a few words about miss chelsea elizabeth...
oregon-born, seattle-raised, bellingham-bred and franco-refined, she had moved back to the states from her affairs across the atlantic & now resides in columbia city with french husband & love of her life rémy. they spend most of their time taming the garden, taking care of their three chickens & two cats, and preparing the urban homestead for a new little chick of their own.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Rémy had an appointment at the dermatologist the other day to get some moles checked out before we leave France and full medical coverage (don't worry, they're all normal - it was just to take advantage of our awesome insurance before we don't have it anymore) and he discovered that he has a severe and highly contagious bout of Athlete's foot. His feet had been itchy (mostly at night) but this had been going on for a while and we hadn't really thought much of it.
Well, it turns out it's super contagious and super annoying to get rid of. Since it's a fungus it can lie dormant in old socks for weeks on end and then sprout up suddenly one humid night when there's a full moon. Gross? Yes. Annoying? It is decidedly so. Rémy has to wash his feet with a special antiseptic gel and put on special medicated lotion and powder and we can't be sure it's 100% gone for 15 days.
Then there's the whole sock business. If Rémy wants to keep his socks (and since we share socks it becomes if WE want to keep OUR socks, any of them...) we have to wash them daily (all of them, not just the ones we wear) and powder them daily with some special powder and keep them in sealed plastic bags when we are not wearing them. And we have to do this every day FOR THIRTY DAYS. Now I don't know about you, but that seems like a helluva lot of work just to have clean socks. Since all we own is a shit-ton of really old socks (some dating back probably to the 80's) and we will be leaving our apartment in 16 days and the country in 27, we made the executive decision to throw away all of our socks and buy new ones. (We did briefly consider donating them, but then realized that would be rather sadistic.)
It gets worse.
The genus of fungus that causes Athlete's foot, Trichophyton, also causes another annoying and painfully itchy condition sometimes known as "dhobi itch", more commonly known by the lovely name "jock itch". It is exactly what you think it is. How does fungus from the feet get to the groin? Well, just think about how you dry yourself off with a towel. And then think about using the same towel for a few days, and sharing it with someone who secretly has Athlete's foot.
Yes, you guessed it, I am the unlucky one. I have jock itch.
Don't worry, I'll spare you the details on how I have to cure my little problem. But what it comes down to is that we also have to throw out all of our underwear and replace them with new, total clean & fungus-free 100% cotton underwear.
So today I throw all of our old socks & undies in a giant sack and go out in search of new 100% cotton socks & undies, preferably organic since cotton uses an absurdly high percentage of the world's pesticides/insecticides. (Cotton covers 2.5% of the world's cultivated lands but uses 16% of the world's insecticides - that's more than ANY other crop!!!)
First of all, the green movement is still in the very very early stages here in France so it took me forever to find what I wanted, and when I did it was exorbitantly expensive. I almost had a stroke when the lady told me my total and I had to ask her again to make sure I wasn't hallucinating: 120€ worth of plain cotton socks & undies. And I only bought 21 pairs of socks, 2 pairs of slippers, 7 pairs of undies and 3 pairs of tights/leggings. I guess it comes out to only 3€64 per item, but it still seems freaking ridiculous.
In light of this crisis I have come up with some rather renegade New Years Resolutions that I have taken a vow to follow with the utmost seriousness:
- I will take much better care of my socks and my undies from here on out.
- I will wash them in a timely manner.
- I will make sure that each sock is with his mate at all times.
- I will not leave them balled up covered in dust bunnies under the bed or dresser.
- I will cherish each moment my toesies are warm and snug, and
- I promise to try not to wear tights too often to give my jock area some breathing room.
On that lovely note, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year & to all a Good Night!!
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
I remember one day back when my sister Rose was just a baby and we used to take baths together my mom bought Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo. For whatever reason she informed me that it was "tear free". She of course just wanted to get my hair clean; I, on the other hand, thought it was miracle shampoo. So much so that I didn't even squirm when it came time to rinse my hair.
