Mother's Day

Today is Mother's Day in France even if it's two weeks late for Americans.

Mother's Day is important to me even if I know that it's a big marketing scam, pushing us all to buy flowers and jewelery and perfume. But being a mother is a unique experience that deserves celebration. I imagine that most of those who criticize this holiday have never had a poem recited to them by a six-year-old or received a macaroni necklace.

As a mother of three teenagers, this year is different. There will be no poems and there might not have been anything at all had I not made sure they'd remember. They are all caught up in their own lives, now, and I admit feeling left aside.

My sixteen-year-old is deeply in love, drawing up memories for me of what it was like to be that in love, to get the butterflies-in-the-belly-sensation when that person looks into your eyes. I hope she enjoys it. We all know it only happens for short periods of time.

Her story has brought back a huge rush of memories of my first love and loves, and made me a bit melancholic. When one day, they had gotten in a fight and he'd broken up, I cried with her. It just brought back so many feelings of heart break that I couldn't hold back the tears. But then, the following day, when he texted her to make up, I shared her joy, and I still remember the flush in her cheeks.

Last weekend, one of my twins, Elisia, competed in the national finals on her gymnastics team. Watching her in front of huge crowds and hoards of judges made me live through it with her. I recalled competing as a cheerleader (don't laugh, cheerleaders do compete) and how terrified I was that I might mess up the routine for the whole squad. We won the trophey that year, and hugged and cried together. Elisia won the bronze medal last weekend. She has much more to be proud of than I do, of course. Her team is the third best in the country. But I know what it was like to work hard at something, to practice over and over again, and to feel what it was like to be on a team, working together at something and then succeeding together.


I guess that's what makes being a mom so special. You get to relive the best and the worst of your life by sharing the experiences of your children as they face the same types of experiences.

But being a mom is also feeling needed, and that sentiment is slowly disappearing. My other twin daughter, Charleen, just returned from Germany where she stayed with her penpal's family for a week. She was quite thrilled with her stay there, and particularly pleased by the girl's mother who was funny and nice and a great cook. Charleen brought back the most adorable cupcakes to prove this. They were part of an enormous pack lunch that she hadn't even been able to finish on the bus ride home.

Since her return, I've made cupcakes twice and yesterday, I made raspberry pancakes for breakfast, then orange cinammon muffins, peanut butter and chocolat cookies, rissotto,... Okay, okay, I was just a little jealous!

I remind myself that you only get one mom. I'm theirs and they love me, even if I buy myself too many clothes, make all kinds of silly mistakes when I speak French, and don't always take the time to make incredible cakes and meals. I know they love me and that they've probably bought me something special like a new blouse or necklace from my favorite boutique, but I really would have prefered a macaroni necklace and a badly recited poem. The one thing you can't do is bring back the years. You have to live each day for what it is. It's eleven o'clock and Elisia just woke up. The first thing she did was feel her way downstairs to my computer, all groggy and groany like a teenager should be in the "morning" on a Sunday. But she managed to force her exhausted self down here to wish me a happy mother's day. I'm still her mom, will always be, and I love being a mother every day because every day is made more special because of their place in my life.

So today, I'm going to enjoy every minute with them.

Why I Love London

As a Franco- American, I'd never thought I'd actually want to go to England. I don't know why, but I think it has a lot to do with one awful experience with a British boss. In any case, I admit being wrong about England and the British.

New York City may have everything, except one thing...Camden Market. For a shopaholic with a love for the unique, this place is Paradise. You go from an outdoor market through streets, under tunnels, then you snake through stone-walled tunnels, past brass statues of horses, from one boutique to the next, each of them selling anything from vintage clothing to vinyl records to luggage made with what appears to be old clippings from Cosmo. As you go, odors of international cuisine shift from one continent to the next and the music also changes as you round each corner. Just when you think you must have gotten caught in a maze and may never make your way out again, you see daylight and you find yourself back in the outside world, but not quite the world as you know it. Techno music lures you into a strange palace with dancers in cages high up on the walls and clothing that resembles what the Jetson's wore. If you dare take the stairs down all the way, you find yourself encircled with sex toys and assorted x-rated gadgets that are displayed as if they were works of art in a gallery from a future century.

