine and a bath and go to bed.

The next day, just after I get home with the kids from school, it happens again. But this time, seriously worse than ever. I can't lie down, I can't sit down. All I can do is sob and pace and murmur gibberish to myself. As long as I keep moving, my feet keep my mind off my back, but the whole time, I feel like someone has jammed a red hot fire poker into my back and groin. Sam is on the phone with the doctor and then the clinic and then the doctor. 45 minutes go by of my pacing at home when FINALLY the doctor says for me to go to the clinic. That he's set it all up.

We rush over there, they start the IV, within 20 minutes, I feel a little better but am still hurting. They come in and turn it up a little. Sam kisses me and leaves. I sleep for half an hour and am awakened by the pain. I call them in and ask them to turn it up. They look at me like I'm crazy and say it's up full blast. They call the doctor. He tells them to give me morphine. They do, in the arm, hurts like hell but knocks me OUT. I sleep on and off, until morning.

Sam drops off the kids, rushes over to see me. The doctor comes in and says he wants me to come down to his office, he's going to fit me in between appointments to look at my kidney and discuss some options.

I'm just glad he said the word "options."

We get down there and here is what he says:

Okay we can do one of two things. One: nothing. We can leave it alone and see if the stone passes on its own but I hate to say that more than likely, before it does, you'll have another bout or two of colic and need to come in for another IV pain treatment. The second choice: A stent. We can put a tube up in there that runs from the kidney to the bladder. That will bypass the stone, allow the kidney to drain and keep you from having the colic. You won't feel it, we'll leave it in there for three or so weeks until you get into your second trimester when we can do an x-ray and see the stone, know where it is and how big it is and try to get it out.

"Let's do it." I mean, it's the obvious choice.

"Well, I'm going to let you think about it."

"What's there to think about?" Okay, to give this a little perspective. I must inject here that I am OBSESSED with Thanksgiving, okay? Right then, at that moment, I have three still-feathered birds stuck in my fridge waiting for me to get home, pluck them, gut them, and cook them. It's Thanksgiving day the day they propose the stent (though my celebration is not until Sunday). I have up to 35 or 40 people coming to my house. I am NOT canceling. Okay? So, my thought is, let's get this stent thing DONE, let me get HOME and get things started cuz I have pies to bake and potatoes to peel and blah blah blah.

So, we do it. He has a break between 12 and 2pm where he can slide me in to a slot on the block. They make me shower in betadine--even my hair--but they don't provide towels... get THAT. I'm having impromptu surgery, you think I've brought my own towels? I ask a passing custodian where I can find towels, she looks at me like I have a cupcake on my head and says, "Uh, we don't provide towels." I shrug and walk into the bathroom, figuring I'll use my tee-shirt to dry my hair. In the mean time, my roommate's husband overhears my exchange with the custodian and rips her a new one, telling her to give me something to dry off with because I'm having surgery. I could just KISS that man! The custodian comes back with one of those hotel-looking terry cloth bathmats and a sheet. I thank her and shrug. After my shower, I dry myself and my hair off with the bathmat, then throw it on the floor and put on the teeeeensy tiny little paper pyjamas they gave me to put on and wrapped the sheet around myself... I tiptoed down the hallway wearing my Crocks and my toga. LOL!

They wheel me down to surgery. A guy comes over asks me some questions and then asks a passing anesthesiologist to clear me. The doctor raises his eyebrows and says, "I don't work before the appetizer." The interne scratches his head and continues my intake interview. He asks about my piercings and I tell him to wait for the tongue piercing and say that the nose piercing doesn't come out. "That's okay, we'll just cut your nose off." He laughs. Later, a senior nurse comes over and starts talking to me. When she asks the interne if I've talked to the anesthesiologist, the interne tells her what the doc had said. "Oh, he was kidding." And he was. Poor interne... must have been new.

The druggy doc comes over and starts talking to me. Someone suggests he speak English to me since he used to work in the States. He says, "Wee are een Fronzt, so vee vill speeeek Fraynch." And then he laughs to himself. They wheel me into the operating room and put me up on the table. Okay, it's NOT a table. It's HALF a table for my back, a bucket stool sorta seat for my ass with a CUT out for my, ahem, um... you know? and then leg thingies for my calves. That's it. They get me up there and I start to slip. I say, "Um, I'm slipping." They laugh and say, "Well, we can't have your booty touching the floor."

I remind them to take out my tongue ring (which I only do right before any surgery because I have a phobia about the hole closing up). But because I have my IV in my left arm and am not allowed to bend it, I ask for assistance. The anesthesiologist, says, "Oh, let ME do it." He leans over, grabs both ends of the barbell and starts unscrewing. I taste aftershave or cologne on his fingers and my mouth is filled with that aftertaste even after he's put my tongue piercing into a little baggy. Blech. Another doctor who doesn't wash his hands. I have a half a second of nerves about it but I figure it's too late to stop at this point.

He comes around to the other side, starts messing with my IV and asking me where I lived in the States. When I mention I'm moving to VA, he perks up and starts talking about somewhere he went there. I can't for the life of me remember where it was. But then he says, "Okay, now I want you to go home. Go on back to Virginia. Take some pictures and send me a postcard, okay?" As he says it, my eyes close and I barely get out a "Goodnight." in which my voice sounded like I could sing bass for the Oak Ridge Boys.

Okay.... More pix? Sure!!!

Rainbow over the park (from the kids' bedroom window):

An autumn visit to Meme and Pepe's house:
Sitting under the apple tree:

The flowers need a drink:

Snack bandit!

Up a tree (as usual):

Ice cream ladybug!

Pig tails... You having deja-vu? Me too!!! Grrrr...

This is as close as my stupid camera would take (okay, the camera wasn't stupid, but the photog forgot to bring the zoom!) of actor Jean Dujardin at the pre-premiere of Lucky Luke! HAWT!!!

Caught Lolo taking a cat nap:

Monkeys in a tree!!!

Lolo turns TWO!!!

Coloring in the birthday suit:

The "do-over" Lolo's birthday party the day AFTER her birthday!

I wake up. Correction: I can hear, but am NOT awake. I can hear them talking and I can FEEL the doctor doing something to my urethra that BURNS LIKE HELLFIRE, but I can't move. I am beside myself with fear but can not signal to them that I can hear them. I send VERBAL messages to my body parts trying to tell myself to MOVE but the only part that responds is the big toe on my right food.

"Look at that," a nurse says. "Her toe is moving."

The doctor starts arguing with the nurse. He sounds really pissed. I can't really tell what they're talking about other than him saying that if she's not prepared to do what he tells her, she can leave and then he slams a clipboard down on my lower belly. I assume he walks out, because his mumbling cusswords seem father and father away. I realize that I am finally able to move my head a little, but I can't open my eyes. I shake my head.

"Look! She's saying 'no!'" A nurse says and she and another nurse laugh.

I don't think it's funny.

I guess I pass out.

I wake up in recovery and choke on the tube in my throat. I struggle to breath. I kick and try to scream but nothing comes out. I can't open my eyes. I fight until I am lulled by the sound of a machine. A machine that seems to be breathing for me. How strange.

I wake and vaguely feel tape being pulled from my eyelids. It burns and hurts like hell. I pass out.

I wake up and wave to the nurses. They rush over and take out the tube. I feel like I've swallowed rocks. I cough and nearly puke. I ask to put my piercing back in. I do. I ask them to call my room and tell my little hubby that I'm awake and fine. They do.

I'm ITCHING to go to my room. To sit up and talk to the doc. To get home and start baking pies. But they tell me I have to wait another half an hour before I can go to my room

I watch them joke around and crack up. I wonder if I'm laughing at them or am still under the influence of drugs. When an orderly comes to get me, one funny interne looks at me and says, "Okay, now, forget EVERYTHING you may have heard. Erase it from your memory!" I laugh and say, "You got something for me to sign?" He rubs his chin and pretends to consider it.

I get to my room and Sam is waiting there. Worried about me and happy to see me. I want to get the heck out but they have to hold me until I've been out of surgery for four hours. They have to observe me. I don't want to be observed. I want to go home and bake.

Sam leaves to go get Lolo who gets out of her daycare at 5:30. He brings her to the clinic. He asks if we can leave now. He tells me he talked to the doctor while I was gone and in recovery and the doctor said for us to come by his office near our house after they were done observing me and he would talk to me.

Sam gets to the clinic and has my sweet Lolo with him. She's adorable and the sight of her is like candy. I haven't seen my kids in nearly 24 hours. I dress quickly and let THEM remove my IV this time. I limp out to the van and can barely sit as we hit EVERY bump from the hospital to the doctor's office. I am in SO MUCH pain in my urethra that I wonder if I've made a mistake. I'm scared to death. I can FEEL the tube they've put in there. I can barely walk.

I get in his office, he looks at the kidney with the ultrasound, tells me that the blood I'm peeing is normal and that it should all stop hurting within three or four days.

Since we're only a block away and since I KNOW Sam would manage to FIND a few more hidden bumps with the car, Lolo and I walk home. We get there and I go straight to the kitchen. I wash, cut and load the potimarrons and courges into the oven to roast. I wash, peel and cube the butternuts and throw them into the steamer basket. When all is done, I puree everything and put it in muslin (sp?) to drain for the night. That means half the work is done on the pumpkin pie and the butternut gratin! YAY!

Friday morning, I realized that I hadn't written ANYTHING on my Nano novel in days. How could I? So, I sat down, pounded out a few thousand words or so, and spent the rest of the time cleaning the house. After lunch, Flavia came over and helped me by peeling, eyeing and cubing about 20 pounds of potatoes. As she did that, I cracked and chopped walnuts and a plaque of chocolate and made batter for chocolate chip cookies. She continued to work as I walked to the school to pick up the kids. Every step of the way, I felt like someone was stabbing my urethra (if you don't know what that is, it's your PEE HOLE) with an ice pick.

On Saturday, I had Sam pluck the necks of the turkey and then had my first experience gutting the birds. We got the birds from a local Label Rouge farmer (meaning that the birds are raised using certain standards and fed certain foods... in our case it meant that they were prairie raised where they get to eat bugs and were fed organic and locally-grown grains--grown on the same farm where the birds are raised--and were allowed to roam free from the time they were "teenagers") who had removed only the intestines and bladder. I had to start by cutting off the feet and the head. Then, I had to cut off the windpipe and esophogus. Then, I had to disconnect the neck (which I saved for later to make the gravy and stock for next year). The farmer hadn't removed ANY of the vital internal organs or even the bird's anus. *I* had to do all of that. It wasn't easy and it wasn't pretty, but I survived it and at least that way, because all of the organs had remained intact, I didn't have to freeze the birds (you can refrigerate them for up to three weeks). After I got both birds cleaned up, I put them into a trash bag and made a 15 or so gallon brine solution with unrefined salt, fruit nectar, herbs, a little oil and a little sugar. I tied the trash bag closed and stuck everything out on the balcony where temps were COLDER than my fridge. The birds would need at least eight hours in the salt bath and I planned to do one of them that night, the next on Sunday.

I found a recipe on-line for a pecan pie that didn't use corn syrup! If you know me at all, you probably know how I feel about corn syrup. It is POISON, I tell you! But I found a way to make my own substitute using my organic sugar, a little water and cream of tartar. So, I baked two pecan pies (one of which got pretty "TOASTED" as my oven got possessed and jacked itself up to 240 degrees C *eyes bulged*). As I got ready to prepare the custard part of the pumpkin pie, I realized I was out of ground cloves! So, I had to get out the pestil and mortar and have Sam ground the hell out of the whole clove nails I had bought the month before from the organic store. It's not the same as industrially ground cloves--it meant there were a few large pieces in the pie, but it actually ADDED to the flavor and texture, believe it or not! So, I made two of those and then made a couple of apple pies. When that was done, I used the prepared butternut from the day before to make a pesto/butternut strata gratin. You butter a baking dish, lightly, spread some butternut puree, spread a thin layer of pesto (which as you'll recall, I make and freeze myself) and then a thin layer of freshly-grated parmesean. Then another layer of each. You put little pats of butter here and there on top of the strata and stick in a hot oven for about 30 or 40 minutes. I got the recipe from that Italian-American chick on Food Network. You can Google the recipe (and actually have a video tutorial) if you search for Butternut Squash Gratin. Then, with that cooling, I made the chocolate chip cookies.

Then, I made bread. Four long loaves of my hand-made, organic, whole wheat bread. I had made the dough earlier in the day and I should have probably had two batches of dough going so that I could make rolls the next day, but I didn't. The most important thing to me was that the stuffing be made out of my own homemade bread. Once the bread was done, I let it cool, had Sam cut it into little croutons and toasted it.

Then, I steamed some fresh local organic carrots, glazed them with butter and honey and shoved them into the oven.

Then, I made the "cranberry" sauce from the same berries we found last year: Airelles. They aren't from France, but from Norway or Sweden, but they're more local than the actual cranberries (which are shipped from North America... Cranberries aren't native to Europe and I guess they don't grow well here because the only ones I see come out in mid December and are all from Ocean Spray... go figure). I put walnuts, fresh shredded ginger, a shake of cinnamon and nutmeg and a few clementines in my cranberry sauce. Don't get me wrong, the canned stuff has its place in my archives of nostalgia and whatnot, but the real, homemade stuff kicks the canned stuff's ASS!!

Just as I'm getting all of this done, the neighbor calls saying that their oldest is throwing a nervous fit and asked if she could come over to our house to cool off. I sent Sam down there and according to later accounts, he got there, walked into E's room, said, "you're coming with me, okay?", at which point, she got up, without a word and followed him here. I hugged her, asked what had happened (turned out it was a tiff with her sister--probably just a natural result of all the tension going on down there at the time with her parents trying to work through marital stuff) and after a few tears and some hugs, I changed the subject to cooking. I had her help me make some cookies or something (I don't rightly remember) but she was happy for the diversion and spent the next couple of hours NOT thinking about her life. Cooking is such good therapy.

Get this... I made green bean casserole... and NOT from a frickin' CAN yo! This is how I made it... SO easy and simple. Okay, first, I cut up a huge thing of mushrooms into fairly nice-sized pieces and put 'em into a big bowl. Then, I steamed some green beans I had put by earlier in the summer. When they were nicely steamed (a little longer than you would use for a stirfry), I threw 'em into the bowl with the mushrooms, covering the mushrooms. Get this--the BEANS cooked the MUSHROOMS!!! Then, I put some butter into a pan and added some thinly sliced onions. I let that cook until the onions were clear. Then, I added some flour and let it cook out the flour-y taste (this is a white roux). I added lots of milk and a little bit of cream, salt and pepper and let it thicken. I poured that on the bean/mushroom mixture and tossed it to coat the beans. Then, I put some shredded gruyere chese and tossed again. Then, I put it all into a long baking crockery and topped it with, yes... the main and necessary ingredient... fried onions... (the only store-bought thing in the recipe) and chucked it into the oven to brown. The house smelled HEAVENLY!!!

At about 11pm, I pulled one of the turkeys from the brine, rinsed it off and patted it dry. I cut up some apples, some oranges and some onions and shoved 'em up its butt and down its neck. Then, I got some trussing twine and trussed him nice and tight (I'm not a very "neat" trusser, but it holds it all together pretty well anyway). I put about half a cup of water in the bottom of the roasting pan, made a little "tent" out of aluminum foil and stuck the bird in the oven. Then, since it was late, I took a nap. I set the alarm to wake up when the bird had been in the oven for a couple of hours so I could take off the tent. That way, the bird could brown up nice and golden for the last hour and a half. When the bird was done, I put him on a plate, covered him well with the foil and put him in the oven. I drained all the turkey juice from the roasting pan and poured it into a big bowl for the next day's gravy.

Sunday morning, I got up early and started everything else. I made the gravy using most of the juice from the turkey AND the delicious stock I had frozen from the year before.

Sam put together the pigs in blankets that we make with little smoked sausages and pate feuilltee and started putting those into the oven. I made a honey mustard, a chipotle-plum and a barbecue sauce to go with them.

Flavia dinged!!! She was here to help with the tables!!! YAY!!! I let her and Sam (okay, I butted in a few times with revisions... I TOLD him how I wanted it and he did it however he wanted ANYWAY, so I had to come back in and yell a couple of times) take care of all that. Thank you FLAVIA!!!!!

Meanwhile, I used the rest of the turkey juice (and the rest of the stock), plus a few eggs, some diced pears and apples and walnuts and and celery and onions and raisins and herbs to make the stuffing, shoved that into the oven to cook.

I prepared the second turkey for roasting and when the stuffing came out, the bird went in.

As the bird cooked, I did the finishing touches because we were coming up on noon. I pulled out all of the stuff I had cooked the day before--everything that was in the fridge and all that had spent the night on the balcony chilling.

I steamed some broccoli, buttered it nicely and tossed it with wheat germ and garlic salt.

I steamed some more green beans for the green bean amandine (basically, green beans, butter, a splash of lemon and sliced almonds!!! YUM!!!!).

Guests started to arrive. I started nuking everything.

The bird was finally done, I put it on a big bed of the stuffing and carried it out to the table to the general chorus of ooohs and aaaaahs of my guests!

Then, I went back into the kitchen, shoved bird number one from the night before into the oven to heat back up and rushed into the next room to take pictures. I didn't get to catch everything because, well, there WERE twenty five people (LOTS of flu cancelationg), half of whom were children, but I caught a few pix.

I sat and ate a little bit but by the time I got out to the tables, the turkey had been carved and served. So, I missed the first round. But a little while later, I went into the kitchen and pulled the second bird out of the oven. One of our new friends did all of the carving (thanks Jean-Philippe!) and I got to get a nice juicy taste of our nearly wild turkey! It was delicious, especially with the "cranberry" sauce on it. *slurp*

When I brought out the pies, everyone stopped talking. The apple pie got topped with vanilla ice cream, the pumpkin pie got topped with whipped cream, and the pecan pie... well, it got eaten. Coffee followed and so did chocolates and chocolate-chip cookies.

I was extremely happy and completely exhausted by the time everyone left.

Pictures anyone? Oh, why not?

Birds arrive from the farm:

Before kid-proofing:

After kid-proofing:

Plucking the turkey:

With an audience:

Centerpieces (courtesy of Flavia and Ryan):

Appetizer/sauces:

BIRD!!! (well, Bird Number One... Number Two got inhaled before pix were taken)

Sides:
Green Bean Amandine:

Mashed taters:

Turkey gravy:

Honey-glazed carrots:

Stuffing/dressing (whatever you choose to call it):

The crispy, cheesy, melty top of the butternut squash gratin:

Dessert:
Apple pie:

Corn syrup-less pecan pie:

Pumpkin pie:

Let's eat!!!

You lookin' at me?

So, you know there are only thirty days in November, right? And that we celebrated our Thanksgiving on Sunday the 29th? And that I started cooking Thursday night and continued nearly non-stop for three days? Well, that meant that Monday the 30th was "Nano Day"... That's right, folks. I spent the ENTIRE day writing to catch up on my nano. It wasn't THAT difficult. Just time consuming. I wrote 16,000 words that day and finished around 11:30 with a little time to spare. Since I basically wrote PORN, it was super easy to write the conclusion to the story. It ended up being pretty sweet and magical and opened up the story to a trilogy, believe it or not. It probably won't ever see the light of day, but it was a lot of fun to write and truly was a writer's vacation for me.

With that over, you'd think I'd finally be able to recover from my minor surgery, right? Wrong. I had Tuesday off, sure, where I said to myself and everyone else, I will NOT work, or clean, or write or anything else. But I did anyway. I got to work on Ryan's birthday party. I went to the mall and tried to find all kinds of stuff I was missing for his pirate party, but the only thing I ended up buying was a lot of duct tape and some twine. I'll explain later.