I remember later that day falling down. Maybe I scraped my knee or my elbow or stubbed my toe; maybe I drew blood or maybe I didn't. That part's irrelevant. What I remember most is crying. And crying and crying and crying. Not because it actually hurt so bad. But because I was terribly shocked & startled & incredibly deceived that after using the tear-free shampoo, I actually could.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Merci de nous contacter à firstname.lastname@example.org s'il y a quelque choses qui vous intéresse.
Sèche cheveux CALOR: 15 euros.
Réchaud de camping MSR: 5 euros.
Caméscope SONY HC9: 680 euros.
Télescope MIZAR 150/750 + 4 oculaires: 300 euros.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
I've been having this crazy hip/butt pain for about three weeks that just keeps getting worse. Everyone here in France has been telling me, "Go see a chiropractor! It will change your life!" I had many excuses not to. A) I hate cracking joints, or knuckles or backs. I hate it, with a passion, and my idea of a chiropractor was sort of like a kid's view of a dentist -a scary man that uses crazy tools to crack your bones. B) I was pretty sure it was muscular and thought that issue should be addressed before moving on to bones (although I do recognize they are all connected, that was just my excuse...) C) Chiropractors are not covered by most insurance here, so I used money as an excuse (although it turns out our insurance is really awesome and it is covered, so that quickly turned into a moot point). D) The idea of some old creeper massaging my butt was a bit of a turnoff, which I was able to use to convince Rémy not to call a few times. E) Most waiting lists were over a month long.
But the pain got more and more unbearable and when it became debilitating that's where I drew the line. Fine, Rémy, call your stupid chiropractor.
So I was quite surprised when I walked in to my appointment yesterday and was greeted by a young woman who could not be much older than me. She was smiley and friendly and we chatted for a bit before she told me to strip down & lie on a massage table. I tried to relax as I prepared for pain & cracking, but no pain & cracking were to be had. Instead... well, it was weird.
I have always been a fan of anatomy. It find it sincerely and thoroughly fascinating and is one of my weird random passions. I have quite a few anatomy books lying around and I love knowing how my body moves, during yoga for example. But this, this was movement I could not understand. She would lightly press certain spots all over my body, poking and prodding and caressing and what felt like snapping her fingers over my skin. Then sometimes she would pull my arm or leg a bit, sometimes she would poke at my butt cheek. Sometimes it felt like she sort of was giving a massage, but more like someone who has never given a massage before and doesn't particularly like physical contact, so it doesn't feel very good & doesn't last very long. And it threw me off. I was not sure how to relax because I had no idea what was going on. I could not possibly fathom how by touching my forehead she could tell if my spine was aligned or not. It felt like a very serious eight or nine-year-old girl was trying to play doctor on my back.
After forty-five minutes of this intense touching, she told me to stand up and then bend over and touch my toes. I still had searing pain in my hip when I reached my toes, but ohmygod I touched my toes!!! It had been weeks since I had been able to bend over at all!!! She told me I had tension in my right lower back and left shoulder and that it created a triangle of pressure and tension that caused my hip to go out of whack. So she realigned my spine and my pelvis and told me to take it easy for a few days while my spine figured itself out. My hip is inflamed, but once the inflammation goes down, there should be no reason it doesn't heal itself, she explained.
I went home feeling drugged, like after a full body massage, and promptly laid down in Savasana to help let my body process what had just happened. I tried to take it easy, and it's true: there was less pain. I tried to sleep on my back the whole night, and we moved our mattress to the floor so it would be a bit more solid, and amazingly woke up this morning almost pain free!!!
There's still a little hint of pain, and I can tell if I overwork it it will just cramp up again and start hurting like crazy. So I'm taking it slow. Again. Another two to three days of rest. Of me being a blob. And then (hopefully) I will be able to do physical activity again!! I cannot wait to work up a good sweat!!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
It's complicated. It takes a LOT of time. It costs a LOT of money. And more than anything else, it uses a LOT of paper!!
Me immigrating to France took a lot of time and frustration considering we were never 100% in the know as to what was going on, what was being demanded of me, what the process would be like. This was in large part because the process was constantly changing. Since I have been in France the laws regarding immigration have been changed many times. Which is complicated in itself, but even more so when you have started the immigration process before said laws, and thus must continue your own request following the old protocols.
That being said, our decision to move to the United States to found a family &a start our adult lives (careers and houses and all that) took a while for me to accept because, well, let's face it, mostly because I didn't want to have to deal with the stress of all that paperwork and red tape yet again.
Coming to France it was technically me responsible for all of the paperwork. I was petitioning my right to stay on French territory as the spouse of a French citizen. Of course Rémy helped loads during the whole process, but essentially all the pressure was on me. Us going back to the States meant that I, yet again, was responsible for all of the paperwork. I was petitioning my right as a U.S. citizen to bring my spouse with me to live in my country of origin. Oh joy. Luckily for everyone in the process I have a bit of an OCD syndrome concerning paperwork, lists and important legal documents.
So this time, in order to spare us the stress (emotionally, financially and time-wise) with the whole moving-to-France immigration process, Rémy & I decided to take a different approach. This time we decided to listen to the sage advice of our dear friend, Ashley, in regards to the planning process for her wedding:
"It's supposed to be one of the best, most influential moments of your life," she told me one day. "It's supposed to be fun. As soon as you stop enjoying the process and it starts getting stressful, that's when it's time to stop. Put the to-do lists away for another day and just remember to breathe. Take it a day at a time."
Very wise advice, indeed. And while deeming applying for a spousal green card "fun" might be a stretch for most, we tried to keep in mind at all times the fun & excitement moving to the States represented for us. We tried to keep the bigger picture in mind.
While it was neither the shortest nor the most facile process of my life, I will give the U.S. credit for this: the process for applying for permanent resident status in the States is extremely straightforward. Everything is laid out for you in letters and lists. The U.S. Department of State and U.S. Embassy in Paris websites concerning petitioning for immediate relative immigration are incredibly thorough and well laid-out. They leave no room for guessing or last-minute changes, as was often the case on the French side. They are honest with you, straight-forward and to the point. I have to say compared to dealing with the préfecture or the mairie here in Clermont it was a breath of fresh air.
The process for us was a bit different than the process for most people, as there is a specific department set up in the Embassy in Paris that receives married couples just like us who consist of 1 (one) American citizen and 1 (one) French citizen, who wish to move to the United States. The process is thus both shorter and longer. Shorter because a few of the steps most people take are combined into one; it can be longer because many documents need to be obtained in the US and then sent to France and because not everyone is blessed with a lawyer for a father (and can therefore make it through stacks of documents that are neither exciting nor explicit - most documents resemble the directions for filling out tax returns; mind-bogglingly confusing at best).
We started getting the paperwork together early 2010 and planned on heading up to the embassy to petition in April, although we ended up not making it until the first week of July. This was in part because the only time the embassy is open to receiving these documents is between 9:00 and 10:00am on Friday mornings. Meaning both Rémy & I had to have two full days off of work (including a Friday, which is hard to ask for). I was petitioning for immediate relative immigration classification as an American citizen who has been continuously, legally resident in France for at least the six months prior to petitioning. Whew, it's quite a mouthful, I know. For this first part of the process I was required to submit the following documents:
- U.S. citizen (me) and family member beneficiary (Rémy) passports
- U.S. citizen petitioner's (my) titre de séjour (my own green card equivalent here in France) as proof of six months of continuous, legal residence in France
- Two passport-sized photos of the U.S. citizen petitioner (me) and the beneficiary (Rémy)
-Proof of relationship: marriage certificate or copie l'integrale de l'acte de mariage
-Completed forms I-130 (Petition for Alien Relative) and G-325A (Biographic Information) for the beneficiary (Rémy)
- Completed form G-325A for the U.S. Citizen petitioner (me)
-Completed form DS-230 (Application for Immigrant Visa and Alien Registration) for the beneficiary (Rémy)
- Petitioning fee in U.S. dollars, cash only, $355 (*NOTE* The fee has since gone up to $420, but can now be paid in either dollars or euros, in cash or by credit card.)