I had asked Sam way back in October, when we had promised Ryan that he could have a pirate birthday party (he had never had a themed birthday party where he could invite actual friends and stuff, so I decided that this year we would "go all out"... of course, in my language, that means I make nearly everything by hand myself, but whatever), to secure me one or two refrigerator boxes so I could fashion a pirate ship for Ryan. Well, no matter how many times you remind or hound the man, he procrastinates and waves things off until the night before and then he pretends like he has no idea to what you are referring. I call it Selective Alzheimers. So, I had no box. I looked everywhere. I had Sam call around to EVERY appliance store in town. I went to Carrefour and asked and they said I had JUST missed the boxes and that they had already pressed everything in their compressor. I was screwed. I just HAPPENED to have my Facebook page open and just HAPPENED to chat with Iva to see if she would get her husband David to make some more calls for me and help me find some boxes. At this point, I was ready to pay big bucks for them. Get this, her husband had JUST had a shipment of new office chairs delivered the day before and he was about to throw out the boxes. She ran over to the office and stopped him. I walked across the bridge, took the three boxes AND a cardboard roll that I planned to use for a mast! I looked really funny limping across the bridge with all that (especially since there was so much wind that I might have actually been blown out into traffic or right off the bridge into the river) cardboard, but it was worth it. On the way OVER to Iva's guess what I saw on the ground? A HUGE pile of BIG cardboard and another large-sized cardboard roll, just lying on the ground discarded. It would have been PERFECT had it not RAINED the whole day prior and SOAKED the whole thing.

When I got home, I set up the boxes next to each other to see if I could actually do anything with them and sure enough, I could see it would be PERFECT. With that taken care of (I wouldn't actually MAKE the boat until Ryan was safely in bed), I got out my twine and decided to make Ryan a bona fide fishing net as the back drop to his pirate ship. A net will cost you a pretty penny, but two rolls of twine will only cost you seven euro. *wink* and then all you do is YouTube how to make a fishing net. But now you don't even have to do that cuz I'm just gonna tell you how to do it. I started with a loop knot and then basically finger crocheted the twine to the lenght I wanted the net to be. I push-pinned this to the wall in even spaced increments. Then, I took the twine, measured how long I wanted the net to be (about), doubled that length and then cut the twine. Then I cut a whole PILE of similarly-lengthed strings. THEN, I took one of the strings, doubled it so the ends touched and then looped it through one of the openings of the loosely crocheted length I had pinned to the wall. I started half way through the crocheted length. Then at the ends and then I basically cut those spaces in half over and over, putting in looped strings until I had filled the entire length of the original crocheted length. that's the hard part, believe it or not. The rest of it is just tying knots. Each of the hanging loops of string ends up being two strings. So, you take one of the strings from the left one and one of the strings from the right one and make a loop knot. You do that all the way across and then all the way back etc. until it forms a net. I did make the mistake of enlisting Sam's help but because he is infamous for doing things half-assed and in a hurry, he made the spaces in the net HUMONGOUS. I didn't UNTIE his knots, but I did tell him that the net work was off limits to his hands. Then, I made him put the boat together.

So, the boat. It was three wide one way but fairly narrow the other way, boxes. I decided to cut down one side of the width of two of the boxes (essentially forming two long U-shapes and tape those two U-shapes together at the cut ends to make a long rectangle. Then, the third box, I also cut down the wide side and intead of making a U, I made a long V. That would make for a triangular shape at the front of the boat. I pretty much just bossed Sam around until he made it exactly how I had imagined it. Then, I cut windows and cannon holes into it. I made Sam get dressed and run down near the bridge and retrieve the piece of thick cardboard roll I had seen out there. Since it was slightly damp still, it was easy-ish to cut into a shorter length to make a cannon. Then, I had him take the more narrow cardboard roll and create a sort of duct tape "cup" in a hole cut into the boat. We stuck the "mast" down in there and then Sam duct taped the heck out of it. While he did this, I juxtaposed between working on the fishing net until my back and shoulders hurt and then I'd go into my office and print out paper fish for the kids to color and cut out the next day to help with the sea scene I had envisioned on the walls of our hallway to make for a more pirate-y experience.

I didn't get much sleep. I got up and had Ryan and Lily coloring and cutting fish. Antonia arrived early and started helping with the decorations, too. She insisted on cutting out the wavy blue paper lines I had drawn for waves.

I didn't get done everything I had wanted. I HAD wanted to paint a "treasure map" of our apartment on a wooden puzzle I had found at the craft store, but I never got to it. Instead, I hand drew a treasure map, crumpled it up and then tore it into pieces. I had also wanted to have a bean bag toss game with little homemade bean bags that they were toss into a skull and cross bones painted onto a cardboard box but I didn't have time to make either the bean bags OR the skull/crossbones. :-(

I got the goodie bags filled with tattoos, stickers, pencils and chocolate money in little skull and crossbone bags and hid them in my treasure chest.

I made a pear-flavored cake (with real mashed up pears) in the shape of a square, let it cool and then cut it in half. I used cream to make whipped cream and then mashed up some bananas (Ryan had specifically requested bananas in the cake). I mixed some of the whipped cream and bananas together and made a middle layer for the cake before putting the top back on. I took most of the rest of the whipped cream and colored it blue with food coloring and covered the cake as best as I could. Then I took a little and made it green and formed an island on one corner of the cake. Then, I look what was left and made it brown. I wrote "Ryan" down at the bottom and then traced a sort of treasure hunt swirling line that looped around and finally ended up at the island where I marked a big X. Then, I put in some pirate candles in the shapes of a ship, a scimitar, a Jolly Roger, a pirate hat and a parrot around in "water" as though he had to move around the candles to get to the island where I placed a final candle in the shape of a treasure chest. I also put two wooden palm trees on the island.

When that was done, I chucked it into the fridge to keep it from melting and made chocolate cupcakes for everyone to take home.

I also made a cardboard chain and anchor for the ship and pinned the fish to the wall.

Then, as guests started to arrive, I answered our interphone with a gravel-y pirate voice and told 'em what floor we lived on. After all the parents were gone, I sat all the scallywags down on the couch and gave them this speech.

Pirates are not born. They are MADE. First of all, you'll all need head scarves to hold back your mangey hair. [Here, I tied scarves onto each of their heads.] And in order to cover up your worm-eaten dead eye, you'll need an eye patch. [Here I passed out eye patches with the Jolly Roger on them--purchased at Hobby Lobby or Michael's or Party City in Charlotte while I was in the States.] You'll ALSO need a golden earring. [Passed those out.] And because you only have one good eye, you'll need your spy glass. [Passed out little pirate-themed telescopes.] And because one good eye needs all the help you can get, you'll need a little direction. [Here, I passed out golden compasses (that actually work, btw).] And now... You've been made into pirates! I suggest you go get in your ship and get to buccaneering.

Or something like that... I said it in French but in my pirate's voice. Nathalie, my neighbor, who had come to help me with the party stood there watching me as though she thought I had smoked a fat doobie. She obviously doesn't know me very well, eh? Those of you who know me and who have seen The Joelie Show know that this was just par for the course. When grown-ups aren't around, I'm pretty cool.

As the scallywags and mateys pirated around, I jumped back and forth between cooking fish sticks and taking pictures. Before long, there was a pile of "fish and chips" (no, literally... fish sticks and potato chips, LOL!) on the table as well as fruit juice and a pile of gummy candies in the shapes of fishes and worms. I called the pirates in to munch and heard Nathalie say the weirdest thing: "I bet you guys have never had fish sticks at a birthday party, have you?"

Turns out, birthday parties are all about candy. So strange to me, that. All the parties I went to had salty snacks and then cake and ice cream. But here, the candy seems to be even more important than the birthday cake. Didn't matter, they scarfed down half of the fish and chips and loved it, so PPPLLLLLBBTTT on any grown-up French people who want to make fun of me. Stupids. Their kids haven't had fish sticks at a pirate party before? Look at all the fun they have been missing!

Anyway, after that, I brought in the treasure map and sprinkled it's torn pieces onto the table. I gave 'em a roll of tape and said, in my pirate voice: "You wantcher treasure, eh? Well, then yer gonna hafta piece together the map, aintcha?" Nathalie helped them. I guess she was sick of it all. She teaches high school kids and maybe she is good with them, but she seemed a little bored of all this fun. *shrug* Anyway, once they got the map together, they figured out where the treasure trunk was and RAN all at once to find it. You should have SEEN Ryan's face when he found it and opened it up and saw REAL treasure in there!!! LOL! I'm so sorry I didn't get it on camera. He was VERY impressed with the whole treasure hunt thing.

After that, we all gathered into the dining room again to light the candles on the cake. As I brought the cake into the room, the kids started singing Happy Birthday in French. And then they launched into it in English and Spanish. But the strangest thing was that instead of beaming ear to ear, Ryan looked very uncomfortable. He looked like he was going to cry. It was then that I realized that Ryan is mini-Sam. Sam cries about EVERYTHING. He's a major sap. I mean, I am, too, but you just don't get the privilege of witnessing this squishy-heartedness in a little boy too often. Ryan was nearly in tears because he was overwhelmed with emotion. He pulled it together long enough to blow out the candles. And the cake was AWESOME if I do say so myself. Nathalie ended up having three pieces!

After that, we opened up presents. Every single one (excep the one I got him) was pirate-themed. Two different pirate books with constructible models (and one even had figurines). A pirate raincoat! Two decks of pirate playing cards. A pirate Lego set. Another pirate book with pop-ups! It was awesome. We put the presents aside and I blew up the three inflatable scimitars I had bought and fished my bubble pistol down from its hiding spot... but bad news--it didn't work. Sucks, too, because I think they would have had a blast swordfighting with the bubbles.

Instead, one of the kids, the only other Ryan-aged boy, decided to play keep-the-balloon-off-of-the-floor. That worked because I had blown up several black balloons. All the kids got involved and that kept them busy for quite a little while. About that time, Sam came home early (insert choir of angels here) and started playing with the kids. He sword faught and then played pirate cards with a small group. Pirates started leaving around 5:30 but the last one didn't leave until 6:30 (by which time I had actually passed out in my bed from exhaustion.

How about some pix?

Making a net:
Step one:

Step two:

Finished products:

Pirate cake:

Scallywags:

Provisions:

Treasure hunt:

Pirate ship:

Overcome with emotion:

Make a wish:

Booty!!!:

Post-rum merrymaking:

So, you're thinking to yourselves, "NOW she's going to calm down and rest." Oh, but you know me better. Okay, so I did go on strike on Thursday after Ryan's Wednesday birthday party. I lay around and read, played on FB, did laundry, stuff like that. I was still REALLY hurting from the whole week and I was a little worried but I was ALSO really glad to be so busy. It kept my mind off of it.

On Friday, I made two big batches of salt dough (basically play dough), rolled it out thin, cut it with cookie cutters, poked a hole in it with a skewer and baked it nice and slowly so it would dry out. I had invited Iva, Vlad and Iva's sister-in-law/kids and Antonia and another little girl (Laure) to come over and paint Christmas ornaments AND cut snowflakes for Saturday.

THEN, as a fluke, we got an email from one of the kids who hadn't made it to Ryan's birthday party... he was responding that he'd be able to come to Ryan's party on Saturday. Sam wrote them back and told them that they had been confused but that the little boy was welcome to come over with us and do crafts. So, in the end, we had another 8 kids for the afternoon. It was a lot of fun! We painted, cut the snowflakes, I made a huge omelette and pasta for lunch. But by evening, I was exhausted and things weren't over yet. I HAD been invited to Iva's for a party and she had borrowed Ryan and taken him over to her house to play for awhile. But because I just couldn't hang, Sam went and picked Ryan up, dropped off the bottle I had planned to take and came home.

I lay down for a little while but the medicine I had taken for pain had given me the jitters. So, I figured, I might as well get up and start making food for the next day. My in-laws would be arriving at any moment. They were coming in late Saturday night to see the Festival of Lights. They would spend the night, all five of them, and have a Thanksgiving-esque lunch the next day.

So, Sunday, I basically re-created Thanksgiving them. The chicken we hadn't cooked for Thanksgiving got plucked, gutted, stuffed with apples, clementines and onions and cooked. I heated up all the leftovers and made some fresh mashed taters and fresh gravy. I made two fresh pies (there was still pecan left over, so I made a pumpkin and an apple pie) and a new batch of chocolate chip cookies AND some no-bakes cuz I know my sister in law likes them.

It was actually a great visit. They came in late after walking around looking at the light shows with Sam for about three or four hours. By the time they got back, I had all the beds made up. We got up early the next morning and had a simple breakfast of bread, coffee, tea and hot chocolate. My sister in law, her husband and the two youngest boys (late teens/early twenties) all went to the morning mass at the St. Jean cathedral in Old Lyon. Their oldest stayed here and chatted about his new girlfriend and then went to Bernachon (the snooty snotty chocolate store) to buy her some chocolate. By the time they all got back, everything was ready to eat and they oohed and ahhhed over it all. And, I admit, it was good... Maybe even better than Thanksgiving. *cringe* I think I just like chicken better as a meat than I do turkey.

Later in the afternoon, they sat around and munched on cookies and watched me and the kids decorate the Christmas tree.

It wasn't until AFTER they left that I finally thought, "Huh. I'm done." It was like November had stretched its arms for a week into December and it was finally over. As you see from that first post above, the backlash, the down time was a little depressing.

Pix?

How to make salt dough: 2 cups flour, 1 cup salt

Make a "well"

Add 1 cup of warm water

Stir from the middle and make a soft dough

Knead into a ball

Roll out thin

Press cookie cutter shapes

Pull off excess dough (then re-knead the left overs and roll flat)

Poke a "hang hole" into a balanced place somewhere with a toothpick/skewer

Put 'em on a cookie sheet

Cook at a low temp for several hours (making sure they don't bubble up)

Painting salt dough ornaments:

Painting is hard work:

Cutting paper snowflakes:

The aftermath:

Re-Thanksgiving:

Decking the halls... or, well... the tree at least:

Lily in her Winter program (she's the PLATINUM BLONDE in a pink skirt):

And since then, things have sort of gone down hill health wise. I went back to the urologist to talk to him about the peeing fire thing and to ask if he could take the thing out now. He said, "Uh, NO, you're supposed to keep it until you're 20 weeks." Ummmmm, remember when he proposed the damn thing to me? Do you remember him saying anything about 20 weeks? No, neither did I. I said, "I thought you said after the first trimester we could do an X-ray and then take it out." He giggled and said, "Nooooo." Then, he proceeded to tell me that if I wanted it out that badly, I would still have to wait until January because all the doctors would be on vacation--himself included. I wanted to slap him. I asked if there was anything I could take for the near constant pain. He said no. I burst into tears as we left the clinic. France's pain management SUCKS, yo. I remember a doctor in Houston gave me Vicodin for a cough when I was pregnant with Lolo. Nothing bad happened to her. So, why can't they give me something of the equivalent HERE when I can now barely walk?

I'm not exaggerating. Walking to Lily's school takes me 20 minutes (used to take 7). I waddle all doubled over in pain. I go to bed at 8:30 because I can't stand the pain. I can't be up on me feet for more than two hours at a time. It finally got so bad that Sam called the urologist and made a actual appointment to have it removed. The doctor said that while I'm under, he'll go in there with a camera try to find the stone and hopefully fetch it out of there. *crossing fingers* I just want it all out. You know, I LOVE being pregnant. LOVE it... But not this time. All this crap is really bumming out my pregnancy. Blah. I know, wah wah wah.

Well, I think that has you all caught up on most things. Ryan got in a fight at school and got sent to the director's office. He also came home with a fiery drawing with Nazi symbols all over it. *eye roll* There's more. He's becoming a "troubled" boy. GREAT! His academic examination came home with lots of equivs of Fs and Ds on it. But man if you could see the shit they expect a 5/6 year old to do!!! I'm not worried. I sincerely believe that the fact that Ryan can read, write in cursive and do basic math is good enough. I'm not going to push and pressure him to do more than he can. I wanted to use our Christmas vacation time to introduce him to reading in English, but I don't think I have the patience and energy with all this stent business going on.

Plus, as I told my sister yesterday, I've discovered that Ryan's a lazy bum... For one, Flavia bought him a construction set for his birthday that is brick and has real cement with it. You build one of the models and then when you want to build something different, you submerge the whole thing in water and the cement dissolves! Cool, huh? Wouldn't you give your left nut to do that with one of your parents? So, he bugs and bugs and bugs Sam until they finally find some Saturday time to do it. Fifteen minutes into it, Ryan doesn't want to anymore. It's "too much work." *eye roll*

On Wednesday, I ask him to come lie down with me in my room and talk. I say, "Tell me about school, Ry. Tell me what's going on." He starts whining about school in French. I say, "No, tell me in English." He says, "Well, I don't know how." Okay, I get that, but dude... it's my responsability that he remember his English and it's getting to the point that he's forgotten a LOT of it. He seems to speak the same English he spoke when he got here... saying "duh" for "the" and stuff like that. So, I say, "Well, just start talking and I'll tell you the words you need when you need 'em." He opens his mouth and then says, "I don't know. I forgot."

"You forgot what happened in school yesterday?"

He nods his head.

I roll my eyes.

"Well, Ryan, you're going to have to start paying better attention. Attention in class and attention in school in general. I want you to be able to come home and tell me what you've done during the day and I want to hear it in English. Do you realize that if you don't do well in school, you won't be able to get a good job and then you won't have a place to live?"

He looks at me, furrows his brow and then earnestly says, "But, Mom, I'm gonna live HERE."

*sigh*

Can you see it now? My 26 year old Ryan living on my couch and eating my food? Borrowing my car? DUDE!!!

And then, this week, he bugged and bugged and bugged me to help him put together the solar system model I got him for his birthday. It's a model that you paint first. So, on Saturday, he got up from his nap and said, "I'm here just in time."

"Just in time for what, Ry?"

"In time to do the planets, Mom!"

I sigh and give up. I walk into the dining room and lay out the model pieces and start to work on it. I tell him he has to do the basic colors and I'll do all the highlights and details. So, listen, all the kid has to do is cover a SMALL sphere with pain, yo. And then blow it dry. I've already put the planet halves together, put it on its post and sanded it.

We're working backwards, so he's done Neptune and Uranus while I'm working on Saturn and then he says with a sigh, "Mom, I'm gonna go play now."

"You're WHO?"

"Well, this is just too hard. I don't want to do it any more."

I said, "Get your ass back here and pick up that planet book and tell me what color Jupiter is!"

And he did. But I think Jupiter was his tipping point. After that, he really wanted nothing to do with it.

Half an hour later, there I was, sitting alone at the table, still painting planets. I even did all the glow in the dark paint that comes with it. *sigh* Little creep. Lazy bum.

I called my sister and told her about it and she said, "Well, get use to it because M (her EIGHT YEAR OLD) is the same way... Guess who always ends up doing all the school projects and diaramas while someone short watches TV? Yeah, Mom!"

GREAT. THAT'S MY FUTURE!!!

Look, just as long as he's off my couch by the time he's thirty, okay?

On that note, I'm gonna get the heck out of here. It has taken me all day to write this crap and I'm sure it'll take you all day (or two) to read it and make it through all the pix. Sorry about that. This time, I'm making NO PROMISES about being in here on Mondays like I used to. You know how it goes. But I'm sure I'll have shit to gripe about (already do), so I'll be back in here as soon as I can.

Until then, enjoy the ketchup.

Rein Lily:

Two dear deer:

My first tartiflette!!!:

Silhouette of our Christmas tree (it's snowing outside, that's why it's so white):

Snow:

Close up of Christmas tree:

Commercial break...

2009-11-18T01:26:00.000-08:00

Okay, so you know I don't blog during November, right? I mean, not usually. I don't USUALLY do anything during November--including housework or personal hygiene because November is the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) where I take a break from writing non-fiction (narrative/memoir) and work on a novel.

So, that's what I'm doing and that's your explanation for my absence. But then I remembered that I didn't really do a "night before Nano" blog post on Halloween night while I was in Virginia. So, I figured I'd pop in here, let you know I'm alive, give you some updates and mosey on back off to work on my new crappy (and trashy) novel.

THE FARM:
The closing went off without a hitch. You saw the pix of the woods, so I probably don't have to explain that every time I got to the bottom of the hill of my new drive way, I rolled down my windows and started crying at the first sniff. It smells like my childhood there... Woods, rotten leaves, forest moss... all that good shit. I can't wait for my kids to grow up there.

The day after the closing, I met a greenbuilding contractor at the property and talked about things I wanted done right away as well as things I wanted to do eventually. There are a lot of tall skinny trees around the house. I've heard the rumors about how things can get rainy and then windy and then someone has to replace a roof. Seeing as how the whole house is wood (in and out), I figured a few trees needed to come down. That's priority one and it should be taken care of by the end of this week. We'll have them cut down to about mid-shin to knee height so that we can attach little round pieces of wood to them and make impromptu seats, tables and benches for the kids. Might even paint a checkerboard on one, who knows.

The basement wall needs to be wired, a small replumbing and covered in Earth-friendly sheetrock. While looking at that, we discovered lots of small electrical repairs that need to be done.