We went to Paris, we showed up at the embassy at 8:30, we were in the waiting room with a numbered ticket by 9:00, and we were quite possibly the only couple petitioning this particular case that morning, or at least most certainly the first called, and we didn't get called to a window until 9:50am!!! Considering they stop taking petitions at 10:00am sharp, we were quite nervous for those fifty minutes sitting in the waiting room.
When we were called we turned in all of our documents to a very kind French woman who was impressed by our organization (apparently many people show up at the embassy without even having printed off the proper forms and who wish to move to the States the following week; this boggles my mind quite literally, and makes me understand the frustrations of these poor desk clerks, dealing with paperwork and rushed, impolite people all day) and then had a quick interview with another woman, this time American, who asked us questions in English about why we wanted to move to the States. It went well and we returned to Clermont eager to receive letters from the Embassy as to whether we could continue in our request.
The letters came, and with them list after list of paperwork we would need to hand in at our next interview. We were required to prepare all documents, and once we had them ALL at hand to sign and send a form to the Embassy stating that we were ready for our medical exam and final interview. The documents required this time were:
- The appointment letter we received.
- Completed form DS-230, part II (Application for Immigrant Visa and Alien Registration)
- Passport of beneficiary (Rémy), valid for six months beyond our intended date of entry to the USA
- Visa fees ranging from $379 - $819 per person, payable in US dollars, euros or by credit card (it turned out the fees for us were $404)
- 2 color photos, measuring two square inches, with the head between 1in - 1 3/8in and the eye level between 1 1/8in - 1 3/8in from the bottom of the photo
- Birth certificate for the beneficiary, less than three months old.
- Police certificate for each applicant aged 16 years and over, including France and any other country where applicant has lived for more than 12 months after the age of 16; less than three months old.
- Court and prison records, if applicable.
- Military records, if applicable.
- Marriage certificate; less than three months old.
- UNOPENED medical exam results.
- A "Chronopost" envelope, 2kg with completed return delivery address.
- Evidence of financial support:
- Completed form I-864 (Affidavit of Support) and supporting documents including but not limited to: copies of tax returns or W-2s for the past three years, a notarized letter of employment, proof of assets
(Since I have not had income in the US for the past three years since I have been living in France I had to have a co-sponsor also fill out these forms, along with a copy of their passport to prove they are indeed a U.S. citizen. We were very very lucky that my dad offered to fill this role for us and are very grateful to both his and my step-mom Jill's help in the whole process.)
- Original documents that establish a relationship between the petitioner and the beneficiary for presentation to the consular officer; this includes, but is not limited to plane tickets, photos and correspondence in the form of letters or emails.
We spent a few months collecting all the documents we needed and then sent in the form saying we were ready.
We received our official letter for our final interview and blocked out November 16-19 on our schedules for paperwork. Rémy's parents were generous enough to let us use their car to drive up to Paris, and we couch surfed with some old friends who live near Gare de l'Est while we were there.
Wednesday was Rémy's official medical exam. It was a whole day ordeal. We first showed up at the office of one of the three doctors in all of France who can do these exams, all of whom are in Paris, of course. We turned in some paperwork (proof of vaccinations, medical history, etc) and they gave us some more paperwork. Then it was off to get his blood drawn at one lab (to make sure he doesn't have AIDS); then to get his lungs x-rayed at another lab (to make sure he doesn't have tuberculosis); then to the pharmacy to buy the vaccinations he would have to get to be able to come to the States; and then back to the doctor's office for his full-on medical exam + vaccinations. It went pretty well, as well as hanging out at the doctor's and getting poked & prodded & shots and all that can be. He wrote out his report of Rémy's health and gave it to us in a sealed envelope to present at the embassy during our interview. We paid the 170 euro fee for the visit and left.
Thursday was the big day. We showed up at the embassy almost an hour early. We went through the extensive security measures, worse than airport security. They even made me try my chapstick to make sure there weren't any Alias-like tricks up my sleeve. We took our numbered ticket & sat waiting. Our appointment was at 1:00pm and we got called up around 1:15. A nice French lady explained to us how to pay our fee and told us to sit back down & wait some more once that was over.
We paid (the man inspected every dollar bill to make sure it was real - understandable since they were dollars we took out of our French bank and had thus never actually been in circulation) and then sat back down to wait patiently.
The same lady called us up again to turn in all of our documents. Surprisingly, some of the ones I thought would be the most important (like my dad's W2s) she glanced at quickly and then handed back to me. She made some comments about how it must be nice having a lawyer for a dad at times like these and we politely laughed. She took Rémy's fingerprints and then asked if she had forgotten anything.
I hadn't been too sure what we were supposed to bring to "establish a relationship", and we had printed off about a hundred or so pictures of us throughout our years together, as well as a few lovey-dovey emails and other small tokens of our love for each other. The star I bought for him a few years ago for his birthday, the hearts I left all over the house with things I love about him marked on each one when I had to go back to the States the first time my visa was up, love poems. I asked her if she wanted any of that proof and she looked at me and laughed. "Honey," she said. "If we had had any doubt about your relationship, we wouldn't have asked you to a second interview!"
A mix of relief and embarrassment (how could I have been so crass? did I really think they would be checking up on our "love", stalking us on Facebook or searching for potential blogs? how truman-show of me) flowed through me and we were asked to sit down again and wait to be called for the interview portion.
The same lady who had interviewed us on the first visit back in July called us up to another window. She took Rémy's fingerprints yet again, and then slid the last page of form DS-230 through the window and told Rémy that by signing the form, he swore that everything in the form was true. Rémy, adorable Rémy, misunderstood and thought that he was supposed to swear out loud that the form was true while signing it. It was quite cute.
She asked him if he had a job in the States yet, he said no. She asked me if I had a job in the States yet, I said maybe. And that was it! "Alright, well you should receive your envelope with your visa in it within 7-10 days," she said. That's it?!?? We both stared at each other, incredulous. We had spent the past few weeks preparing for all the possible questions they might ask him. And that was it. She asked us if we had any questions for her.
"How do we know if I've been approved?" Rémy asked.
She rummaged through all the papers on her desk. "Everything in your file looks fine to me," she said. She looked over her glasses at us. "Unless, of course, there's something I should know about that you haven't told me..." We shook our heads. "Well, then I guess you know when you get the envelope," she said. "Have a nice day."
We left Thursday evening to drive back to Clermont and were beyond relieved that the initial stress was over. Now it was just a waiting game until our papers arrived.
To our surprise, the doorbell rang early Monday morning. Who could possibly be sending us a package? A surprise Thanksgiving gift from family back home? Christmas presents even though we told everyone not to send us anything this year since we're basically selling everything we own?
Nope. It was our paperwork. Those embassy workers don't waste any time! Yes indeedy, not even two full business days after our interview in Paris, and we had Rémy's visa physically in our hands!!!!
The next and final step is entering the country. Even after everything we've done, they still have the right to refuse us entry into the States at the border if they find some reason to. We have a sealed envelope from the embassy that is to be opened exclusively by an immigration officer upon entry into the country. If he or she decides we can enter, Rémy's visa and entry stamp officially serve as his "green card" for the first year we are there. He won't receive his plastic card until sometime within that first year.
So there it is. All our long, complicated and sometimes drawn-out immigration process. It might not have been what anyone else would term "fun", but we are SO excited to start our new life in the States and cannot wait to see everyone in Washington State in January!!!!