When we first decided to sign on the house, we bid an offer that was much less than the asking price mainly because I wanted to replace the deck. Scrap it, tear it down and use the wood to make a tree house somewhere. But, after talking to the contractor, it looks like he can fortify it, power wash it, restain it, extend it to the side a little and then put up new rails and pickets to make it safer... all of that for under $6k and that will last us another ten years or so (at which time, I'll do the tree house idea and replace the deck with a wrap-around veranda).

So, those three things are the major priorities. Of course we talked about the future refinishing of the basement. Putting in walls and floors, a guest room, an office/pantry, a guest bathroom, a canning kitchen with small appliance/pots and pan storage and a small mudporch/playroom area (I see wicker furniture in the future). Also a patio OUTSIDE under the deck for extending our outdoor living options.

We talked about landscaping, retaining walls, rock walkways. We talked about replacing the formica in the kitchen with a more natural material. Same goes for the bathrooms. The tub/shower in the master bath needs to be replaced and I see a claw-foot tub in my future.

The outbuilding at the bottom of the hill needs some work. Most pressing is electrical. But the whole place needs to be resealed, caulked, whatever, and needs some kind of gutter system.

Anyway, needless to say, I got to spend the WHOLE morning talking about my dreams with this builder guy and I think he has become my new VA best friend. He nodded and understood everything I wanted and exactly why. *sigh*

Okay, so then.... I went out the NEXT day, just to check on the place and make sure the thermostat was set on 50. I went into the master bedroom and found a huge puddle of water directly under the ceiling fan. My heart dropped into my chest. And the first thing I thought was "Sam's gonna shit." I didn't even have anything to use to mop it up. I did, however, have my camera with me and took pictures as best I could with what little light I had. You see, the seller had our same greenbuilder do the work on the chimney which leaked pretty badly. The seller must have assumed this particular leak was linked to the chimney. You could tell it wasn't a NEW leak. The floor was pretty warped in that area. It REALLY bothered me to see drips hanging from the ceiling so close to the ceiling fan... and have I mentioned that the ceiling is WOODEN tongue-and-groove? *sigh*

So, I called the greenbuilder out and we walked around and could see from downstairs in the basement that there was some OLDER water damage in that spot. So, again, it's not a new leak. That's bad cuz it's not going to be covered under the sort of "guarantee" of the chimney repair. Sam's pretty nervous about how much it's going to run us, but the builder doesn't think it's going to be too bad.

There you go. That's what's up with the house. I love it, I miss it and I wish I were there to watch them work on it, but *shrug*

So, Sunday morning--well, Sunday all day, I felt like CRAP. I'm pregnant, remember, and sleeping in a strange bed... AND the Hampton Inn where I stayed had some strange smells and there was a cricket in my room who kept serenading me. BUT, though I wasn't feeling 100% I couldn't help but drop by the local Barnes and Noble in the late afternoon and meet up with all the other crazies doing NaNoWriMo in the Lynchburg area. Even though the group is new, on the day I was there, there were 65 participants registered and 15 people crowded into four little bistro tables at B&N where our energetic and fearless (recovering from the flu) leader lead us through some pretty fun and interesting ice breakers. We didn't have time to do our first official write-in, but since I had gotten there a little early, I didn't mind as I had already written like 3000 words while sitting there.

I got up early on Monday and met the builder back out at the house to deal with the leak, investigate some other small things, change a broken door handle on the outbuilding and stop by the post office to deal with forwarding our mail. But, since the USPS doesn't forward internationally anymore, I had to rent a P.O. Box and give my key to the builder to pass along to my real estate agent (and new other best friend in VA). I had wanted to be out of town by 10:30 because I needed to drive back to Charlotte and that's a three hour drive, but I didn't end up rolling out of town until after lunchtime.

When I got to Charlotte, I was surprised how tired and dizzy and stressed I felt. I lie down and tried to rest. I missed a meeting with a friend (who is also pregnant) because both of us were just so tired. But later, I met up with my Rachel. We went out for Olive Garden, but by the time I got there, I was woozie again. I slurped down a yummy minestrone, but couldn't bring myself to eat any pasta. I ordered an appetizer trio but when it got to the table the sight of it made me wanna puke. I was SO happy to see my Rach, but so grossed out by my mood and condition.

I went back to my hotel and conked out immediately. But I woke up at 1:30 in the morning to go to the bathroom and found myself bleeding. The ER being right across the street, I went. Four hours later, I watched the ultrasound screen as I saw the baby bobbing around in there, its heart beating strongly.

I went back to the room, finished packing, ran all over town taking care of last minute errands, (the lawyer called to tell me there was a paper that didn't get signed at closing that had to be signed and notarized... it only took about 45 minutes altogether--including faxing it back at Kinko's--but it was a lot of running around). Still, I made it to the airport on time. I did have to shift some of my stuff around so that neither of my suitcases were overweight *eye roll* but I got 'er done and got my ass on the plane.

Worse plane ride of my life. Dude behind me kept pushing on my seat. Both peeps behind me had their lights on all night. Dude across the aisle watched a comedy and laughed VERY LOUDLY the whole time. AND, I was still bleeding... and now, I was cramping. It got bad. I was sure I was losing the baby. The flight attendants saw that I was dismayed and took me back to the galley and fussed over me. They were so worried about me that they arranged to have an airport transport for me when I got to Munich. I didn't have to walk from one plane to the next. And when I landed in Lyon, I was so relieved to be home.... but SO nervous that the baby was dead. I guess all that stuff that happened in January has made me a little gunshy.

I went to the ER here in Lyon. And after four hours (HA!) saw the baby bouncing around in my belly, heartbeat nice and strong. Funny thing is, I only paid 22 Euros for the visit here in Lyon, but I paid a $150 co-pay in the States... AND... SINCE THEN, I've recieved bills for my ER fiasco in the States that keep going up and up and up... reaching close to $3000... guess what my out of pocket deductible is? Yup. Fucking capitalists. I won't get another bill from the French ER. 22 Euros. That's all. To get the exact same care and treatment and results. *sigh* There's further proof that the U.S. health care system is BROKEN. No wonder people don't go to the doctor over there until they are on their freakin' deathbed!

So, anyway, moving on....

If you're Facebook friends with me, you'll know that the other day, Ryan peed his pants... His teacher has a strict policy about when kids are allowed to go to the bathroom. During recess. So, when Ryan came in from recess (at 1:30pm) and asked to go to the bathroom, complaining that he had "forgotten," she said, "You'll have to wait until I finish explaining the instructions for this exercise" (because he can't go to the bathroom without a classmate). Well, the teacher forgot and because she's usually so stern about bathroom usage, Ryan didn't ask again. He was too afraid. So, at 3 PM Ryan peed his pants. The teacher took him to the lost and found and the only thing they could put on him were girls panties and a pair of oversized girls pijamas (and they don't have my fucking phone number I guess? they couldn't have called me and asked for a change of clothes? idiots!). Ryan doesn't care about wearing girls clothes. He wears tutus and plays with Lily's costumes and feathery fairy wands all the time. But because the other boys in the class started to point and laugh, Ryan was mortified because he was wearing "girls' clothes."

Result: Ryan needed to take a shit, but did he dare ask permission? No. He was so embarrassed and stressed and nervous that he shat his pants.

When I picked him up, he told me and I SHOOK with anger. I got him home and as I washed the shit from the back of his legs (and threw away the girls panties they had given him--but hadn't checked to see if he had donned properly, without the wide boy's briefs band at the top, Ryan didn't know how they were supposed to go on, so he had his waist through one of the leg holes, giving him a big shitty wedgie), I cried. I sobbed. I kept saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" because I felt like I had left him alone there with that cunt of a teacher to have her abuse his trust and sensitivity. I wanted to hold him and hole him away from the world. Wrapped in his Lightning MacQueen towel, he leaned down and held ME as I cried. He said, "Aw, Mom, it's not your fault. Don't cry."

I told him that I know that rule number one when it comes to school has always been Listen to the teacher. But that doesn't apply to bodily functions and needs. You need to pee and she says no, you get up and go anyway. You need to puke, you get up and go puke. Etc. I told him that I wanted him to go to the bathroom BEFORE playing when it's time for recess but that if he forgets, he is ALWAYS allowed to go. No matter what.

I was shaking mad. And surprisingly, so was Sam. He went in there early in the morning and talked to her and she denied that she has ever told them they could go to the bathroom "as soon as their work is done" as my neighbor girl has claimed (she's in the same class). The teacher also said that she thinks Ryan has a problem. That he goes to the bathroom too much. I found myself belly laughing about that. And THEN, she basically told Sam that Ryan, because of "maturity" issues would probably not be passing to the next grade. This is November she's saying this... Not March. She's already decided before the year is half way over that Ryan won't move on? And her reason is because Ryan can't seem to concentrate on workbook pages for more than a half hour at a time. Hmmmm. Well, Ryan reads like a champ at home. And he does practical applied math (by applied math I mean that he does addition and subtraction with everyday household items... and has even begun using multiplication when talking about telling time... he's not even 6 yet, so I'm okay with that level). So, I suspect her conclusion is drawn because Ryan doesn't like busywork. Because he isn't interested in worksheets. Some of you may say, "Well, that's school. He's going to have to learn to do those if he wants to succeed in life." But I totally disagree. I think that Ryan is a tactile learner. Something that it very special and necessary in our society. Ryan likes to play, sure, but he also learns a lot THROUGH play. Through what he calls "work." So, what is our solution? We're going to put him in Montessori next year. Seems only logical to do so since that's what Montessori is all about. He's first in line for a spot next year (IF a spot opens up). If it doesn't I might take him to the international school.... If that doesn't work, I might have to just home school him and then enroll him in the Mecredis de Lyon for socialization purposes.

The thing is, Ryan didn't have the benefit of beginning public school at age 3. See, I don't think Lily will have ANY problem. But she has started at 3. But I don't think Ryan's problem is a maturity thing. He's plenty mature. He just doesn't have the benefit of the cultural capital that comes along with having gone to the petite and moyenne section of the maternelle. He didn't learn to sit and work on worksheets from an early age. He was allowed to play. He was encouraged to do things with his hands. I'm not going to have him punished because he doesn't fit in with the other French kids. I recognize that public school over here is EXCELLENT in many... MOST... ways. But in this one way, it is not even adequate.

Anyway, moving on.

My neighbors are separating. I guess it's been going on for a long time. As long as we've known them. So, everything I've said about them up to this point, you can just erase it. Had I known that for the past year and a half they were just ACTING, desperately TRYING to hold their family together, I wouldn't have interpretted HALF of the shit i did the WAY I did. So, I take most of it back. I had a LONG conversation with her yesterday. I'm ready to support her in any way I can. I just hope she gets some legal help ASAP. That's all I feel comfortable saying right now.

So, I went to my very first OB appointment yesterday. Guess what? I hate her. For so many reasons but the main one is that she didn't give me a prenatal vitamin. When I asked her for one, she said that she doesn't see any need for it. Really?

That's what I get for going to the rich neighborhood doctors. I need to go to the regular humble normal old middle class to lower class parts of town, I guess. That, or I'll just have Rach send me a shit load of OTC prenatals and a fish oil pill on the side. After I left her office, all I wanted to do was go home and cry... And I kinda did... I ended up going to bed around 6:45. Blah. I just really wish I was home.... I'm so tempted to rent a small apartment back in Charlotte for the last two months of my pregnancy just so I can deliver there. I know it sounds silly but dude... I'm so sick of undressing in front of doctors here. Of them standing there watching me bend over to pull my underwear off. What the fuck yo? And then you just climb up on the table and spread 'em. And you wait there with you junk all open wide until the doctor decides to come over and poke on you.

See? It's not the CARE that I don't like... It's the CULTURE. I'm an American, yo. I don't mind if the robe is made of paper as long as there IS one.

Anyhoo, so, there you go. Thanks for listening to the bitchin'. Gotta go investigate the latest catastrophe. Take care until December!

Oh boy...

2009-10-30T05:17:00.000-07:00

I started this blog to talk about all my impressions of being an American in France (again)... All the little cultural situations and snafus and differences and stuff. But I can tell that the blog will continue once I get BACK to the States. I am seeing the U.S. through French eyes... Through Franco-American eyes.

It became STARK this morning as I was watching the morning wake-up program on a network channel. They covered a particular station WJLA-TV who had done a report on breast cancer awareness at a local (don't remember where it was local) new station who used a BARE BREAST to show how a breast exam is supposed to be done. My first thought was, "so? this is news?" But then I saw some people react to the program. One woman said, "I think this is obscene, what if there are children in the room?" Another woman said that the station was just doing it for ratings. REALLY? It's a goddamn report about BOOBS. I SAW the report (with the boobs censored with a little white rectangle) and trust me, it wasn't obscene. It wasn't even sexy (and I actually LIKE boobs "that way"). It was clinical and informational. I am shocked and ANGERED that anyone, especially a WOMAN would ever be put off by bare breasts in such a light. I was even shocked that they referred to it as "nudity." It is crap like this that makes women scared to breastfeed in public. Ridiculous.

Okay. That's all. Just needed to vent. I guess my brain has been French-washed since I've been living over there.

Breast exams SAVE lives. If a bare-breasted exam on the news enlightens women on how exactly to do the exam, I say, "Bring on the boobies!!!" But, I'd prolly say that anyway. *grin*

A Thousand Words...

2009-10-29T16:10:00.000-07:00

I'm going to let the pictures of my visit to the homestead-to-be yesterday speak for themselves... Enjoy...

The Funk is Thick...

2009-10-16T02:48:00.000-07:00

Ugh.

I have a friend that fairly recently said, "Thank you for always being so positive." And when she said it, I was.

And I'm feeling guilty for not being that person anymore. I'm funky, y'all. I know, yeah, whatever, I'm pregnant and hormonal, blah blah blah. It's more than that.

It's the book. I truly am stuck. Today is the first time I've picked it up to work on it in a couple of weeks. I hate it. I mean, HATE. It's not what it's supposed to be. That, I know. I just don't know what to do about it. I am afraid that I won't get anything productive done on it before Nano. Part of me shrugs at that, but another part of me still feels that urgency. Then, there's this other part that says, "Jusssssssst letttitttttttt goooooooo." I'm no writer, y'all. I'm not. I'm a fraud. I am convinced. A writer would know what to do. Or would have some ideas. Or would recognize when something looks good. REading this book is like hearing my voice on an answering machine. Uncomfortable. I want to walk away. I want to finish it, send it off and THEN walk away. I want to quit. But I'm not very good at quitting. Instead, I just play Spider Solitaire, listen to old Amy Grant music and cry. I dip back into the manuscript every third hand or so I lose. I change a sentence or a paragraph and that's all I seem to be able to take before I run back to Solitaire to hide.

It's also this thing in my belly. I'm cramping. Not the contraction-type of cramping where I KNOW I'm about to miscarry. Just that dull ache that makes me feel like I'm about to start my period. And there was some pink stuff when I went to the bathroom. Not blood. I know not to get freaked out until I see real blood. But I worry a little anyway. Part of me says, "Oh well, wasn't meant to be..... again." Another part of me says, "Shut up, Bitch. That aint miscarriage blood. It's just pink dishcarge cuz you were constipated yesterday. Don't go holding the funeral service yet." I am pretty bipolar, so I should be used to two parts of me duking it out, but I'm not. It's only adding to the funk.

okay, I have other things to say but most of them are negative. I'll spare us both.

Piss and Moan...

2009-10-14T05:07:00.000-07:00

Okay, I got some stuff to say. I warn, you though... It's just bitching. So, if you're not in the mood, better check back another day.

The neighbor is getting on my nerves again. Not the one directly underneath us who gripes about the kids running and jumping at 5pm on a Saturday (WHAT THE FUCK?), the one with whom we're supposed to be friends.

Let me be completely honest and say... We're not really friends. I LOVE them. That's true. But it's mostly in a backscratching sorta way. We help each other a lot. They take Ryan to school in the morning so that he won't have to walk at a snail's pace with Lily and me. I pick their kid up in the afternoon. Some Wednesdays (cuz you'll remember, kids don't go to school on Weds.), I watch their kid (well, I don't really watch her, but I put up with her screaching and tattling because Ryan likes to play with her). Sometimes, when they know I'M overwhelmed, they'll let Ryan go to THEIR house on Wednesdays. Some days, when neither one of them can pick their kid up at school, I pick her up, buy her a snack and bring her home... SOME DAYS, I even help her with her homework. Some weekends, we take her with us (to play, to the park, running around). Sometimes THEY take Ryan. So, there you go. We swap babysitting, sorta. Our kids love one another like siblings, but I feel like we adults are like two pairs of parents-in-law. But the main thing is... We wouldn't really be friends if it weren't for the kids. I definitely appreciate them, as I said, but I don't like to hang out with them socially very often.

Why? Well, if you've been keeping up with this blog much, you'll know (and if not, maybe back up and check a few other months out). Our personalities, interests, beliefs and communication styles just don't mix well (and before you think it's a cultural-linguistic thing, it's not... Sam doesn't like hanging with them, either... in fact, he likes it even less than I). Oh, we'll have them over to eat every now and again. We see each other at the door here and there and cheer each other on superficially in our respective projects and whatnot, but we're not up late going all heart-to-heart or anything. Made that mistake before.

So... You know how on Mondays, I go pick Lily up from school, bring her home, feed her lunch and take her back to school? Well, they do that with their kid, too. I'll be honest and say that I arranged to have Lily's lunch-at-home day be Monday because I knew this fact (about their kid) and wanted to be available to help them out if ever they needed. So, when the dude told me last week that he was going to be busy or out of town or whatever on Monday, I volunteered to walk her to school with my kids, go pick her up at lunch time with Lily and even walk her BACK to school with Lily AND THEN, AS USUAL, pick her up after she and Ryan and Lily are done with their late Monday (they stay at the school for an extra hour on Monday afternoons to get tutoring). He said, THANKS! So, Monday comes, and the chick is surprised to see me at her doorstep.

"Oh, are YOU walking them?"

"Yep. Told him I would."

"GREAT! I'm running late anyway."

"No problem. I'll pick her up when I pick up Lily for lunch."

"No, let's go together. I'll be here, too."

"No, don't worry about it. I'll get them both and save you the trip."

"No, let's walk together. I need to get a few things on the way. Stop by and get me when you head out."

"Oh. Okay."

"Don't forget. Stop by and get me."

You can probably tell by my reaction that I did NOT WANT TO DO THIS. Yes, I'm a total bitch. Yes, I know she was trying to be sociable and that she was probably saying it out of thanks and whatnot. But let me let you in on a little secret........ She doesn't like ME either!!!!! When we are alone together (when she's not cutting me off, misunderstanding what I'm saying (um, mostly because she won't stop FUCKING CUTTING ME OFF IN MID SENTENCE), criticizing me, bossing me around, bitching about ALL THE WORK she has to do *eye roll*), we have nothing to say to each other. No, seriously. Like I said, we don't have the same communication styles, personality types or philosophies, so really it's like, even though we are speaking the same language, we're STILL speaking a foreign language. When she asks me to go anywhere with her, we almost always walk in silence. Okay, what's wrong with that? Nothing. But if I'm going to walk in silence, I usually prefer to do it alone. Just who I am. Why walk anywhere together if we're not going to connect? Just because we happen to be going the same way?

Here's the other ironic thing. When we're walking together without the children, I walk fast. The tense conversation (which I force and initiate) is peppered with her panting. Tough shit. Walking to Lily's school is my only real and regular opportunity for excercise (cuz walkin' back AINT and I'll get to that in a minute) and I like to walk briskly. I can tell that just this short walk a couple of times a day has made a difference in my health and fitness and I'm not going to sacrifice it because she wants us to physically go somewhere together (now that I think about it, maybe that's why she doesn't talk.... maybe it's cuz she can't breathe... maybe she oughta consider giving up smoking, then, huh?). The irony part is that once we HAVE the girls with us, I walk VERY, VERRRRRY slowly. Why? Because Lily is 3 and is plagued with the same flat (no, really, F.L.A.T.) feet as I. A walk that normally takes me 7 minutes at a comfortable pace (6 hustling and 5 jogging--how do I know this? I've left my appartment late before *blushes*), takes me 20 with Lily in tow. This is why I drop Ryan off at her house in the morning. Because when Ryan walks to school with Lily and me, he gets all whiny and starts trouble. If Ryan walks to school with their kid, Lily and I can leave at 8am and be at school on time at 8:20 without rushing. So, as we're walking BACK from picking up the girls, the chick and her kid are way ahead of us. This doesn't bother me in the least, as, since I've mentioned, we don't have anything of substance to say to one another. But I guess she feels guilty, so she keeps stopping and turning around and then waiting for us to catch up. The first time we did this little thing, I told her she really doesn't have to wait for us, because I'm not going to spend our whole walk pulling on Lily's arm while she whines about not wanting to walk fast. But, for some reason (courtesy or politeness maybe, which surprises me since so many other times she's not courteous or polite to me at all), she's waiting anyway.