Friday, November 19, 2010
Some might like the fact that it's cheap, and it's true, it's cheaper than getting a hotel room. But for me, that has nothing to do with it. For me, getting a hotel room and eating in a restaurant around the corner and breakfast at the buffet in the lobby is not travel. Watching TV in your hotel room in Paris or checking your Facebook at an internet café in Prague is not stepping out of the box; of course these things aren't forbidden while on the road, but if that's all you do, you might as well save yourself the cost of a flight, order in Thai food and buy yourself a postcard of Bangkok instead. To me, travel is experiencing the culture, experiencing the day to day life of a city, walking the backstreets and eating in restaurants and drinking in pubs you might not know about if not by word of mouth from locals.
So these are the reasons we wanted to stay with C & E in Paris, who we had already hosted in Clermont earlier this year. Opening up a neighborhood I hadn't explored as much as others, the convenience of having a flat near a metro stop in the middle of all our ridiculously complicated immigration rendez-vous, and an opportunity to enjoy autumn in Paris for a few days one last time.
**** POST EDITED **** (Because I hadn't slept in four days and it was just whining.)
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Although it obviously wouldn't be paid, with a little planning, popping a kid out at the end of the school year gives me a few months "maternity leave". Though the day starts earlier, it also ends earlier; I'd be able to make dinner and possibly be there afternoons. I'd be home on weekends. I'd have the same vacations as they do. I'd have summers off to go travel and explore with them. I hate teaching English, but French would be teaching something I don't loathe, so it's a compromise, I told myself. You can do this, I thought. Do it for your children.
Then I started looking at prospective schools and the excitement grew a little. I found a university that actually has a masters program in teaching French in secondary school, even though it's in Arizona, and for the first time in my life considered moving south. Arid & hot with no canopy of green is not generally my cup of tea. What did this desire mean? Nothing, I told myself. Just an exaggeration.
Then came the perusing of the flea markets. Old posters, children's books and encyclopedias in French, old black & white pictures of Paris. The pile grew. Not to decorate my home here in France, oh no. And not as decor for a future house in the States, either. I realized with a gasp! that all this collecting is for my future classroom.
Suddenly ideas and images come flooding in. I start making a list of things to buy before leaving the country. A magnetic map of the regions of France; a cloth calendar with seasons and weather and months and days of the week; a pop-up version of Le Petit Prince. I catch myself doing calculations - would it be cheaper to order thirty copies of Les Mis now and ship it with me, or to order them from the FNAC later from the States? I ask my French friends about their favorite French movies & books & muscial groups & tv shows, not because I want to know what they like but because I want ideas for potential classroom material.
Then come the questions. Is Le Père Noel est une Ordure appropriate cinema for high school students? If I expose them to popular French artists, do I need to censor the bad words? How does one put together a classroom trip to Europe? Will my students think I'm French?
Then the fantasies. My classroom walls are covered with old posters of regions of France. There are postcards with witty word games on the podium. On my desk there's a picture of Rémy & me in front of the Eiffel Tower. My calendar is pictures I've taken in Auvergne. There are plants everywhere, labeled in French (fougère, buis, pensée, oeillet). It's the end of the school year and my students are having a fête; they've made French specialties (crêpes & cheese & croissants, most likely) and are watching Amélie (subtitled in French, of course). The bell rings and my kids smile & laugh as they walk out of the classroom. "Bonnes vacances, Madame Coutarel!" they tell me as they leave. I smile as the door closes behind them, walk over to the chalkboard and start erasing another year's memories.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
"Why is this?" you may ask yourself. "What is it about these places that just scream administrative hell?" Well, folks, there seem to be some underlying trends that apply to all mail facilities.
First of all, no matter how big the post office you are visiting may be, there are only ever two windows open, maximum. Even (and/or especially, depending on how you look at it) during the big holiday seasons. If you see a third employee approaching a closed window, do not get too excited, because either a) they have just forgotten something at their desk, or b) if they DO miraculously open, one of the first two windows will promptly close. This is not to say that post office workers do not deserve breaks or sometimes need to do other stuff that is not at a window, but rather brings up the question, "Why build so many windows in the first place?"
Secondly, the person in line in front of you will always, ALWAYS have some ridiculous business to take care of that is so complicated and takes so many forms and steps that you wonder if maybe stamps have become incredibly hard to come by these days. These transactions will take an eternity and will most likely require the post office worker to leave his/her desk for at least five minutes at a time, while either a) searching for a package somewhere, b) making photocopies of some obsolete form no one cares about, or c) going to ask another employee a question no one in the entire building knows the answer to.
When a window FINALLY opens up, and you approach it, you will most likely hesitate, because the employee behind the desk will be finishing up some paperwork, stamping said paperwork in five different colors and fonts and then filing said paperwork. You will do the "I'm still in line!" dance, rocking back and forth on your the balls of your feet, glancing obsessively between the person who has just moved up to take your place at the head of the line and the open-and-yet-oh-so-closed window you really want to walk up to.
Two possible choices follow:
1) You decide to go for it and walk right up to the counter, even if the post office worker glances up at you with a cryptic glare which means either "go ahead, but this is gonna take a while" or "go to hell", at which point the window next to you will promptly open and the new head of the line will scurry over and start their own transaction before you even have time to blink.
2) You turn around and flash an apologetic look at the new head of the line, then look directly at your feet as you shuffle awkwardly backwards trying to reclaim your lost spot (as the rest of the line grumbles and stumbles unwillingly giving you a little wiggle room), at which point the quasi-open window's staff member will promptly put up their "please see next window" sign and make themselves suddenly absent.
These are post office facts of life, ladies and gentlemen, as unfortunate as that may be. Country, culture, and language may change, but there will always and forever be a line at the post office.
And that, my friends, is why you probably haven't gotten a letter from me in quite some time.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Now I might pause for a few seconds, but it mostly just makes me smile or do a little dance of joy. And it is not just reserved for palendromes anymore. My bizarre fetish has extended to other little number games, too. My favorite of which is on the rare occasion when I catch a digital clock at 12:34.
So when I caught the clock doing just that the other day and did a little dance of triumph/joy, how surprisingly lovely that Rémy did not laugh hysterically at my weirdness but only smiled and added, "You can do better than that, you know..." I looked at him, puzzled. How? 12:34 is the only time that uses all four digits and is in order. I waited impatiently for his answer. He looked at me, possibly stunned that I couldn't figure it out on my own. "Wait until it shows 12:34 and 56 seconds," he replied.
My jaw dropped. Why had I never thought of that? I waited with increasing anticipation until the clock read 12:34:56 and just about keeled over with excitement. And my perfect husband just smiled and shook his head.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Well, I try to buy a few things from each stand every time, help support the farmers I really like. One day the woman at this tiny stand says, "Oh! THAT's where you're from! You work at Botanic!" I was a bit surprised. Yes, I work there, but with the bajillion people I see every day, there is no way I remember every face, or if I do that I can place them.
So whadya know, she came into my store and recognized me and then placed my face the next time I came to her stand. So we got to chatting. She's a very passionate woman, very intriguing, and we came to talk about my life in France, that I'm from the States blah blah. She mentions that she has a daughter who would be interested in some private lessons in English, nothing fancy, just to help bring back the English she learned back in high school for her college courses. Now normally I say no immediately. I'm over teaching English, it's not my thing. I feel awkward about it. But for some reason that day I was in a particularly good mood and I said yes. And ever since, every Tuesday morning I go to the market & buy my local produce from the other vendors and then Marilyse comes over and we sit in the garden and read the Magic Schoolbus or Ramona Forever. We agreed on trade, which we both prefer, so for an hour or two of my time I get fresh local veggies. It's a pretty sweet deal, really.
And then last week she invited Rémy & me to her house in Tallende for lunch with her family and then an afternoon roaming their vast fields of fruits and veggies. That day was today and let's just say the day was as fabulous as it the whole affair has been serendipitous. Their house is french-ADORABLE in every possible sense. Lunch was fabulous of course, with fresh-picked produce made with lots of love. And LOTS of conversation. I learned an incredible amount about organic agriculture and agriculture in France in general.