We get near the pharmacy, and she sees on the external clock that it's 12 10. She says, "Oh, I gotta get going. I have a colleague coming over for lunch to work with me and she's supposed to be here by noon."

Relieved, I say, "Great! No problem. Go on. I'll see you later." But then, she realizes that 12 10 is not 12:10 but 12/10... The date (they're backards over yere).

So, she says, "Ooooh, nevermind."

My heart sinks, because I'm really annoyed with feeling obligated to smile every time she turns around and waits for me.

THEN she says, as if we haven't already HAD this fucking conversation, "Yeah, you're right, it really IS an adventure to walk somewhere with Lily. I see now why you drop Ryan off at our place."

Now, not only am I annoyed, I'm defensive, so my return smile to her laughter isn't a genuine one.

THEN, when we get back to the building, we spot her colleague in the lobby. At that point, I'm "just a neighbor." So, now I feel snubbed.

I wouldn't CARE. Trust me, I'd forever and a thousand times rather walk to and from school ALONE (well, not alone, just without her... I don't even mind when it's just her kid walking with me). But since she's insisted we walk together now, I'm open to get my ego punched. WHATEVER.

Oh, there's more.....

So, their older kid is my babysitter. She's smart. Responsible. She speaks to the kids with authority when it comes to settling down and not getting crazy and not making a mess. BUT, she also doesn't just plop her teenage ass on my couch and let the kids fend for themselves. She actually PLAYS with them. Like, whenever she comes over, she feeds them dinner and then says, "Okay, I'm the cashier and you're the customer, okay?" or whatever. I've seen it. It's awesome.

And the other night, as I was helping her with her English homework, she says, "Hey, I'm free on Friday to watch the kids if you and Sam want to go out."

Well, it just so happened that Flavia and Gilles had invited us over for dinner. It was our first time going to their place and our first time going to ANYONE'S apartment without the kids. It was also going to be on the other side of town.

The thing is... Friday is pool night for all of the kids. Even the babysitter. She's on the swim team. And I guess, so is one of her friends who lives nearby. ANYWAY, on Friday afternoon, when I was talking to the mother, I said, "So, can she still babysit tonight." The mom hadn't heard anything about it. She said, "But it shouldn't be a problem. I'll pick the kids up from the pool, take them to X's house (a friend) and they can play with her kids. The Babysitter can come straight to your place with The Babysitter's Friend to watch your girls until Ryan and my kid come home with me." (confused? sorry.)

Now, here's where I start twitching. I like the babysitter. I trust her. I know her. She lives downstairs. But this other girl? Well, I DON'T know her and therefore won't trust her with my kids right off (have I mentioned I have a really troubled past with my OWN babysitters abusing me?). AND I know how teenagers are. One on her own is fine, but TWO together can get into trouble. I did it. And so did you. You know you were more responsible when you were alone than if you had someone to egg you on.

What made this worse is that when I told Sam, he said, "Oh... isn't that friend the slutty one?" Now, to be fair, I myself was "the slutty one." So, this isn't about being judgmental. It's about remember how screwed up I was and irresponsible.

Sam, right away, didn't feel right about leaving our kids with the two girls ESPECIALLY if the neighbor adults weren't going to be home (they were going to be a the babysitter's friend's parents' house... again, sorry for the confusion)... ESPECIALLY since we were going to be going a little further away (we usually only go to the movies, a five minute walk, but this time we were going to be a good 15 minute drive away).

Sam decided he wasn't going. He would stay with the kids and let me go by myself to my friends' house. I was mad, but he was adamant. I said, "okay, I'm going to give her the excuse that you don't feel comfy leaving the kids alone with a teenager and going that far away if there aren't going to be any of us four adults in the building."

And that's what I did.

Her answer? "Well, we're only going to be five minutes away."

*sigh* She trumped my hand.

So, I said, "Oh yeah. I forgot they lived so close. Okay, nevermind then, since you'll be available in case of emergency."

It all worked out fine. The Babysitter came (ALONE, thank you), fed and watched the kids and put them to bed while Sam and I went out and had a GREAT night at F and G's place.

Flash forward to later Monday night... I go to pick up all of the kids. I get Lily first, of course, because Ryan's tutoring always seems to run late. When I get to the front of Ryan's school, the neighbor chick is standing there, smoking, waiting for her kid (who, again, I thought I was picking up). For some reason, seeing her smoke freaks Lily out, so Lily sort of avoids her until the cigarette is gone. *shrug* As usual, the kids' thing runs late. So, now, she starts talking to me. Asks me if I want a ride since she has the car. I don't but I say okay. She says it's cold, she's cold, she can't seem to warm up. But I'm standing there sweating, as I do.

She says, "The Babysitter was really hurt the other night when I told her that you weren't going to let her babysit. She was worried that you didn't like her any more. That you didn't trust her. That you didn't think she was old or responsible enough to watch the kids without the adults in the building. I told her it was more about Sam than you, but she was sort of disappointed anyway."

I decided to come clean, because I don't want this Babysitter to think I don't trust her. I absolutely do. So, I say, "Well, to be completely honest, it was more about the Babysitter's Friend. We don't know her. Plus, one teenager is fine, but more than one can potentially be cause for concern. I mean, sure, we were worried about being farther away than usual, but then you reminded me that you'd be close."

Her mouth fell open. "No, no, no. My daughter is not easily distracted from her responsibilities. Oh, no. When she's in charge of something or is responsible for something, she is not easily distracted. Plus, the two of them (babysitter and her friend) often watch the two younger girls (other daughter and babysitter's friend's little sister). We leave them with the older girls all the time when we adults go out together."

Now, I feel like I've insulted the Babysitter even more. But this whole thing is NOT about the goddamn babysitter... it's about the "slutty" friend. So, I say, "Look, it's not about the Babysitter. It's about the friend. We don't know her, okay?"

"But she's responsible, too."

"That may be. But we.don't.know.her." And this I say with emphasis. Let me inject here, that usually when we're talking, I'm so uncomfortable that I slip into my uber-accomodating, smiling persona... I nod my head and smile a lot. I hold my tongue when I disagree with her because I know it won't do any good and that she'd probably just CUT ME THE FUCK OFF anyway if I tried to dispute her, so I don't usually try. But THIS time, I wanted her to understand that this had nothing to do with me being some quirky American blond woman who stays home eating bon bons all day. This had to do with a mother protecting her young, no matter HOW the fucking neighbor lady felt about it. So, I reiterate, "I have a long history of babysitters in my life. Bad ones. Abusive ones. So, I don't let just anyone babysit my kids. And Sam? These kids are his life. It's all he does. Go to work, come home and be with his kids. He has no hobbies, he has no friends. He only has his kids. So, both of us are protective--for different reasons--but still valid ones. We LOVE and trust the Babysitter. But we were not comfortable with the friend being there because we just.don't.know.her."

At this point, she looks like I've punched her in the face. She's hurt. Maybe because the Babysitter's Friend is HER (neighbor lady's) best friend's DAUGHTER. And maybe neighbor lady feels like her friend's daughter is like a daughter or neice to her. Either way, I don't give a fuck and I'm not going to apologize for my decision. I'm also not going to continue to justify it or defend it. I'm not HER child, I am an EQUAL for crying out loud, even if I do spend most of my time smiling and nodding so she won't talk to me.

So, to get her to shut the hell up, I call Sam and say, "Hey... Ryan's still not out of his tutoring yet. He's like 15 minutes late now."

Sam says, "I'm right behind you." And he is. I turn around and he's there on his bike with Lolo on the back. Just then, Ryan and the neighbor kid come out and squeal and play with the girls. Ryan has forgotten his jacket so I tell him to go back in and get it. I'm thinking, hoping, crossing my fingers that since I know Ryan will take for-freakin'-ever to get his jacket, that the neighbor lady will just leave without me. And she does.

"So, do you want me to wait and give you a ride home?"

"Nah! Thanks anyway. We'll just walk."

And we do. And I hold my children's hands all the way home as if I'm never going to see them again. Because in this land where my relationship with my neighbor-friends is so wishy-washy and complicated, my children have become my friends. I don't know why, but I feel like they're on my side. LOL. I know they probably wouldn't be if they had a choice. I'm not a very cool mom. I yell a lot and I say NO a lot and I make them behave themselves at the table and make their beds in the morning and NOT play with their private parts in public, so I'm not really their friend in that way. But holding their hands, I feel comforted. Relieved. And so glad to be alone with them and to NOT be sitting uncomfortably in her car.

Right here's where I could tell you how the night only got worse. How the tension of that encounter added to the fact that while I spent an hour and a half making dinner, Sam did NOT help Ryan with his homework and then while I'm trying to help Ryan with his homework, Sam tells me he's going to the movies, meanwhile Lily is ALONE in the goddamn bathtub YELLING out "Papaaaaaaaaaa" and I throw a crazy fit (complete with throwing things) and tell him he better not EVER AGAIN leave my 3 year old in a bathtub full of water EVER again, and does he understand me? I could tell you how I sat in the kitchen in the dark wondering how the hell I could be so goddamn crazy as to want to have ANOTHER child with him when it only means that I'll be essentially doing even MORE by myself. I could tell you that I thought up ways to NOT come back from NC/VA. I could tell you I thought about divorce.

But it wouldn't matter because it blew over. I pulled it back together. Oh sure as shit, everything I thought and felt is still valid. It's just that, on the days when I don't have the neighbor terrorizing me, I'm usually strong enough to hold things together. Oh sure, I still tell myself every.single.day. that as soon as these children are old enough to truly fend for themselves (I'm talking college) that Mama's ass is going to be on a plane to somewhere FAR away from Papa. I'm joining the damn Peace Corps (and hoping I'll find some damn peace). I need to be around adults who understand me. Who don't spend all their time thinking about themselves, money, sports and how to "get theirs." People who don't sigh and pout over every little measly thing!!!! People who fold their own shorts. Who offer and LIKE to help out in the preparation of meals. Who take pride in doing everything they do--even the smallest thing--to the BEST of their ability just because it's the right fucking thing to do. I'm going to find those people and grow old with them when my kids are all grown and gone. If I live through it.

There you go... if this post hasn't made you wanna shoot yourself... well... good!

Hi.

2009-10-12T00:14:00.000-07:00

As usual, I spent the week finding all kinds of things to write about and now that I'm sitting down in front of the computer, I'm drawing a blank. I mean, I started this blog to let you all know about the frustrations and rewards of being an expat in France, but the blog has become, well, an on-line version of The Joelie Show. I can't say that that will not continue because, frankly, it's good for me to have a place to vent. Thanks for indulging me.

However, because I promised to do so, I'll talk about the kids now and through them, expose a little of the Franciness.

So, Ryan is reading. In French. At first, I was appalled to find out that the school doesn't teach them the alphabet. They don't. There's a book. Every few pages, there's a two or three sentence paragraph about this girl named Justine. the children are taught to memorize these sentences so that they can eventually recognize full words. That makes them feel like they are reading, I guess. Problem is... Wait, have I already talked about all this before? I feel like I have. ANYWAY, the problem is, teaching them this way doesn't give them the tools they need to read on their own. So, in the mean time, I've been teaching Ryan his alphabet, the sounds that go with the letters in French, the syllables that make up French words and I've made flash cards to go along with all of this. Ryan might hate me when it's all said and done, but at least he's reading and will be able to apply what I'm teaching him to learning to read in English (which I decided to put off until he had established a good reading foundation in French... I'll probably work on it more after the beginning of the year).

I don't know what to do about Ryan's craziness. He's crazy. I mean that he's bonkers. The kid can't act normal. "Normal." He is the sweetest, most sensitive, funny, happy, smart kid I know, but at the same time, the most inappropriate, hard-headed, whiny and annoying one. Okay, not the MOST whiny and annoying but he runs a close second. There are moments he will sit in the library and "read" book after book. He'll also play quietly, building airplanes and buildings and cars out of his Legos. He'll sit at his desk and draw these great pictures of construction sites, rockets flying to space, volcanoes erupting, scenes with green trees and sunny skies with puffy clouds in them. He's a really cool kid and I'm proud to be his mom and to have the privilege to know him. I moon over him while he's sleeping. He's so peaceful and gorgeous and little and soft and beautiful with his long black lashes on his cheeks. He giggles in his sleep and is probably the snuggliest child I've ever met. He wakes up with a smile on his face.

But, the few things I'm a stickler about, he can't seem to manage to rein in. Like, the whole table thing. I've said over and over that the table is the only place that I want the kids to act "appropriately" I want them to sit AT LEAST facing their plate (we'll tackle where the gangly appendages are supposed to stay at a later date). I want them to finish the meager helpings I put on their plate, finish their half-glass of water (and we're talking about a 1/4 cup of water), NOT talk with their mouths full, NOT play with their silverware, NOT stand up in the chair, NOT make ridiculous noises... you know? I just want table time to be a time we come together to be somewhat civilized. And I think teaching my kids this is giving them a great gift, even if they don't see it as one right now.

Ryan understands and obeys most of the rules. He eats pretty well and always finishes. He almost always agrees to at least try one bite of whatever is on his plate. But I can't get that kid to stop masturbating at the table. I understand wanting to combine two pleasures--eating and well, you know--but it's just not something I want him thinking is okay to do. I mean, in spite of the rule "The only places you're allowed to play with your penis is 1)in your OWN bed or 2) in the bathroom" I find him gearshifting on the couch while watching TV, in my bed when he wakes up in the morning, and as I mentioned, while eating. I don't want him to get a complex, so I tell him over and over that I KNOW it feels good and I don't have a problem with him doing it. Everyone plays with their private parts. But I ask him, "Do you see me or Papa playing with our parts while we're cooking? Driving? Doing laundry?... NO, you don't SEE us playing with our parts, because playing with one's parts is PRIVATE, only to be done when one is ALONE."

Lily's big problem is that she likes to stare out the window. I'm sure you've seen our view. It's gorgeous. The ancient Roman hillside, the old buildings mixed with the modern, the lush green (and now autumn-y) trees, the river below. It's beautiful, I'm the first to concur, but her staring is making us late for everything. She takes FOREVER to eat. The problem is that I usually end up getting sick of waiting for her and I end up feeding her! So, when I'm not sitting next to her, she doesn't eat (I also think this has something to do with not getting to be "the baby" for very long before Lolo came along). They've even said that they have a problem getting her to eat while she's at school. It's not the food. When she's hungry and NOT staring out the window, she eats like a champ and all by herself. But she's just sorta... lazy, I guess. I hate it, but i think that I'm going to have to stop feeding her and just freakin' usher her away from the table when it's time to get ready, whether or not she's finished. Sux, but that may be the only way to teach her to eat.

Lolo likes to stand or get down. She HATES sitting on her chair. I don't mind her being on her knees so she can reach her food, but the standing or the constant getting down and running around the table is a problem. The problem... is Sam. He either doesn't enforce the rules at all, or he just yells at her with a mean face. She doesn't believe him or just isn't scared of it. It makes for a cacophonous and miserable eating experience for the rest of us. The GOOD thing about Lolo's table habits is that she has a nearly insatiable appetite. And she LOVES "French" food. She's a big bread eater. Cheese (even the stinkiest... she keeps saying "encore!"). Yogurt. She just keeps on eating.

Even if I feel like every meal is "school" around here, it seems to pay off, for the most part. Whenever we go to other people's houses to eat, they seem relatively well-behaved at the table. Always asking if they can be excused. Always oohing and ahhing over the food. Always finishing their plates and drinking their waters. That makes me happy and proud and it seems to impress the French (and I admit, I sorta care).

Okay, look, all the above paragraphs seem very blah to me. WHO CARES? Why am I even WRITING about it? *eye roll* I don't even know. I'd love to write about all the quirky things I see on the way to and from the kids' school, about interesting exchanges with teachers, vendors at the bakery, cashiers at the grocery store... and I do have things to say... they're all just trapped in my head right now.

Here's the deal. *sigh* I wasn't going to say anything because I don't wanna have to write the dreaded retraction later, but I can't keep babbling on like this, letting you think I'm in my right mind when really, fairly, I'm not.

I'm pregnant. There you go. I'm a few weeks pregnant, I'm ecstatically excited (even if I didn't get down to a size 7 before it happened... um... not even a size 14 *cringe*). I'd be lying if I said I was scared because I'm not. I feel pretty pregnant and I don't feel imminent doom like I did from the beginning last time. I would have told you the DAY I found out (October 6) but, I wanted to spare YOU the possibility of having to read another one of those posts where a few days or weeks later, I tell you I've miscarried. And then you'd have to feel all sad and uncomfortable and whatnot. Blah blah blah. Truth is, now that almost a week has passed, I'm not really afraid of miscarrying. Go figure. I feel pretty secure about this pregnancy. However, if I DO end up miscarrying, PLEASE don't feel like you have to do the pity stuff. I'll just tell you and we'll move on, okay?

On that note, I'm gonna go get lunch ready. I'll TRY to pop back in here when I actually have something INTERESTING to say.

Literary Laxative

2009-10-02T00:42:00.000-07:00

I'm blocked. Here's the problem. I have the memories of things that happened long ago. The reality in my head. A tome of images and conversations and emotions. But when I go to write them down, I get lost in the crafting. You see, when I TELL these stories, they coem out kinda funny in a dark and sad way. I TELL stories the way both A. Burroughs and Mary Karr WRITES them. With humor and eloquence and animated gestures. When I go to write the stories down, they change. This is why I feel justified in saying, "I'm not a writer." I'm not. If I were, then I could get these freakin' stories down on the page in essentially the same way as I do when I tell them verbally. You would be horrified and laughing your ass off at the same time reading them. Instead, the reader FEELS the weight of the story. The importance I've given it. There's so much PRESSURE.

That's part of the problem. Another part is detail. Every day, every hour of my pregnancy was important in forming what happened in the end.... to me. But not every reader wants to know the long detailed story about me meeting a guy on a Greyhound bus and making out with him because he told me that I looked like a model. UNLESS I write it in a way that horrifies and makes you laugh. The hard part about doing THAT is that I have to ADMIT what a dumbass blonde I was back then. And I don't even really have any problem with that. Not really. I guess I'm just having a hard time putting into REAL and accurate WORDS just how much of a dumbass blonde I was. Or, I'm having a hard time doing it while horrifying you and making you laugh at the same time.

THEN there's the problem of TIME. For one, this story happened 15 years ago. Though the images are still clear in my head, though I remember nearly every conversation word for word, when I go to write things down, I have a VERY hard time not infusing my present into the past. BUT, according to the AMD/JMC (aka the agent), I need the book to read as if it happened not so long ago. So, I have to do BOTH. TRY to tell the story as I know it happened, without trying to turn the Joelie that stars in it into the Joelie who's writing it (vice versa?), WHILE AT THE SAME TIME making the reader feel it just happened. I ABSOLUTELY see the value in this. And THIS is the finished product that I've always wanted... Memoir that reads like fiction. Where the details are real and accurate but alive. But..... I'M NOT A WRITER!!!!!!

I'm a storyteller. I'm a chick with a bunch of fucked up stories to tell. Stories that could help people. Stories that need to be told, simply because I survived them fairly unscathed.

When this story, the story of my pregnancy, happens, I'm a dumbass blonde. I'm weak, naive, desperate, lonely, lost and well, stupid. I really was all of those things. But in the writing, I can HEAR my dialogue becoming too sophisticated. Even my THINKING is more sophisticated than I know it was at the time. Okay, I know that some of this is inevitable, of course, without me traveling back into time and just interviewing my dumbass blonde past self. BUT, IF I make Then Joelie (TJ) THINK and ACT like Now Joelie (NJ), then the character in the book is not just naive and lost, she's just plain fuckin' crazy. Because no one in her right mind (and I do assume here that I am currently in a state of somewhat "right mindedness") would have made the mistakes and bad decisions that TJ did. I would NOT make those same mistakes and bad decisions today... But the WHY of that is because.... ding ding ding... I ALREADY MADE THOSE MISTAKES (well, TJ did).

Are you confused? THEN YOU CAN SEE WHY I HAVE WRITER'S BLOCK!!!

Another problem is that I feel rushed. I have put pressure on myself to finish this thing by a certain date because for some reason I feel some urgency. Like, I have to get it out on paper and the way I want it before I die. Or if I wait too long, the agent will forget about me. Or if I wait too long, the subject will no longer seem timely OR Heaven for-fuckin'-bid someone else write a similar story (and probably BETTER than my OWN).

The other reason I feel rushed is that I have three full days in which I can actually write. So, on those three full days, I tell myself I had better get crackin'... Clock in, sit down, tap out the message onto the page, for crying out loud. But I don't. I feel so pressured and rushed that I don't do anything. I'm starting to see the book as "WORK." I know, it SHOULD be my work. I SHOULD be able to sit down and do it. I mean, that would make Sam feel better, probably. Make him take me more seriously as a writer. Make him see that I mean it when I say I want to get this book done. Problem is, because I'm thinking of it as work, it's becoming WORK to write. *sigh*

And to add to the wah wah wah, I have OTHER THINGS I want to do, believe it or not. I WANT to freakin' WORK OUT during the day while I have some child-free time. I've pretty much maintained my weight but I can feel my general "fitness" slipping. I also want to READ... I mean, have you noticed how long it took me to read my last book (granted, some of that had to do with the pace of the book itself)? I WANT to research for the farm--find local wheat, sugar, milk and meat sources so that we'll have a place to get those things while we get our own farm set up, etc.

I SHOULD schedule my day, shouldn't I? Write in the morning, work out in the afternoon, read in between household chores on Wednesday and in the evenings, research for the farm on Sundays. What do I end up doing? Nothing. Eating and playing on Facebook. Revising a paragraph or page here and there, but not doing anything than trimming the fat. I'm not BEEFING up the manuscript at all (to follow with the analogy).

Things are going to have to change if I want to "have it all," huh? I'm going to have to find some discipline somewhere (got any I can borrow?).

I'm hoping this trip will help. What? You don't know about the trip? Oh yeah, I haven't WRITTEN IN HERE IN OVER A WEEK, have I? LOL! Wellllll, because our real estate agent represents both us and the seller, she can not be our Power of Attorney (conflict of interest). So, one of us has to fly over there for the closing. Since Sam has to work, that "one of us" would obviously have to be...ME! *happy dance* And even though I could fly over there and take care of things over the weekend, I'm leaving a full week early and using the trip as a WRITER'S RETREAT (not that I'm a writer or anything, *wink*). I'm going to hole up in the hotel all day. I'm going to write WHENEVER I WANT. I'm going to work out at the hotel gym or the Y *gives Lisa puppy dog eyes for guest passes*... I'm going to swim in the hotel pool and sit in the hotel hot tub. I'm going to eat the hotel breakfast and partake of the nightly hotel cocktail hour. I'm going to have coffee here and there, lunch here and there and a dinner here and there with friends I didn't get to spend too much time with on my last trip. And then, I'm going to drive up to Lynchvegas and close on my new property. AND hopefull get a "green" sheetrock wall hung in the basement (to cover the one wall that is covered in insulation) before I leave to come back here. AND, no matter WHERE I am in the book, I'm going to PUT IT DOWN on Halloween night and start NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) at midnight.

*sigh* Okay. I feel better now. I know, I know, I haven't updated you on what's going on over here. About Lolo's birthday and how the kids are doing in school (cuz there IS stuff to say about that), etc. but I can't right now. I'm taking the day off to hang out with friends. To clear my head. To flush out all negativity. To just.... chillllll. Monday, I'm gonna start my new schedule. I'll keep you posted on it, yeah? I might come in here later today or tomorrow to catch y'all up on the Frenchness, but for now I'll say, taker easy.

Just poppin' in...

2009-09-23T23:45:00.000-07:00

... to say I can't stay. I know I missed Monday, but it's cuz I'm bizzzzy.

I'm working really hard to get this revision ready for reading and further revision and even though I have four mostly child-free days per week, I still feel like I don't have enough time. Blah.

So, I will no longer promise updates twice a week. I'll be doing well if I can get in here once a week. But I'll try to make it back in here before the weekend (um, guess that means tomorrow) to spew and splather (I made that word up) about random stuff.

Right now, though, I better get to writing.

Yeah, okay... so...

2009-09-14T01:07:00.001-07:00

... I know I said I was going to try to come in here on Thursday, but nothing much had really happened between Monday and Thursday morning. And when nothing has happened, and I come in here to gab, I just end up droning on and on about nothin' and usually end up putting off housework and whatnot just to blah blah blah. So. Sorry. And, you're welcome.

Thursday was cool. I went to pick up Lily from school and took her directly to the mall where I met up with Sam, Iva and Vlad and the five of us had lunch at the salad bar place. Then, Iva and I went shopping. Got some clothes for the kids (because DUDE, Ryan must have grown TWO inches or something over the summer!). Looked ALL OVER the place for flash cards with French words on them but couldn't find them in anything other than English and Spanish. *eye roll*

Found lots of cool toys I liked but couldn't really afford (and wouldn't buy anyway cuz they're plastic).

The main thing though is that I was glad Iva was there. Twice I had to take Lily to the bathroom and once had to go myself and if it hadn't been for Iva, I would have had to leave my stroller there, piled with my purchases. Thanks, I.

Friday was awesome, too, cuz I finally got to see my Flavia. She's been working nights, so I haven't had a chance to go out with her. We went to that kick ass Asian food resto and had their buffet!!! YUM! Then, I went to the mall and bought Ryan a SCOOTER!!! A sidewalk scooter. I also bought one for Lily that has Dora on it. She loved it but now she and Lolo fight over it. *eye roll* neither one of them is really capable of actually using it with any efficiency, but *shrug* I also bought some line-less index card thingies so I could MAKE Ryan some flash cards because he's starting to read now and I need him to be able to recognize the frequently used words in French.

Oh, I could stay in here and gab about the movies I saw or the books I read, but....

I HAVE NO KIDS AT HOME TODAY!!! And I've already "wasted" an hour or so playing on Facebook. So, now, I'm going to get the heck off of here and WORK ON MY MEMOIR!!!!!

Gotta get as much done as I can before November cuz there's Nanowrimo, of course.

So, y'all be good. Forgive me for the brevity (once again, you're welcome). And we'll try again on the is Thursday morning thing, okay???? Hugsies!

La Rentree! a.k.a. Nipple and All.

2009-09-07T00:21:00.000-07:00

My kids are all in school. The only noise I can hear right now is the ticking of my wall clock and the ocean-esque waves of traffic outside my open window. *sigh*

I don't know WHY (I guess because they do the numbers and for the kids to have a certain number of days in school) they started school on Thursday, but they did. Ryan was READY, rearing to go. Sam took Lolo to the daycare (henceforth to be known as la creche, the French word for it because even when I'm speaking English, I refer to it as the creche) early so that he could be back in time to go with me to take Ryan to school. And though Lily wasn't starting until the afternoon, she went with us.

About half way there, we ran into the neighbors. They all had grim faces. I couldn't tell if it was because they were nervous about Antonia's first day at REAL school (Ryan and A's new grade is called CP and it's the first time that they are SERIOUSLY expected to hold still, be quiet, do work and even HOMEWORK) OR if they were MAD at us for not having waited for them because they had mentioned us going together. Since no solid plans had been laid out, I went for option number one.

Let me just say that while I appreciate their presence sometimes, I did not on Thursday. For one, the first thing that P said to me after Bonjour was, "Hey Lily, why aren't you walking? (she was in the stroller) Don't you know that you have to WALK to school?"

I looked up at him and through a gritted-teeth smile said, "She doesn't start until this afternoon."

From that point on, the conversation was choppy and annoying and stressful. I'm just now realizing that when I get stressed out around them, it's only about 20% me. The rest is their lapdog way of being jumpy and paranoid about EVERYTHING. In MY opinion, our kids are going to be JUST FINE because they're used to going to school. Sure, they're going to have a more structure day and a little more strict instruction, but DUDE, it's not high school, yo. I'm telling you right now, I'm not putting ANY pressure on Ryan to be anything but behaved. I'm not going to pressure him into being a model student or a genius or anything. Sure, I expect him to listen, sit in his seat and raise his hand to talk and whatnot, but I'm not going to be punishing him at home for whatever he does at school (short of hitting other kids). If we were in the States, Ryan would be starting KINDERGARTEN. What he's starting here is the equivalent of 1st grade. I'm not going to pressure him to be anything that he isn't. And if his main reason for going to school is to hang out with his buddies, I'm SO okay with that.

Even as we walk up to the school, I hear all these little voices saying, "Hey Mom! There's RYAN! HEY RYAN!!! RYAN???? HEY!!!!" My heart swelled to the size of an 18-wheeler. Ryan was SO happy to see his friends!

While we're standing there, Patrice says, "You know, Lily's not going to be able to take her lovey to school with her."

I'm wondering if I can rewind and hold Lily's ears while he says that, but instead, I just say, "Yes she can. I saw kids do it last year."

He shakes his head, "No..." and at this point I speed up so he's not talking right NEXT to Lily and so she won't hear what he's saying, "...I heard on the radio that they're not allowed to bring them this year because of the flu."

"Well, then, Lily will just stay at home with me this year," I say. Which is just as ridiculous as him saying that shit right in front of my 3 year old on her first day of fucking school. And to her credit, Natalie hears what's going on and mumbles to him, "Don't say that to them right now."

Anyhoo, so I'm standing there, next to Lily in her stroller and Sam/neighbros have gone inside the school (strollers really aren't allowed in there--there aren't any ramps anyway, so *shrug*). He's been telling me all summer that it's going to be a dropoff situation. That parents will no longer be expected or even able to loiter with their kids. They go there, they drop their kids off at the steps and then at the end of the day, they wait at the steps for their kids to come out. No going to the classroom, no long discussions with the teachers about how the day went, etc. So, I'm standing outside wondering what the hell is going on because this "dropoff situation" is taking like over fifteen minutes now. While I'm waiting, I hear an alarm buzz.

Must be the school bell.

Well, I wasn't the only one who heard it because just like a cowboy had called "Yippee kai ai aye!" parents from all over began to stampede toward the steps. One mother, wearing a thin tank top with spaghetti straps ran SO hard that one strap fell off. Then it slid down her arm. And then, before my eyes was a naked, bouncing, untanned breast. Nipple and all. At first, I didn't think anything of it. But, it must have been my recent trip to the States that has affected me in some of the strangest, most subliminal, most subconscious ways, that made my eyes bulge and my mouth drop open. I actually said out loud, "Did I just see nipple?" By then, the mother, in one sweep of her hand, had her strap back up and was corralling into the school doorway, not in the least bothered by her sideshow potential. Like she was saying, "Look, boobs fall out all the time, the world's an imperfect place." I, on the other hand, wrote it down in my handy dandy notebook so I could tell all YOU about it later.

You're welcome.

Then, as I'm waiting, this statuesque woman comes striding along, looking like a polynesian princess, a delicate black dress hugging her perfect legs, perfect boobs, perfect... WHOA! WAIT! That chick's pregnant!!!! HUMONGOUS belly camoflaged by the black dress until she turns a little to the side to get a better grip on her purse. Instantly I am overcome with jealousy and cattyness. Pregnant women are supposed to look, well, pregnant, godammit! When I'm pregnant, it's not just my belly that gets pregnant. I'm not, like, NORMAL everywhere else, fit or trim even. My freakin' ARMS get pregnant along with me. My butt turns into a huge shelf. My boobs swell from the first month, into the size of ripe cantaloupes. My walk is not effortless and full of grace and sex appeal. I waddle from the beginning of the two lines on the piss stick.

So, I think, "Huh. Must be a French thing." thinking that that's as good an excuse as any. I'm not French and therefore am off the hook. I am American, by gods! But then, just after, I see a chick with a tattered leather jacket, grimy/holey jeans, sagging cowboy boots and... yes... a maternity panel at her lower belly. Well, SHIT the bed Fred. She must not be French either!

Anyway, so I get sick of waiting and I end up taking Lily in there to say goodbye to Ryan--oh yeah, you guessed it right, they STILL hadn't gone into their classrooms and of COURSE Natalie and Patrice were STILL sorta freaking out. So, I said, well, I'm gonna go. Then N says, "Oh, I'll walk with you." Great. So, half of the walk back, I have nothing to say. And apparently, neither does she.

When she says, "I think they're going to be okay." instead of just nodding, I start this bullshit monologue about how immature Ryan is and how I'm a little worried about him. Total bullshit. I'm not worried in the least. And now I'm wondering, as she's agreeing with me, why I do that. WHY do I say shit like that... insult my own kid... just to make other people feel at ease? Why do I put my own kid or self down to make other people feel better about themselves or their own kid? I'm sure it's an attempt to console, but really all it does is make them think I'm weak. Which would be okay if they didn't seem to wanna run with it and use it as an excuse to patronize me or condescend to me thereafter.

On that day in particular, she is working from home (she doesnt' start work until Friday morning) and neither of our kids will stay at the school for lunch (to which I was opposed but got bullied into by Sam). So, she'll pick the kids up and Sam will take them back.

And that's what happens. Ryan comes home for lunch, eats, plays a little, then goes back to school. Lily and I hang out, read some books and play. Then, around 2:10, all dressed up and ready to go, with her little Ni Hao Kai-lan lunchbox which only holds an extra dress, a pair of undies, her raincoat and her lovey, we... walk....to... school... and it was like that..... SNAIL SLOW. I kept thinking, "Screw this... tomorrow I'm taking her to school in the stroller" but I kept hearing Patrice's snide, "you know when you go to school, you HAVE to walk there" bullshit *grumble, grumble* WHATEVER.

We get there, I'm smiling and confident on the outside but secretly holding my breath to see Lily's reaction. I exhale when after being introduced to the teacher, Lily takes off and starts playing with all the GREAT educational toys there are in the classroom. The teacher is smiley and dramatic and dynamic (a diamond in the rough). She notices me speaking English to Lily and asks if I'd mind coming in to help her sing English songs some Thursday afternoon. I, of course, would be delighted and I think Lily would like that, too. I say, "Au revoir, Lily." She runs to me and I'm worried she's going to be upset, but instead, she hugs my leg tightly, says, "Au revoir, Mama." and takes off to play again.

Since she's only going to be there for an hour and a half this first day, I go to a cafe around the corner and drink a noisette and finish my Holly Black book (WRITE MORE BOOKS, PLEASE, MS. BLACK!!!!) and start a new one.

When I get back there to get Lily, she's delighted to see me. "Mama!" she yells running to hug me. The teacher tells me that Lily was impeccable. I am not in the least surprised. Lily just seems like the girl who will adore school.

Just then, a boy turns, notices his mother has arrived and RUNS to her SCREAMING in tears. My heart breaks for them both. Turns out, the mother had dropped the little boy off in the wrong classroom, the teacher of the other class brought the boy to Lily's class and dropped him off. I can only imagined that he was TERRIFIED that his mother wouldn't know where to come get him. Then, the mother explains that the little boy is Japanese, doesn't speak much French and just got back from Japan YESTERDAY. No WONDER he's so upset.

Friday, everything goes even better. Ryan walks to school with Patrice and Antonia (Sam having dropped Ryan off on his way to work). Sam comes home for lunch and takes Lily to school himself. I go to pick up all the kids, Lily, Ryan and Antonia and I bring them back to the house to play.

That night, Emma babysits for us so Sam and I can go to the movies. Why am I using the damn present tense? *eye roll* Sorry... I'm switching to past now.. Slight stylistic tweak.

Okay, so Sam and I went to the movies not really knowing what we were going to see. We walk up, see this one movie is playing and that it has won some awards at Cannes, so it must be good (though probably weird). We sit down and realize, because of all the knives and blood and stuff, that it's gonna be a scary movie. It wasn't really. I mean, it was full of suspense, but it wasn't specifically gorey. It was, however, damn good. It's called Der Knochenmann in German (it's an Austrian movie), or "The Boneman" in English, or "Bienvenue aux Cadavres-les-Bains" in French, just in case you wanted to look for it.

The next day is somewhat eventful. We skipped going to the market because we still had veggies and eggs and cheese leftover from the week before. So, instead, we quickly ate breakfast and headed out to the supermarket where we went school supply shopping. That was fun! I LOVED getting school supplies for Ryan. And I know Sam would never admit it but I think he liked it, too. He was all excited when we got home and started helping Ryan prepare his back pack! LOL!

After the nap, Patrice called to see if we minded watching Antonia while he and Natalie went out. I never mind watching her. My kids love her and she loves them. The only thing I DON'T LIKE, is if they are going to leave her here so late that it's AFTER my kids' bedtime. Here's why.... She's a baby. There, I said it. She'll be 6 years old tomorrow and she still uses a pacifier. She did great up until the time for the kids to go to bed and then she threw an "I want my parents" fit. What she wants is to be able to stay up with the grown ups, but I'm telling you right now, she is NOT going to sit up while my kids are in bed. For ONE, it makes my kids get up every five freakin' minutes to "go to the bathroom" or "get a drink" (in other words, "see what Antonia is doing" and "why does SHE get to stay up"). So, NO. I warned her that she'd be lying down in the spare bed when our kids went to bed. I told her that she didn't have to sleep if she didn't want to, but that she WOULD have to stay there and she WOULD have to be quiet. I told her, "Anto, my kids see you as their big sister, so I'm counting on you to act like one, okay?" This seemed to please her, so I carried it further. "If you care about them, you'll want them to get the sleep they need. So, please stay here, close your eyes, think about happy things--school, your vacation, all the fun stuff you'll do this year--and if you fall asleep, your papa will wake you up when he comes to get you."

It worked at first. She took a bath with the girls, helped them get ready for bed, brushed her teeth, listened to the story, was quiet during the bedtime song, blah blah blah. But, about fifteen minutes later, my two girls get up and run the length of the apartment. I go in and Anto is sitting up in the bed. And now, so is Ryan. I throw a fit that makes her cry and beg for her parents and her pacifier. I tell her that she needs to stop being a baby. There. I said it. SHE chose not to go with her parents (because she WAS invited) and she ASKED to come stay at our house, KNOWING my bedtime rules. So, SHE has to face the consequences of being treated like any other kid in the house. Do I feel guilty for making her cry? yes. Do I really think I was wrong? No.

So, yesterday was absolutely UNEVENTFUL. We spent the morning wondering what we were going to do. I didn't have any energy to do ANYTHING. All I knew was that I was SICK of children. All children. Make me this. Do that for me. Wipe my butt. I'm hungry. I'm mad. Blah blah blah... I only had ONE shower last week. I did five loads of laundry, cooked every meal except for Friday dinner (pizza night), and did dishes every day. I was sick of taking care of other people and not having a goddamn moment to myself. I can't even go to the bathroom without someone banging on the locked door! So, when Sam suggested we go see his parents, I said, "Sure!!! You guys GOOOOOO!" And he did. *sigh* What did *I* do? Well, I read. I napped. I washed the dishes in peace--no kids screaming and crying around me, fighting and arguing. I made dinner. I took a shower. I read some more. I just EXISTED in peace and quiet and it was absolutely priceless.. And when they got home, I was actually HAPPY to see them!!!

Let's talk about sex, baby. I mean, um.... Let's talk about marriage (cuz what does one have to do with the other, right?) Let's talk about emotional explosions. I had one. Two actually. You know how it is. I'm not going to go into great detail because I'd rather not stir my own drama pot of Divorce Soup, but I had my usual questions about whether or not we really are meant to be together and whatnot. It gor really bad this time. There were a thousand factors involved... Yes, one of them was the whole farm-to-be... but like I said, I'm not going to pick through it. I'm moving on until the next fight (what, in like...say... three weeks or so?).

Suffice it to say that we are on track for the farm. We did the well flow test and had to tweak the well a little, but all looks good on that front. We have all the ducks lined up for closing. And it's looking like we'll go back to Lynchburg in February, whether the property is rented or not, to work on the woods a little. Still trying to work out what we'll do with the kids (leave 'em here? take 'em with?).