Then it was off to the fields. I was left speechless. They work so hard and are so invested in organic as a lifestyle that it is hard to translate their passion onto paper with just these simple words. To them it is only logical to produce our food using methods that do not pollute our bodies and our earth, and the stories they tell of other agriculturists who grow "organic" produce just for the trend or because they can charge more with an organic label are quite frankly scary.
Favorite quote of the day, M. Martin talking about whether or not it's a profitable profession: "If all we end up with after a year of hard work is ten francs (of profit), hey, it's still ten francs! That means we're not in the hole, so it's a good year. In this world, or in any, you just have to stay positive."
The best part: I know exactly what they're growing so I can get excited as the season progresses. I cannot WAIT for their tomatoes, peppers, green beans, potatoes. Every Tuesday I will wake up giddy for more! It was an amazing experience and it makes me want to get to know more local farmers and see how their gardens grow. With silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row?
We'll just see. :)
keep it raw,
...and here is the rest of it.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Based on how I was living for this time period, if everyone lived like me, we’d need 1.4 earths.
My ecological footprint breaks down as:
To support my lifestyle it takes 2.9 global hectares of the earth’s productive area (7.2 tons of CO2).
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
the past few years have been spent planning and re-planning a voyage around the world on bicycle. it has been put on hold time and time again. money issues, diplomatic issues, visas, marriages, etc etc etc. we've had second thoughts, then third thoughts, we've changed our itinerary and our agenda more times that i care to think about. now i'm a strong believer in will power. i think if you really want something, generally you can acheive it. not necessarily without a fight, of course, but i truly believe anything is possible. so why can't we just get our shit together, hop on the saddle & ride off into the sunset? i think we've found the answer.
the will just wasn't there.
don't get me wrong. this trip will happen. a long voyage, to many countries, on bicycle. it just won't be happening now, or any time in the near future. in the future, yes, but long-term.
i turned twenty-five this year. that's a quarter of a century. when i was younger, i always saw myself at twenty-five with one kid popped out and another bun in the oven. i never saw what i was doing, but the kids were very clearly there. and when confronted with the big question, the What do you want to DO with your life, who do you want to BE? the same answer has come up for a decade. Mommy. that's who i want to be. i want my babies and i want them now. i'm a modern woman, a strong feminist, who wants to be a stay-at-home mom. riddle me that.
a few years ago i would have gladly popped one out without thinking too much about the consequences. i wanted babies for me, not for them. i'm older now. i know that a baby turns into a kid turns into a teenager turns into an adult. i want to create a stable and loving environment for my children, opportunities to learn, to grow, to explore, to discover the beauties of this world. i want to be there when they get home from school and i want to be able to take them on vacations. hiking in the rockies, camping at national parks, swimming in the ocean. i don't want to be living in france and especially not in auvergne. visits to papi and mami, sure. but not for good.
the decisions started falling into place almost on their own.
we are starting paperwork to immigrate to the united states. i've spent the last five years trying to discover a place to call home, and in my travels across the globe i think i've found that the northwest has always been that place. washington state has always had my heart, from the very beginning. maybe it would have been easier if i had never left, but oh all the wonderful things i've seen since i've been gone. and now coming back it will feel just that much sweeter.
baby, i'm coming home.
we're going to settle down, i'm going to get my master's in teaching and become a high school french teacher like i've always known i would, and rémy's going to work on his english and try to get a job in a national or state park somewhere. doing something outdoors, for the environment. we are going to have a house, with a garden. tippen will have a nice big yard and maybe even some chickens to harrass. we'll make wine from our own vines and we'll make the cutest babies ever. and we'll live happily ever after until our kids are grown up enough to fly the coop and then we'll go on and explore this world through different eyes.
it's easier to sell your business and leave everything behind when you have something to begin with. we're too young right now. we have nothing to sell. nothing to leave behind. we're still moving forward.
and i am so damn excited.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
...and here is the rest of it.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
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