Oh, in other news, I heard back from the AMD/JMC. He gave me some specific ways I can improve the book, so come Friday (the first day all the kids will be in school ALL DAY), I'm going to dive right into all that. I'm excited as hell to get started, but I know that if I try to do anything before Friday, I'm going to regret it.

Okay, well, I had better head out of here. I've run out of gas. I think I'm going to start trying to visit you all on both Monday AND Thursday mornings so as to split up all the updating. We'll see how that works out, eh?

Until then, be good kids!

Cherry...

2009-08-31T01:50:00.000-07:00

Warning: I'm probably going to be melodramatic, or as I should say... "Myself." I call genetics, hormones and a colorful upbringing in as my defense.

I just finished reading Cherry. I feel like a friend has died. I never wanted the book to end. At the same time, every word, every new page, every continuing chapter made me want to throttle Mary Karr's certainly silken alabaster neck. It's not like she has stolen my stories (though the similarities are UNCANNY... she is acquitted of all suspicion of plagiarism due to the fact that, well, she got here first--is older than my own mother). The problem is, I've always thought I was different. As a child, it was a blemish... a handicap even... that I was so strange. So unlike those around me. Later, it's what drew/draws people to me. "She's so unique." Blah blah blah. Then I read this Karr chick and I'm shown just how not-so-unique-at-all I really am.

Thoughts I used to have, that seemed to so profoundly obscure and for lack of a better word, weird, I found uttered on the pages of this Cherry but in words that I'd never have the creativity, presence of mind or eloquence to write. I hear myself in her voice, I see myself in the images she draws and I find myself saying, "Me TOO!" with the enthusiasm one uses when one finds a fellow. Another yellow M&M in a pack of greens. But I also spend my time seething with jealousy and spite. My ego crushed.

Growing up (the throes of which I still find myself hourly), I used to comfort myself in my situations with the mantra, "Don't worry. Someday, this will make a great story." One time, my uncle told me, "If someone sat down and wrote out their life without censoring thought in light of other people's feelings or prejudices--without worrying about getting sued--that book would be the greatest work in history." Even then, at age 14, it sparked butterflies in my stomach to know that I'd attempt that feat someday.

But now I know. Just like every other way I've considered myself unique. It's all been done before.

The question is, what do I DO with this information?

Part of me says, Oh fuck it, just because it's been done doesn't mean it cancels out the value of YOUR stories.

But another part of me SCREAMS, You're no more special than anyone else, you know? Your stories aren't funnier, weirder, scarier or more obscure than anyone else'. Oh, so what if you have the "gift of gab?" That's all so much blabber. Your story's not that different. What? You thought you'd become a writer? You suck at fiction! You thought you'd fall back on your memoir because those stories mean something to you? Well, tough shit. Someone's already written those stories and done a better job. So, just give up all the lah-dee-dah about publishing anything and concentrate on doing what you DO know... Go do some dishes, start some laundry, cook some food, wipe some ass. Concentrate on that stuff. Better yet, drop all this writing stuff and just hone in on the whole farming thing, yeah?

Still, you all know how bipolar I am. In the next second, I'm saying, Oh yeah? My story may not be as full of sludge and mire, and I may not have had as much "hardship" as I thought, but my stories and the way I tell them ARE valid. And they ARE good. And don't you remember why you wanted to start writing them anyway? Because so many people said your stories helped them? Isn't that why you put pen to paper anyway? Not because you wanted to be famous or because you wanted to sell a book to buy a tractor! But because every time you told another story, the light you saw go on in the listener's ear, the gasp from their lips, the hand clutching chest... The "thank you for telling me that"... THAT'S why you decided to talk on paper. Hell, it's part of the reason you're typing RIGHT NOW, isn't it?

*sigh* He hasn't written me back yet. I think that's a big part of it. I think I expected the AMD/JMC to write me RIGHT back with enthusiasm for me to get started on a new and improved direction with the memoir. I tell myself that he can't really comment on it because for one, he's not done reading it. How can he know what you should do to it if he doesn't know how it ends yet? Isn't that what you used to tell your own writing students? Don't edit the little shit until the big chunks are in place as they need to be?

I try to busy myself with other things. Sadly--and orgasmically--Cherry came along and possessed me, making me only want to read, read, read, but fearing the day, the moment, when the book would end. That fucking book made me want to stop writing on the one hand, but encouraged me to jot down pages of notes about my own story (that and to buy a fucking thesaurus... I don't know if I'll ever attain the eloquence of a poet) on the other hand. I even wonder if JMC is psychic and he turned me on to Mary Karr as a mean joke... As a round about way of not just telling me but SHOWING me that I might as well stick to raising goats as my lifelong contribution to earth's existence. He doesn't have to write me a rejection letter if I write him and quit first.

I fucking hate waiting. What is taking him so long to get through my book? I mean, is it because he reads several at a time? If so, that sucks... how can he keep more than one book at a time straight in his head? Is it because he's writing a lot in the margins? Ideas he wants to throw at me for ways to make the thing better? Is it because he has so many meetings and lunches and dinners and gallery openings and other New York-y things to do? Is this agent thing just a hobby? Does he write?

It only took me two weeks to get through the book and I was REVISING it as I went along. What's TAKING HIM SO LONG?

It's, um, really only been a week or so. Really. So, I should calm the fuck down.

I SHOULD consider this an opportunity to write other things. Or to have a little extra time to read. Or research the farm. Or clean my house. Or play with my kids before all of them are back in school (Thursday). I shouldn't sit around and bite my nails and bitch about how long it's taking. But I can only be me, right?

Okay... let's change the subject.

Uh... oh yeah. We went to the bird park the other day. It was AWESOME. I'm not really into going to a park where there are a lot of captive animals with little signs showing you that the animals have been captured from their native habitat so you can see in real life that they are far from home. But this place was different. First of all, it wasn't super touristy (I mean, yeah, okay, there were three or four little/big playgrounds and a few restaurants, but it wasn't like there were actual humans walking around in bird suits with balloons or a camera ready to immortalize your experience with a personalized post card). Secondly, from what I could see, they made major efforts to mimic the natural habitat of the birds. I mean, there were warm-weather penguins in a huge wave pool. There were birds allowed to fly free. We even rescued a baby peacock looking bird who had strayed from his family's run, his mother walking back and forth along the fence whimpering at her baby as he tried here and there to bob his head back in--we surrounded him and Sam scooped him back over to his mama, who puffed up like she was about to attack until she understood that we were actually trying to help. She and her baby hid behind a bush (while we watched to make sure she wasn't going to eat him in an attempt to clean the Sam scent off of him) until they got the nerve to finally walk around the run.

Beyond that, the kids really liked it. I thought they would get bored and complain, but no. We did half of the park, had a sandwich lunch at one of the restos, played on the playground, did the other half of the park, had an ice-cream and cereal bar snack and made our way to the car. No pee pee or poop accidents. No major fights between Ryan and Antonia (in fact, I caught them with their arms around each other and actually kissing on cheeks). No pessimistic meltdown from Sam until he was ready to go. Just your all around great day.

Oh, that reminds me, when Antonia got back on Friday and she came by to say hi, she and Ryan actually RAN to one another like Romeo and Juliet awakened from the dead. It reminded me of what Ryan had said in Munich while we were about to board the plane: "Don't worry Antonia. I'll be home soon. I'm on my way." We took her with us to have lunch at our favorite Bouchon Lyonnais (which, by the way, like our pizza wagon, is no longer on our "best resto" list as their food has gotten tough and salty), after which we came back to the apartment, played a little and then took a nap. Ryan and Antonia insisted on sleeping together in the big guest bed. And as they climbed in and covered up, they actually freaking SPOONED and let out a sigh of what I could only interpret as... relief? Natalie and I joke that they are married, but it's scarily accurate, the way they interact. Natalie told me, that probably at the exact moment Ryan was thinking about Antonia, SHE was asking her mother, "What if he gets home and I'm not there? He'll be worried and sad and scared!" As if they are psychically connected to the point that her presence is his very life source.

I always thought (hoped?) Ryan would be gay. That way I wouldn't have to be the mother that gets the call in the middle of the night from some murderous father-of-the-female-object-of-my-son's-affection. At least I don't think Patrice would call me in the middle of the night. He would just punish Ryan on his own. And since they consider him to be family already, they might not murder him.

Yesterday we went to the in-laws' place. They were happy to see us and oohed and ahhed over the pix of our new property, as expected. We had a delicious lunch of herb roasted chicken, scalloped potatoes, stir-fried fennel, lamb's lettuce salad with hard-boiled egg and sliced tomatoes, and a homemade plum pie (with fruit from my sister in law's plum tree) for dessert. The cool part was letting the kids run around the yard, climb in the cherry and apple trees, roll around in the grass and tiptoe through the garden without worry. They plucked apples from the tree and nibbled on their not-so-yet-ripeness, getting three or for teeth-scrapes in before discarding the runted fruit onto the ground, returning to the tree later to find another specimen. We adults stayed in the house while the kids ran around. That's what I'm after. The freedom to be in my house while my kids are in my yard without the constant fear that someone is going to molest or kidnap them. Let's hope such an existence is in my not-so-distant future. *sigh*

I've been moving into the house and land in my mind when I'm not obsessing about the agent. Where will the couches go? Should they face the window? Or should we have them turned around to face the bar, fireplace and TV nook? OR, should we have one doing one thing and the other doing the other? Should we get the basement finished before we even move in so the kids will automatically have a place to go crazy without getting hurt? Should we give Ryan his own room and let the girls share one? Or should we have them all sleep in the same room and let the other be a toy room or guest room? Or guest room for now and toy room later? Or an office and put the toys and guests downstairs? Should we make the "yard" bigger and fence it off with split-rail and chicken wire right away so the kids' "playroom" can be the Great Outdoors (I'm leaning toward this one)? How much will it all cost? What should we do first? Which is more important? Feel free, if any of you have any good answers for these questions, to answer them in the comments option, thank you in advance.

Well, thank you for lifting me out of my Cherry-inspired funk. I promise to lay off the way-too-similar-to-my-own-life memoires for a little while. The next memoir I read will probably be Confessions of a Counterfeit Country Girl. But I see some fiction in the middle there to keep me from pushing YOU ALL to put a gun to your temple!

Not to Jinx It, But...

2009-08-26T06:48:00.000-07:00

I heard from the AMD/JMC (for you newcomers, that means, the Agent of My Dreams and his assistant JMC) last night.

In short, he said... "Maybe."

I mean, he didn't really say that, but that's what I got.

What he said was that he was a quarter way through the book, that it didn't grab him like my fiction did, that the first scene was "fantastically written", that the rest of the book needed to be more like the first scene (to read more like a novel in that the voice needed to be less "chronologically distant") and that all of this would involve a "significant rewrite."

excuse me when I say.... WOOOOO fucking HOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

"fantastically written" and "significant rewrite"??? I can only interpret those phrases as "you are talented" and "let's shape this up together"... Sweet music to my ears. I already have my sleeves rolled up waiting for more guidance...

And all at perfect timing as the kids are about to go back to school... I'll have my days free (except Wednesday) to work all day!!!!

Okay, now I have to go throw up.

Keep your fingers crossed. We're not through the woods yet.

Back in the Saddle Behemoth...

2009-08-22T18:21:00.000-07:00

So, we're home. I'm jet-lagged, of course, and so are both Lily and Lolo. Ryan, bless his heart, is sleeping soundly in his bed. He might even sleep in. He did it the way you're supposed to: Stay up until time to go to bed. I and the girls on the other hand, took naps. Well, technically, the girls fell asleep on the last plane and didn't awaken until hours after we had gotten back. I got home, unpacked a few suitcases, grabbed a book from my shelf to make room for the 80+ books I brought back, lay down on my bed and three pages in, fell into coma sleep. You know, the kind where you're so fatigued you don't dream and when you wake you feel like you have slept 8 hours but really it's only been an hour and a half. It's a mistake. And I know/knew it. But I didn't sleep one wink on the international flight and only dozed off during the last fifteen minutes of the Munich-Lyon flight, so, I don't think it could be helped.

Stepping outside the airport was wonderful. It was 1:30 in the afternoon and only 76 degrees F with a breeeeeeeze!!! After 95+ temps in the States (and ridiculous humidity), I was ready for a break from what some of my Facebook friends have called the "soupy weather." Climbing into the minivan was cool, too. Our rent-an-Accord was great for the 17 days, but it's so nice to be able to put all the kids and all the crap into one vehicle and not have one's knees in one's mouth. Walking into the apartment was HEAVENLY. It smelled all stuffy and old and musty because all the windows have been closed, but it was home. And it's huge. Ryan, as promised in the van with his "when I get home, I can play with my cars! Can you believe that, Mom? I can play with ALL OF MY CARS!!!" ran straight to his car drawer and started playing while the girls snored on the couch. Walking into my kitchen--as it was last time I came back from the States, in January, after the half-marathon--was so great! I don't know why it looks so much BIGGER in person than I keep it in my memory. Usually, it's the other way around. Usually, I imagine my kitchens being big and then get back to find them crowded and cramped. I like this way better.

So, you know about the property. All's well with that so far... going on schedule. But you DON'T know about our week in Charlotte. And whether or not you even WANT to know about our week, I'm gonna write about it anyway cuz it was a great week and I wanna roll around in it.

Let me start by saying that of all the places I have lived, Charlotte feels the most like ME. I don't know why exactly, but when I'm in Charlotte, I feel GOOD. I feel ME. I feel strong and capable and confident and constructive and productive, etc. If I could have found a farm there for a reasonable price, I would be in Heaven. But, as you know, Heaven is for dead folks and I aint dead. So, I guess that's why I can't have it all. (Still, our little farm-to-be in Rustburg is going to be as close as we can get to Nirvana.) In Charlotte, I have a HUGE and exhilaratingly ecclectic collection of friends. I have green rolling hills and trees. I have the YMCA at University City. Okay, I'm not gonna keep going cuz I'll get all sappy and weepy. I just wanted to impress upon you how much I love Charlotte and how of all places I've lived, Charlotte is the most "home."

After a quick visit back to the property--and a quick walk through the woods... listen, how am I supposed to NOT go back and walk on my farm-to-be once before leaving? I strapped Lily in the buckle tai and just went up into the woods... Do you know how HARD it was for me not to let Lily go back to the car so I could get to work on clearing all the dead cedars and pines that are the result of years of drought? VERY HARD--we headed back to Charlotte. By the time we got there, we only had time for dinner and a shower.

Saturday, we spent the day just hanging out as a family, soaking each other up and reveling in the feeling that we had accomplished something incredible. We swam in the pool, went to the park, ate way too much and napped off all the chaos and emotional hills and valleys of our Lynchburg trip.

Sunday morning, we did a little shopping. Just odds and ends. While the kids napped, I went down to the hotel workout room and, well, worked out. 15 minutes walk, 15 run, 10 walk, 35 minutes bike, and another 5 minutes walk. Ab crunches, butt crunches and stretches. I ran back up to the room, threw on my suit, ran back down to the pool, did some laps to work on my arms, jumped into the whirlpool to soothe the muskels and then back into the pool for a wake up. When I got back to the room, it was almost time for my friend Mi to meet me for drinks and a movie. She got there early, so, I asked her to hang for a minute while I hosed off. A quick introduction of the kids and a tray full of hotel snacks to keep the whining at bay and we were off. We went to Jason's Deli where I built a huge, much-needed, and DELICIOUS salad and then decided to skip drinks and head straight to the show. We saw Julie & Julia which was a great flick--reminded me of me... you know, food, France, blogging and marriage drama. Afterward, we decided to sit outside and talk, again skipping drinks since it was so late and she had a longer drive than I, so we copped a squat on a bench just outside the mall entrance. We gabbed and caught up and laughed and gasped and hee-hawed and snorted. As we talked, from the corner of my eye, I noticed someone sitting on the bench across from us. I had taken off my glasses to give my eyes a rest, so at my glance, I thought it was an elderly woman. I hoped we weren't freaking her out with all our talk of gayness and silly-ness and drama. After a little while, she got up and walked away. Mi watched her walk away with a furrowed brow and said, "I think that chick got stood up or missed her ride or something." I looked at my watch, it was approaching 11pm. I put my glasses on and lo and behold, found that the person we were talking about was a skinny little shaking teenager. Immediately, something in me went snap. Something about her carriage. About her pacing. Something in it looked familiar.

"I wonder if she's homeless," I say.

Mi laughs. "Nah, too well dressed."

I looked closer. She wasn't THAT well dressed. "What if she's a runaway?"

"Nah, probably just missed her ride."

We continued our gossiping. The girl came back to the bench for a minute before getting up and walking away.

Mi's brow crinkled up again. "She's sniffling. She's been stood up."

I shook my head. "She's a runaway."

We both laughed.

Mi started to say something else, but just then, the girl turned. I saw her face and I knew.

"Are you waiting for a ride?" I hear my voice ask and am suddenly gripped by the impression that I am now that-creepy-lady-outside-the-mall.

"Huh?" The waif says.

"I mean, have you been stood up or something? Can we help you out? You need a cell phone?" With every question, I'm feeling more and more like a flasher or something.

"My mom dropped me off and I was supposed to go somewhere with my sister, but she told me I couldn't go because they were going to a bar." She sniffled.

"So, you're stranded? You wanna call your mom?"

"She wouldn't come. She dropped me off. She doesn't want me to come home." She started crying.

I was filled with a thousand different emotions--fear, nostalgia, guilt, caution and big fat mama bear! She was me about 20 years ago. Not the exact same situation, but just as lost. "Can I hug you?"

She walked into my arms and exploded into tears. I choked up. I felt like a time traveler allowed to go back and hug my younger self.

She sat down and explained that her mom had a new husband or boyfriend or whatever and he didn't like her. Long story short, her mother had finally just told her that she didn't want her to come home. Had chosen the man over the 17-YEAR-OLD CHILD. Okay, I understand, 17 year old children are NOT innocent and perfect and whatnot. But they are still children. I don't know WHAT this girl had done to provoke this action, but I do hope that no matter WHAT my kids do (short of turning Republican... oh, I'm KIDDING... kinda), I'll NEVER drop them off at a mall and expect them to sink or swim.

I let her use my TracFone to call her "other sister" who lived about half an hour away, who had four kids and who used to be (or still might be) a drug dealer. *sigh* The sister's husband agreed to come get her. I felt HORRIBLE about that, but what was I supposed to do? I didn't have room in my hotel and Sam would have KILLED me anyway. Mi has a roommate and two kids herself. I didn't wanna give her my number cuz I was leaving and Mi didn't want to because that might seem creepy. We had no choice but to sit there and wait with her while her brother-in-law came to get her.

Mi and I have similar pasts of being lost and transient, so we shared our respective experiences and told the waif that she would get through her situation and end up an old fat lady with kids some day. I'm sure we scared the living shit out of her with all of our, "I stuck anything and everything up my nose" and our "I was the blow-job queen... A six pack and smile was all it took for me to give head", etc. But we probably scared her more with our stories about our own kids (I noticed that her eyes sorta glazed over during those parts, but I couldn't help but keep gabbing because I thought the noise would comfort and distract her).

By the end of the whole ordeal, the waif was talking about moving to Minnesota to live with her best friend (single mother high-school-dropout with GED now taking college classes). I was comforted when she said, "I just need to get back in school." She herself had dropped out in 10th grade, tried to go back a couple of times, but felt singled-out by teachers as a bad seed and ended up not making it.

When her ride showed up, Mi gave her a small can of pepper spray (hey, you NEVER know) and I gave her all the cash I had (only $5). We hugged her and sent her on her way. The car was filled with a sticky silence as we drove back to my hotel. Mi and I tried to make light banter about what had happened... patting each other on the back for having done a good deed, but I suspect, both internally feeling worried and guilt-ridden for not having been able to do more.

Back at the hotel, as we hugged our goodbyes, I told Mi that I was glad to have shared that experience with her. I hope we scared that girl back to school!

Okay, it's 4am and I need a short nap... To be continued...

I'm back, slightly rested and STOKED about spending the WHOLE day at the movies for post-vacation therapy!

So, back to CLT. Monday, I went to the Y and did Tabbitha's kickboxing class. It's huge now and needs the gym to accomodate all the participants which is cool because the group exercise room was always a little cramped for all the kicking and jabbing going on. I thought, "Cool, I bet because I've been doing so much kickboxing at home I'll be able to hang right in there with the big kickers." What a joke. Within fifteen minutes, I was tempted to sit on the floor and just take notes--write down moves for later when i'm in my own little exercise room at home and can control the speed of the music. But I didn't. I hung. At the end of the class, my shirt was SOAKED. LITERALLY SOAKED. I had to MOP up the floor where I had been because it was so sweaty. I promise I'm not exagerating.

I went to Zumba next. Ahhh, Zumba. Like a long lost lover! It was SO great. First of all, my instructor and friend, Lisa the Extraordinaire, has somehow become like Super Zumba-er or something. She has come up with all these new routines set to brilliant music (of which she later gave me a CD thank you very much... woman knows how to feed an addiction, huh?). ALSO, there were several of the ladies in there from when I used to Zumba. There were a lot of, "Girl, where you been?"s and a lot of "You're BACK!"s. It felt so great to be missed and remembered. It was INCREDIBLE.

Afterwards, I stayed for Power Cycle because Allison, when I said, "You scare me... You're too much of an ass kicker", said, "Hey, it's all you, Girl! You control what you do. The intensity." Well, I fell for it and got on a bike. But after all the kicking and jabbing and twisting and bolero-ing and cumbia-ing, I just couldn't really hang. I stayed for half an hour but really started to feel tired. When I left, I could barely walk on my shaky legs. I love and really missed that feeling.

I went home, jumped in the pool, hot tub, and pool again had some lunch and then took a nap. Went to Rachel's house briefly to see her, hug her delicious little babies (okay, they're not babies anymore, but I squeezed and kissed 'em like they were), and load up all the books I had ordered (it was like Christmas, Rach and I standing in there unwrapping all the books, DVDs, a package from Shannen with an adorable hand-made present for each of us (and 20 Taco Bell seasoning packets... now THAT's love!), oohing and ahhing at the titles and the sheer volume of volumes).

I rushed home, dropped off the fam and jetted over to the Wine Vault where there was some drinking going on in my honor!!!! There ended up being a good dozen of us there. First thing I saw was my friend M with her little boy W there with a big gift bag on the table! She said they couldn't stay cuz she wanted us all to be able to have some adult conversation without having to edit. I mean, does a person get any more generous than that? Bestow a few moments of her precious presence on me, give me a present and hugs from W and then jet on out of there so I can be profane? Dude, that's true friendship. And the present was a PASTA MAKER!!!! That means, yes, I have TWO now!!! That also means that on Pasta Saturdays (the day once a month or so that I recruit Sam to help me roll and cut pasta), I can put Sam to work on his very own pasta maker!!!! THANKS M and W!!!!!! M also introduced me to another M (M2?...not that she's lesser... just second in order of appearance in my life) who she said was my "blog stalker"... could anything be more flattering or rewarding? I mean especially after just having seen Julie & Julia!!! I was like, "YAY!!! Someone I didn't know was actually READING me... cheering me on... wanting me to succeed!!!!" *sigh* I can't even tell you. This M2 and I are now FB friends and I can't wait to get to know her better!

My lovely friend Anne was there. Anne just recently (RIGHT before I went to the States) discovered that she had a brain tumor. She discovered while I was in Lynchburg that it is an agressive cancer. I am devastated and SO worried for her because she has a little girl Lily's age and NO INSURANCE (not to mention... No, I just won't mention it... suffice it to say, her boyfriend's a douche). Anyway, Anne was there with our friend LAG. It was so good to see both of them. But just a few minutes after I got there, Anne had to leave because she wasn't feeling well. I felt HORRIBLE because in all the book frenzy, I got to the Wine Vault twenty minutes late... that means I missed twenty minutes of Anne. But I was REALLY glad that she got to get out of the house AND that she got to meet Aubrey who told her about a special kind of medicaid for cancer!!!!!

Okay, so, after glass number 2 of wine, I have to say, things were giggly and silly and somewhat blurry. But what I do remember is speaking French with Roz, eating a kick ASS spicy slaw burger (Carolina Original?), eating half of Kristen's burger (well, splitting it with Sian), tasting a white wine called Sweet Baby Jesus (LOL!!!), splitting a bottle of yummy, fruity red with Susan, gabbing with Long Lost Sherri (!!!!!), only getting to say two or three words to Laurel (but I did send her some, I-Just-Adore-You smiles and some I-wish-I-were-sitting-closer-to-you winks), laughing my ASS off at Kristen and the funny Southern way she has of saying things, seeing M, W and M2 again as they passed back by, Aubrey and Kristen talking about something called a "lemon party" and then actually looking it up online so they could show us *shudder* (at least those three dudes looked HAPPY), Susan turning into our substitute Token, my friend/neighbor Mechelle's late arrival and being beside myself with joy to see her AND Roz's plans to come visit in October (and don't think I won't hound you about it!). All in all, it was an incredible night. I had a BLAST, felt SO special and loved and missed!!!!

Okay, I gotta go spend the day at the movies... To be continued... again!

I'm back. I went to the movies thinking I was going to see District 9 but it ended up being NUMBER 9. Still, it was surprisingly good. I came home to shower cuz I was REEKING after my Velov ride to the cine, and then after my shower, I figured I'd let Sam have a turn at the movies since I'm gonna go see Basterds with Flavia and Gilles tonight.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Tuesday. I spent the morning nursing my hangover and trying to get myself in working order so I could make it to Light and Lively at the YMCA. It's usually taught by a lady named Sylvia, but my friend Lisa was subbing. Let me just tell you what a good thing it was that I went on Tuesday!!!! First of all, I could BARELY move when I got in there. All that working out while here in France!!! I thought that would prepare me for working out at the Y and I GROSSLY underestimated. There was not one part of my body that wasn't sore. I kept up pretty well and felt a THOUSAND times better afterward. Like Lisa said, had I skipped Tuesday, I would have been DYING on Wednesday.

Okay, since Tuesday was Mi's night and since she had to resched to Sunday, Tuesday was open. When I was chatting with my friend Ju (yeah, the one who comes to France!) earlier on-line, she said, "Hubby's on vaycay through Wednesday. When you comin' over." Since it was open I said, "Tonight?"

So, we went over there for dinner and beer. I stopped at the store to get some Hornsby's for Sam and something beer-y for me to drink. I reached for some St. Pauly Girl Dark but noticed another beer that said, "organic"... It was a pale ale--not usually my fave since I prefer darks--but "organic" gets me every time.

The kids had a BLAST!!!! Remember when Ju came to visit in July and our kids didn't really hit it off like they had the summer before? Well, chalk all that up to their jet-lag cuz when we got there, they acted like they were long lost siblings. Jumping on the trampoline, driving the electric car around the yard, splashing in the kiddie pool and sliding down the slide in borrowed swim diaper shorts. Yummy pizza (both homemade and store bought), YUMMY picked veggies, vegan tapenade, spicy thai cashews, chips and salsa, cheesy veggie booty, baby carrots and.... BEER!!!

Bad news: my organic beer SUCKED!!! Luckily, Ju's hubby has AWESOME taste in beer. He gave me this one stawberry beer that he said he didn't like but I LOVED it! Then there was this dogfishhead (or something like that) and that was one of the most amazing microbrews I've ever tasted. Even his pale ale was full bodied and exploding with taste!!! Saved my evening! We listened to classic rock and watched the kids play until WAY past our bed time. My favorite moment of the evening was hearing Syd-ney tell Ryan, "You're my best friend in the WHOLE world!" Oh, I know it's not entirely true and I won't hold it against her, but it was SOOOOO sweet to hear her say it. It was SO cute to see little Bex driving Lily around in the electric car or putting his arm around her. It was SO fun watching Lily and Lolo actually PLAY together. AND it was great ironing out wrinkles with my good friend Ju. We had built up a lot of misunderstanding, miscommunication (or just plain lack of communication) and negligence but we got that all cleaned out and bandaged up. All in all, I had a GREAT night. SO great I had to let Sam drive home!!!

Wednesday morning, we were supposed to get up EARLY and go on a farm tour. Well, because of the staying up late and the intervention of hangover, we didn't make it out to the farm until almost 10am. Blah. Still, the tour was GREAT. We got to see a few (and yet unseen) ways to do poultry. We got to visit lots of garden. We got to talk tractors!!!!!!! YAY!!! It was great to learn some new stuff and to make a new connection. Turns out the farmer from Wednesday knew the farmer from Thursday and had heard that we were going to visit, he said that it was a shame we hadn't coordinated it better so that we could have seen both in the same day. I agree except for the fact that the kids were just completely exhausted and acted up the entire time we were there. Another farm tour that day and we might have been put in jail for screaming at our kids.

We went back to town and went straight to our fave Chinese resto for all you can eat sushi on their lunch buffet. Delicious as always. The kids went to town on chicken cooked in various sauces as well as green beans and lo mein. I must have had six plates of sushi!!!

Back to the hotel for a quick nap cuz we were s'posed to go and hang out with Rach that afternoon. Quick nap turned into long nap (as they do). So, I called Rachel and said, "Whatcha eating?" We stopped by Bloom, got a rotisserie chicken and some deli salads (and pretty good replicas of French baguettes) and went to her house for dinner. Again, the kids had a BLAST playing with each other. Rachel's kids are so ridiculously cute and playful that we could barely even talk to each other over the racket. I love that. And I sniffle just remembering it. I miss you guys!!!!

That night I was supposed to hang out with the gay girls (that's what I call the LGBT group of Charlotte Mommies), but one of our brood went into labor earlier in the day--information I had somehow missed until right before going to Rachel's because I was gone or asleep all day. So, plans changed to meeting Al (the baby mama) at the hospital around 7:45 and heading to Aub's house afterward. Well, I felt sorta stuck. Not that this would HAPPEN, but I didn't want to borrow any thunder from Al's big moment. I just figured she should be surrounded by her crew, to cheer her on and pet her and love her and wait on her. My being there would just distract that. Then again, I REALLY wanted to see her and kiss her new little angel. I figured if I had time the next day, I would pop in for a visit just the three of us. So, I told them to head on to the hospital and I would just see the rest of them at the party after 8. BUT, when I called Aub at 8:30, she said she was JUST then GETTING to the hospital. By then, Sam was griping about me getting such a late start. Going on about how I was going to be TIRED again the next day during our last farm tour. About how I needed to stay until the laundry was done because he couldn't leave the kids alone in the hotel room to go downstairs and check on the clothes. Also, all but one of the partygoers had backed out of the party anyway. So, while I would have LOVED to see H and her new girlfriend T, I just emailed the girls and told 'em it wasn't in the stars for us this time. I figured it was best that way anyway cuz it meant they could stay with Al longer.

Thursday morning, I went to Light and Lively again. It was harder that day for some reason. I think that the bouncy, unsupportive hotel mattress was really starting to take a toll on me. Half way through the step aerobics part of the class, I got a huge right glut cramp and couldn't hang with all the side lunges and stuff. But I stuck it out until the end and felt better for it. Lisa, the lovely wonder that she is, brought me a little gift bag with a shiny new YMCA towel that I will use every time I work out downstairs--it'll make me feel like all those awesome ladies are there with me--and a Zumba CD!!!

After Subway lunch at the hotel, I let the gang go to sleep and I took a shower before driving to Anne's to see if I could kidnap her and take her to the movies just to get her out of the house. But when I got there, she had just gotten back from having been out at Wal-Mart (HEXES and SPELLS, evil empire!!! Ahem, sorry!) and was too tired. So, I just sat with her for a few minutes to just soak her up before she had to go lie down. It was great to see her, even if for just a minute. So, instead of the movie, I went and bought a few things at Target (HUGS AND KISSES TARGET).

Okay, going to the movies with F and G... to be continued!

I'm back... It's the next day. I saw Inglourious Basterds with F and G last night and LUUUURVED it. We went out for beer and yummy salads (and cafe gourmand) afterwards. *sigh* Good to be back!

Anyhoo, where was I? Yeah, okay, so I forgot to mention that it wasn't until WEDNESDAY afternoon that I realized I had missed a Tuesday coffee date with my friend T. I felt HORRIBLE and groveled a little until she said she had forgotten, too. By Thursday, though I tried to find a slot for the coffee-ness, I just couldn't.

Thursday afternoon, we had a farm tour scheduled, but the weather wouldn't cooperate. There was rain and lightning and it was sporadic and intense. If it were just rain, I wouldn't have canceled. I'd have just gone and bought two huge umbrellas for Sam and me (since we put the girls into the carriers while on the tours) and a little one for Ryan. But lightning? Nope. Not worth the risk. Instead, I packed. I also shopped a little. Gifts for the neighbor kids, new socks, some Body Glide, etc.

Around 6:30, we headed toward Tony's Pizza to meet up with some super cool peeps. Sian and Laurel and their GORGEOUS fams. Two women I hadn't met before (Amber and Angela) who both ended up being super cool (and with whose kids Ryan had a BLAST playing). AND there was a brief cameo by Amy and her fam. I wish I had gotten a chance to catch up with her but they were heading out right when we got there. I didn't even get a chance to say g'bye--Sorry Amy! You're girls are SO GROWN UP now!!! Tony's was seriously a riot!!! For one, Amber showed me this cool trick--cutting pizza into little kid-friendly bites with a pair of common kitchen shears!!! BRILLIANT!!!! For another, Sian makes me pee my pants laughing (as usual). I got to talk cycling and triathlon with Laurel, Angela and her husband (Bill?). Sian's little boy E hit his head on some moulding and ducked down on the floor... I said, "You okay?" He said, nonchalantly, "Yeah, I'm just thinking about something." DEFinitely Sian's kid. I tried NOT to laugh, but it was SO freakin' funny and cute. I looked over to see.... Sam.... My husband........ Talking with a group of guys!!! BY HIMSELF!!! That NEVER happens. And I have to say... I felt like a mother on her kid's first day of school. It was so cute to see him playing with other "kids." I got to chase Lolo around the restaurant as she went from table to table flirting with other customers. I also got to go back in and look for the keys I had lent to Lolo to keep her distracted. I also got to have a near heart/panic attack when I couldn't find said keys--not even in the trash or bathroom. AND I got to have the sensation of wanting to throttle my husband when he said, "Pockets? Oh yeah! *I* have pockets!" and pulled the keys out of his pocket. I got to stand and talk to my dear friends Laurel and Daniel about them getting their asses over to France, while our kids ran around in the parking lot or climbed into their car to honk the horn or harass their daughter.

Which reminds me... I wanna buy their Volvo when I get back!!! Guys, don't let me forget. I want that Volvo!

So, Friday was a frenzy. It started with a final load of laundry. I stayed with the kids while Sam went to the bank, the post office and Kinko's to wrap up property-buying stuff. I tried to wait patiently but the only thing I could think about was that I hadn't yet purchased my Asics or a new shirt from Old Navy. I don't buy clothing for myself too often, but I allow myself one or two new shirts and one or two new pairs of Asics a year (actually, I don't buy that many shirts, but I at least give myself the permission to do so). I had already given up my New Bra Allowance to buy "farming" books (How to Raise Goats, How to Raise Chickens, Edible Wild Plants, Wild Mushrooms, Homesteading, etc.) and four new Targetoutfits for Lolo since she's starting day care full time and it already growing out of Lily's hand-me-downs. (To the boobies: Sorry girls, you'll just have to wait another year for the support you need. Until then, why don't you try to lose a little weight, eh?)

Anyhoo, so as soon as Sam got back from all his running around, I said see ya later. By then, I was stretched thin. The kids, having sensed that something was up (um, that we were leaving) were CRAZY. I was stuck trying to referee their craziness AND finish packing to where each suitcase weighed less than 50 pounds (the allowable weight to not pay a fee). Keep in mind that I now have about 100 books to strategically pack. I have to pack the suitcase, take it down to the hotel's gym room, weigh it, and then, depending on the verdict, shift stuff around. So, you can imagine how hard it is to do all that while the children are screaming and fighting IN SPITE of the fact that Lazy Town is BLARING on the television!!! When Sam walked into the room, I walked out. I went to Target to get Lily a new back pack for school (she starts public in a week). I went to Old Navy, found some shirts on clearance and was able to get THREE! I went to Dick's Sporting Goods and after much disappointment with the service, finally SETTLED on a pair of orange and white 2140's (when I really should have just GONE to Run For Your Life and gotten my good ol' Kayanos... I didn't think I'd have time, but in the end, with the bad service at Dick's, I WOULD HAVE HAD enough time). I have Sam calling me and yelling at me for being gone, though I've only been gone an hour.

I get back in the room and Sam's being a DOUCHE to me. Pressuring me, stressing me out, yelling at me for being gone, for buying things, etc. But look, I'm not a frivolous, extravagant person. I WILL buy the shoes it takes to keep the knees I was born with as long as humanly possible. And I WILL go ahead and splurge on a shirt for myself once a year. And I WILL allow myself a little away-from-the-kids time since I just spent several hours doing ALL the work WHILE watching the kids. So, for the most part, I let his passive agressive bullshit roll right off me and felt pretty justified in doing so.

The only bad thing was that Sian had invited us to come chill at her pad until time to go to the airport and I was swiftly realizing that that wasn't going to be a good idea. I mean, it WOULD have been a good idea for the kids. They would have played with Sian's E and W and would have blown off some pre-travel steam!!! BUT, then Sian would have had to witness one of the deeper valleys of the Tissot marriage and I just didn't want to subject her and her kids. Plus, by then, the kids knew we were about to take the plane and were ANTSY to get to the airport. Once we got there, Ryan actually said, under his breath, "Don't worry A (his little neighbor friend), I'm on my way home. I'll see you as soon as I can." *sigh*

So, we stopped off at Subway (and I ran in to Food Lion to get Teri some Ranch (Hey, remind me to send that to you... can you FB me your addy?)) and headed to the airport. I sniffled nearly the whole way. Have I mentioned that I love Charlotte?

Good news is, we didn't have to take two trips to the airport because I'm a GENIUS at packing. We had six checked bags and all of them were under the required 50 pounds. We had no probs through security and stuff. I realized at the LAST minute (after nearly half an hour of stretching my maxed out gluts) that the airport had free wi-fi!!! *eye roll* But I logged on to give my CLT peeps a final au revoir via FB. *sigh*

I didn't sleep a wink on the plane. I can't believe I'm about to admit this on the entire Internet, but... I watched that goddamn Hannah Montana movie. AND, while it was STOOOOOPID, she really does have a pretty good voice. I finished my book, read my way through half a Time magazine and took care of Lolo (who only slept about three hours total). By the time we got to Munich, I was slap happy and had to walk around in circles with the kids just to stay awake. I fell asleep during the last 20 minutes of the Munich-Lyon flight.

And there you go... That takes you back to the beginning. Arriving in Lyon, safe and sound, all the luggage accounted for, loading up into the van, texting Flavia that I was home and ready to go out to the movies...

You should SEE my bookshelves!!! PACKED. It looks SO much better than the barren wasteland they nearly became. I made it through quite a few books these past couple of months and was definitely in need of a refill.

Okay... I'm going to go upload the fotos and put 'em on here... To be continued...

And now... for pix:

First... Random pix...

Sushi (just before we left):

Ryan's last day of day camp just before leaving:

Spidey pose:

In the garden with Pepe!!!!!

Shhhhhhh, Pepe's sleeping!!!

Ahhhhhhh relaxation

Snuggling with Pepe

Layover in Munich:

Farm tours:

Mountain Run Farm...

Hay Maze

Meat store (they have a freezer there where you can come any time you like and get whatever you want (beef, chicken, catfish) and pay for it using the honor system)... the day of the "field day" they also had artisan breads... yum!

Hanging vase

Fowl

Mama cow named "Primrose" (family dairy cow)

Calf

Pet goats

Farmers-to-be

Milking barn for family dairy cow

Swine in the grass

Feeding the horse

aaaaaand... chickening out!

THIS close to a nap!

Lunch

Looks like driftwood but it's a "bateau" paddle

Pond

Big Geese-esque Ducks

Lily with the chicks (we almost had to tear her away... it was embarrassing)

Um, old building

Um, Feed Bin

Um, Biodynamic Compost Pit

Davis Creek Farm...

Chicken (and human) babies

Chickens--a little older

Big friendly snake

Lily and hamster

Best of What's Around Farm...

Carlea Farms (North Carolina)...

Turkeys:

Rogue rooster!

Broccoli waiting to go into the ground:

Lettuce waiting to go into the ground:

Beets! (oh yeah and drip irrigation) LOL

Beans!

Pickin' beans:

Okra blossom:

Young okra (phallic, huh?):

Freshly picked Haricots Verts:

Horse in clover and rye:

Farm playground:

The property we ALMOST bought... ALMOST!!!!

The property we DID buy!!!!!!!!.... DID BUY!!!!!

Kitchen:

Kitchen hutch (*sigh* You know how bad I've wanted a hutch for my grandparents' wedding china?)and island:

Living room fireplace (the master bedroom fireplace is on the other side):

Living room windows:

View of kitchen/living room from Ryan's doorway:

Ryan's closet and loft:

Ryan's side window:

Ryan's front windows:

The girls' room:

"Entry" bathroom:

Master bedroom:

Bedroom:

Fireplace:

Walk-in with washer/dryer:

Master bath sinks (didn't take a pic of shower but we're going to replace it anyway):

Master access to deck:

Basement... aka guest-quarters-to-be... It's already bathroom ready... just needs walls, flooring a drop ceiling and furniture... EASY!:

Without flash...

With flash...

Without flash...

With flash...

Outside:
"Front" side of the house (not the main entrance, but the "front" so to speak):

Deck in front of master bedroom:

Rest of deck (view FROM deck in front of master bed):

"Back" of the house (main entrance from drive way):

Two-car garage at "back" of house:

Side view leading to front yard:

Other side:

The yard:

Butterfly in the yard:

Fruit trees in front yard:

My woods:

Tree foliage

Floor foliage (this was everywhere...)

Mushrooms:

Quartz-y rock

Moss

Hunting stand

My driveway (well, the top of it... the driveway is a quarter mile long):

VACATIONING!!!!!!!

Taking a nap does NOT mean you have to surrender your strawberry newton!

Playing:

At least he didn't have to walk the plank

Wooden playground (in Lynchburg)!!!

Pirate ship playground (in Lynchburg)!!! A BIG HIT!!!

Lolo's favorite thing at any playground is the mulch-on-the-slide trick!

Pool time:

Lily playing her horn

Lolo gets all philosophical... She looks like Ghandi, eh?

Lolo playing with a nipping puppy at the YMCA playground (his name was Motley):

FINALLY A SALAD!!!!

Tomato picnic on the floor:

Northlake Mall:
Indoor playground:

Toothpaste blob

Walking through the mall:

Spraygrounds:
Teasing the fountain! You can't catch meeee!

Gettin' serious about it!

Wet now!!!

This is about as wet as Lolo got. Wasn't a big fan! Mostly just ran around the fountain screaming at the other two! LOL!

Lolo's had enough. Let's go!

Dinner at Ju's:

Lily LOVED the trampoline

Lolo... eh, not so much!

Like a car commercial *eye roll*

Star Wars meets Fast and Furious

Ryan the navigator

Cooling off!

Flying home:

Tired before we even leave

And here's why (and this is just the checked baggage):

Killing time

Lemme see!

Cool!

Old hat at this

Waiting on the tarmac:

Up...

UP...

UP!

And... AWAY!!!

Arrival in Lyon

Conked out on the couch

Giant inflatable airplane that we waited until we got home to inflate!

OKAY... This post has taken me TWO DAYS to write and prepare for viewing which I guess is pretty logical since I only post once a week and I was gone two weeks. Right?

That said, I might not post for a good couple of days... Unless.... Unless I hear something from the AMD/JMC... we shall see!!!

Update!

2009-08-14T03:10:00.000-07:00

When I left off, the seller had given us a counter offer that wasn't very interesting. So, I called the agent back and told her the truth: We do not HAVE to buy this property at this time, so we do NOT want to feel pressured into paying more or closing sooner just so the seller can be an ass (long story short). We gave her a new offer that was three thousand bucks more than our last, but contingent on our closing date.

THEN, we went to the farm near Charlottesville that was started (and I guess is funded) by Dave Matthews and his wife Ashley. This really cool and SUPER smart (and Zen) guy named Matthew (whose wife Suzanne let him go while she worked on packing up their veggies, thank you Suzanne!) walked us around their 40 acre "garden" *eye roll*... I hope to have a "garden" like that some day. You wouldn't believe how beautiful even their DIRT is!!! The tomatoes... like six kinds of them... the eggplants, the peppers... *sigh* Just gorgeous. He even let Ryan climb up on a tractor and play with it... He let Ryan play with is 60 gallon per minute well spigot *insert jealousy here* He showed us this really cool way of irrigating called "drip irrigation"... I mean dude, I learned more in our quick little tour than I could have learned reading a book or two and we didn't even get a chance to tour the orchard for crying out loud.

So, on the way back from there, the agent calls us and tells us that the seller said that we could have our later closing date if we'd pay just two thousand more. It sounded like the perfect compromise, but still, we told her we'd think about it. But there wasn't much to think about. The property is in the right place, it's the perfect property--plenty of land and all wooded so I can decide where things go, a gorgeous house that satisfies and placates Sam, a humongous outbuilding that would make the PERFECT location for a fruit stand later (right now it's being rented by a dude nearby and we'll continue to let him use it), it's about three minutes' driving distance from the schools, the library, the grocerty store... And it's about 20 minutes from Sam's work and the city of Lynchburg. How are we supposed to say no to that? I mean, the place appraised for thirty thousand more than we're going to pay for it. That's instant equity. The only thing left to do is replace the deck (probably gonna cost us 10 grand, but it's not an immediate problem as 1) we're not going to live there right now and 2) it's not THAT bad, I'm just a weenie when it comes to decks and this one is not very well made).

So, we said yes. Duh. We close at the end of October!

I gotta go. Need to pack and have a kajillion things to do before we leave Lynchvegas for Charlotte. I'll post pix on here as soon as I can!

Oh and WOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I have a FARM!!! (well, a wooded 32 acre plot farm-to-be!!!!)

Real Quick Like...

2009-08-13T02:05:00.000-07:00

Flying over Charlotte, the pilots aiming our gorgeous, brand spanking new, big ass plane toward the landing strip, I looked out the window and saw beautiful swirling, roiling patterns and sighed. Until I realized what they were. Wormword-shaped neighborhoods. Mini McMansions all in little curly-q patterns. And I shuddered. I'm not being judgmental. I grew up yearning to live in a neighborhood like that. Funny that a few years of that living makes me wanna run for the countryside.

I feel seriously out of place sometimes here. Like I've forgotten the language. I mean, I HAVE forgotten the language. Not English, but the language of Nuance. I forget when I'm supposed to be reserved because everyone's so "friendly" here. The first day, it was like finally inhaling after a year-long swim underwater in France. I was so happy to see smiling faces and talkative people. Problem is, I'm like an amnesiac or something. I've forgotten how to be... cool... for lack of a better word. Someone asks me one question beyond "how you doin'?" and I plunge into a long ass story about my life before realizing they were just being polite and social. In France, in general, if someone actually takes the trouble to ask you a question, they really are interested in at least the Reader's Digest version of your answer. Here, you just never know. Sometimes they really wanna know, sometimes their eyes glaze over after the word, "Well,..."

But enough about culture. I could tell you how exhileratingly wonderful it is to be behind the wheel of a car going 60 down a winding rural highway, but I won't. Things like that should be written in a personal journal huh?

What you guys wanna know is, WHAT ABOUT THE FARM???!!!??? Right?

Well, (and don't fall asleep on me), after a quick couple of days of running around Charlotte, oohing and ahhhing over nostalgic places (and seeing our beloved and darling Anne who had just recently found she had a brain tumor and who since then has found out it is cancer... we LOVE you Anne... LOVE you, love you, love you and are glad to know you no matter WHAT happens)... After this runnin' around for a couple of days, we packed up the car and headed to Virginia. That was Friday.

Saturday, we went on a farm tour of The Mountain Run Farm near Big Island, VA. Driving out there, I was rolling-pasture-green with envy. The landscape was just gorgeous and way to freakin' far out of town for the kind of thing we need, but beautiful just the same. We missed the first tour, but it gave us the opportunity to play in a Hay Maze, chase after a few turkeys and a peacock and to teach the kids how to feed a horse without getting your fingers nipped. On the second tour, we learned A LOT (more than I could ever write here) about natural ways of growing your pasture grass, irrigation, fowl brooding, mobile chicken runs, home processing (ahem, slaughter), composting, etc. I mean, seriously, I learned more in a two-hour tour than I could have learned in a 400-page book. And Ben, one of the owners, gave us the scoop on how to do things cheaply and easily instead of buying all of the fancy schmancy shit farm places sell the newbies. Like, using cattle wire to make your chicken coops and using PVC pipe to make your troughs. I would have stayed there all day, but we ended up having to cut our part of the tour short (about the time he started on the cattle and pigs--we're not really looking at doing those anyway) because we hadn't put on sunscreen and were all five burnt to a crisp (it was overcast when we got there and we just didn't think about it until it was too late... the good news is we were having so much fun, it had slipped our minds).

I'm just going to insert here that I have never loved my children or husband more than when they were all running around playing in the grasses. GORGEOUS. I actually choked up a little.

Anyhoo, Sunday, we hopped in the car, armed with a stack of maps with addresses to properties we've been looking at on line for months. We weren't really planning on actually VISITING anything but we wanted to know what the neighborhoods and communities looked like. We went all OVER the four counties. We saw things that were really close to Charlotte (maybe too close) and places that were just way too far a commute for our tastes (we wanted to keep it within half an hour, including lights and speed limits, etc).

At the end of the day, we pulled in to this driveway in front of this beautiful 100+ year old house, with LOADS of standing outbuildings and the second we got there, I had my garden planted in my head. I had those pastures mowed. I had rocking chairs on the front porch. I lived there, dudes.

We stayed there for an hour, Ryan and I running around in the fields and woods and buildings. I wanted it. And I wanted it NOW.

"We can't" of course was Sam's response, and it hurt my guts. We went back to the hotel and swam at the pool and came back in and had our turkey sandwiches. And I dipped back on-line to see the pictures of it just one more time. Looking over my shoulder, Sam said, "No way!"

"What?"

He pointed at the screen. "There was an open house today. Now. It just ended."

"WHAT?!?"

Sure as shit. An open house from 2-4 and it was 4:30. I grabbed my TracFone and called the agent on the paper.

"Are you leaving there right now?"

"I am. I would stay and show it to you but I have to be at another property at 5. I could come back out and show it to you tomorrow afternoon if you want."

We agreed to meet there at noon.

We got there early.

For one, we were measuring how long a commute it would be from the Areva office and for another, I just wanted to be there again. The whole time, Sam's telling me, "now remember, we can't buy it so don't go getting your hopes up... we're just here to look and then we'll see what we can do in the spring." I nodded, but my heart said, "whatever." I wanted that farm.

When he pulled up, Sam and I were already walking around the yards, having left the kids all three sleeping in the running car (something I would NEVER do in town). After a quick tour of the house--which admittedly was smaller and a little more rundown than I had hoped... it was over a century old, so I was willing to cut it some slack, but Sam was really biting his nails over the state of the ceiling and slanting floors--we strapped the girls up into the carriers and headed out for a walking tour of some of the property.

It was SWELTERING hot. Sam and I were literally melting, dripping with sweat and I was a little worried about the kids since we had only brought a small water bottle. But the walk was good. The land trail was a little hilly, but there were good flat pastures and nice thick woods around them--just what I wanted. The thick woods would hopefully keep my bees from wanting to stray any further into other farms with their GMO corn and whatnot. Okay, I'll admit here that I didn't LOOOOOVE the lower fields. Something in my gut felt uncomfortable back there. But the house, the surrounding lawns, the adjoing pastures, THOSE were what I fell in love with right away. The rest of the land tould wait a little to be developed.

When we got back the house, the agent asked us our plans and took down our numbers. We munched grapes from the vines in the garden as we discussed hippie projects--all of which he approved--and raising families, etc. He said he'd give our number to a financial guy and let us work out possibilities. I kept hearing Sam's voice in my head... and well... in my EAR... saying "we can't."

The financial guy called before we were even in the room. Sam called him back from our hotel phone and after a brief conversation, my husband hung up the phone and said, "Huh."

He tried to hide his smile when I said, "We CAN, can't we?" It wasn't really a question. I knew that with our excellent credit records and our income, we could pull it off. It would mean putting down a low down payment and maybe encountering some sticky times of scraping together some cash, but in the long run, we'd be able to do it by the skin of our teeth.

We got the kids ready for bed and then my husband, Lord love 'im, started filling out paperwork to buy my farm. *heart pitter pattering* I went to bed because I was EXHAUSTED and finally happy. HAPPY.

Midnight. Sam woke me up. "Joj, wake up. I just can't wait until morning to tell you. The forms I'm filling out suggested we take a look at the sex offender registry and on a whim, I did."

This woke me up.

Turns out, there's a sex offender right.next.door. Let me explain several things 1) one family owns all the land--our tract and all the SURROUNDING tracts... Like ours was an ISLAND in the middle of their tracts, 2) the sex offender is a member of said family, 3)I grew up the victim (god I hate that word) of repeated sexual molestation by more than one person, 4) I have three kids and plan to have two more, 5) my children would have to walk past this dude's house to catch the school bus, 6) I'm moving into the country so that my kids can run wild and free, not so I can be constantly worried about them.

Yes, I know there are sickos everywhere. Yes, I know there are LOTS of people on those registries who got in trouble for consentual things. YES, I KNOW that people change. I myself have made LOADS of mistakes and have grown out of them (*cough*sluttiness*cough*). But I can NOT take that kind of risk with my kids. I just can't.

I spent the rest of the night sobbing. I got up and looked for other properties but just couldn't handle the disappointment and finally went to bed around 2am devastated and broken. I just wanted to go back to France. I wanted to move way out into the woods and build a house in the middle of them and put 8-foot electrified razor-wire around my land to keep out the bad guys.

But the next morning, we got up, ate breakfast and with a heavy heart, but a hopeful mind, headed out with another stack of maps to look at other properties. I wrote a quick email to the agent to let him know what we had found and thanked him for his time and we jumped into the car.

What I can say is that we have seen a LOT of the area. We went through nearly two tanks of gas in the first four days we were here!

Sam kept harping about this one A-Frame house. I hate A-Frames. I don't know why. I guess cuz most A-Frames have big decks and I'm scared of decks and kids. My kids love to run and I'm just... well... scared. But I went to see it anyway.

I never EVER thought I'd fall head over heels for an A-Frame. But there it was. It wasn't the same as with the farm we had "lost" but it was close. I mean, this was the only other property I could see myself tending and caring for. I found myself already planting the garden, clearing the brush, making flower beds. I got out and walked around the property, not wanting to fall in love with it. Not wanting to admit that it was exactly what I had said I had wanted all along... a house in the middle of the woods... woods I could clear myself and decide the perimeters of my growing fields... woods which would keep my bees in... 32 ACRES OF WOODS within driving distance of Sam's work.

I wanted it.

We visited some other properties but we went back to that one three times throughout the day. We called the agent on the MLS listing and made an appointment. We stood under the deck in the pouring rain, waiting out a thunderstorm for her to get there, and when TWO OTHER PARTIES showed up at the same time to see the place (and we had already seen another agent showing it earlier that day to someone else), my heart sank. I kept saying, "Those people are going to buy this thing right out from under me." I prepared myself for heartache. The property was already $60K more than the other one. There was going to be no way we could get into a bidding war with the other parties.

We told the agent that we'd call her and probably put in an offer the next day.

The next morning, we went to Davis Creek Farm, a little chicken and cattle farm way back in the rolling pastures of Lovingston, VA. First of all, the farmers have three little boys. So, within minutes, Ryan had disappeared. And he stayed gone out running around in the grass and woods with the boys. After a delicious cup of strong (YAY) coffee, we strapped the girls into the carriers and went walking around the farm. The kids LOVED holding the chicks, petting the dogs and just being outside! Farmer Elizabeth showed us some cool stuff on the farm and we even got to see a five-foot black snake slither across our path!

We hadn't planned on staying for lunch but when we went inside to get a glass of water, we took her up on her offer of nibbling on the apples from their orchard with local goat cheese (from the nearby farmer's market) spread on them. DELICIOUS!!! And tomatoes straight from her garden that bled like a human when she cut them open. Red, red, red. Not like the nasty meely tomatoes we had been eating in our room that Sam had bought from Kroger. The only thing I could say is "these tomatoes taste like France."

After the farm visit, we went back to the hotel and called the agent. We went to her office and put in an offer on the property.

Okay, I'm sure you can tell the tone has changed since I started this entry. That's because I left and did the laundry (and spent the morning with my college friend Travis who now lives in VA!!!!!!!!!!! SOOOO good to catch up!!!!) and then went to breakfast at the hotel. And THEN, I got a call from the agent telling us that the guy selling the property wants $8K more than we offered and he wants it a month earlier than we offered. So, there's still a big maybe on the property.

*sigh*

So, I started out the post happy and hopeful and right now, I'm just mad. I'm not going to go into it. Instead, I'm going to close here and take a deep breath and prepare my kids for our last farm tour in VA.

I'll try to keep you posted, but I don't get very much time alone. It's hard to blog when four kids keep bothering you.

Cross those fingers, though!!! I need it! And don't worry, I'll come back on here and bitch about everything later!!!

Just in Case...

2009-08-03T13:50:00.000-07:00

So much for blogging more often, huh? And it's not like I didn't have anything to write about this week. I did. I just didn't have any mojo to go with the stories, y'all. It's that week of the month again y'all. You know how it goes. Feelin' a little funky and not wantin' to drag y'all down with me.

BUT, since I'm waking up in about four and a half hours and counting to get on a plane and cross the Atlantic, AND since I am starting to freak out a little at the odds of my getting into a plane crash increasing (how many times have I crossed the Atlantic now?), I figure I had better say a few words. Just in case.

Well, shit. Now I'm just sitting here staring at my flashing cursor. It's not that I don't HAVE anything to say. It's that I've had a looooong day, I worked out nice and hard and I took a LOOOOONG bath. So, I'm really zen. I have shit to bitch about but I don't feel bitchy. I have shit to gloat about but I don't feel snarky. I have shit to laugh about but I don't have the energy to type it all out. Funny.

Hmmm. How do I feel about the trip I'm about to take? That's a GREAT question. Thanks for asking. Well, since you asked, I have pretty mixed emotions.

For one, when I left it was in great fanfare, surrounded by new friends, all sad to see me leave and excited to hear updates. I'm going back to a handful of friends who seem slightly curious to hang out with me, but can't really muster up enough energy or motivation to really organize it. And I ain't gonna throw my own self a party, yo. I'm not that ego. Sorry. Happily, there are pockets of good buds here and there, who really ARE excited to see me and already have made plans for us to gather. And there are individuals who just fucking downright rock and are really good about keeping in touch and really do care about my missions and whatnot. So, in the end, I'm really not complaining. Just interesting to see how things evolved. Or devolved, if you see it that way. I have a feeling that things will work out for the best (don't they always in my life?) because I think I'll end up seeing the folks I'm s'posed to see and when and where I'm s'posed to see 'em. How's that for zen? LOL!

Know what I'm MOST worried about? Don't laugh, cuz it really is stupid. I'm worried about being fat. Cuz I put on that 30 pounds. I took ten off. And to be fair, I had gained about 5 back before leaving, so really, I'm only 15 pounds heavier than I was when I left. But dude... I'm not nursing anymore, so 10 pounds of that is no longer boob like it used to be... It's all ass, if you ass me! LOL! I guess I'm scared that they're all gonna laugh at me! LOL!!! No, not really. I just don't feel as buff and beautiful as I felt when I left there. But that's okay, I guess. I'll deal.

I'm also scared about the landscape. I'm scared I'll get major culture shock when I see rows and rows of fast food restos along side the highway. That's gonna make things really REAL. I'm scared I'm gonna hold up in my hotel and rock back and forth muttering to myself until it's time to come back here. LOL! No, I'm kidding. Kinda.

I'm a leeeetle scared of Lynchvegas. I'm scared I might not like it... Scared that so many of my eggs are in that basket. But, I know some peeps who have lived there and I take comfort in their memories and stories (thanks Kristie and Nic!).

I'm scared of the planes. LOL! I'm scared of leaving my cozy apartment all alone while I'm gone. I'm scared the place will burn down while I'm gone. Blah blah blah. I have a pretty active imagination. I could sit here and write about all the stuff I'm scared of all night long. But I won't.

I'm scared that I won't get my carry-ons packed if I don't get the hell off the internet. So, I'm gonna go.

I love all y'all sinners! Cross your fingers for my flights and my kids and my driving and my meetings. Cross your fingers for my farm!

Hugs and kisses!