Back out on the streets, the strangest combination of populations mingle. You try to sneak photographs of the most eccentric among them, like the other tourists from around the world who have come here to witness what London is most famous for. Punks hand out invitations for tatoo parlours and tourists exibit themselves with sunglasses bearing the Union Jack.

The British also have beer. No, we're not talking Budweisers out of cans here, we're talking dark, bitter beers and sweeter blondes that take you on their own journey pint after delectable pint. There's no other ambiance like that of a pub on a weeknight where people of all ages, shapes and sizes gather to sip pints and taste bar menus of stews and fish and chips. In that short week away, I learned that a beer is more than a beer and that there is nothing quite as refreshing and luxurious as a good pint from a tap, served by a barman with that accent I've always found incredibly sexy.

We cannot forget the shops. If Candem Market displays some of the most unique vintage items I've ever come accross, the shops on high streets are also delicious. Filled with the most outrageous handbags, high heels, dresses and accessories, you feel like your leafing your way through pages of Vogue only everything is affordable and touchable. Of course, you couldn't get away with wearing much of it in other countries, but you cannot resist trying it all on anyway and you end up giving in to just a touch of English insanity in a color that comes as close to possible as discreet.

All of the shopping, milling and pinting gives you an appetite, and there's nothing like a full English breakfast to keep you going until nightfall. Yes, anyone really can handle beans in the morning with eggs and sausage and cheese and... And you can wash it all down with as many coffees as you like since those coffees are hardly going to wake you up no matter how many you guzzle.

The other thing that both New York and Paris don't have is the Underground. Okay, there are cameras everywhere and you do sometimes feel like you're in an Orwell chapter, but maybe they work because you also feel quite safe. What you have to admire, though, about the British, is how orderly and polite they are. The trains are all spotless, everything is well indicated and color coded so it's nearly impossible to get lost or get on the wrong train. But what's even more admirable is the way the people are all smiles and "Excuse me," "Sorry," and "Cheers" all day long, even when the cars are bursting and you have to crank your neck inside in order to not have the door close around your skull.

You see, we actually did the Underground and the Metro in the same day. We crammed our way onto a crowded London tube all the way to the train station across town and pardoned our way out of it and into the Eurostar. After a calm trip to Paris, we had just over an hour to take the metro from one Paris train station to the other. As we arrived at the gates leading to the metro, a woman accosted us. "Don't go in there!" she screamed at us. "It's packed full and there's no way to get on a train!"

Having no other choice, we headed down the tunnel and into Hell. The stench of urine and sweat surrounded us along with the screach of brakes and the intolerant squeal of alarm signals as the doors of the train closed, emprisoning herds of people squashed together inside the graffittied train.

The next train arrived a few minutes later and we squashed and pushed our way inside, battling with other passengers I would not have appreciated crossing after dark. Cries of revolt and snears of disgust were accorded us, but we made it on and were therefore trapped inside the moving train with all these horrid looking people glaring at us. We kept our eyes focused on the map of the line, counting down each station as we passed it and praying that we'd get out of there alive and on time to catch our train back to Poitiers, a place I suddenly appreciated much more at that moment.

I've come to the conlcusion that the French (and yes, even the Americans) have a lot to learn from the British, who may do things their own way, but who do do some things a hell of a lot better than other populations.

The Weight Watcher's Nightmare: A French Lunch

I joined Weight Watcher's on-line a few months ago, and so far have lost 5.5 kilos. It's been relatively easy to follow, up until yesterday which was a holiday over here. After putting off several invitations to various lunches and dinners, I was confronted with a major event: lunch at my inlaw's.

It started out rather well. My mother-in-law tried her best to show her support of my weight loss goals by preparing a rather light apératif: champagne punch (with loads of fresh strawberries and kiwis in each glass) and crudités (celery, carrot and cucumber sticks). Of course, we were served two glasses of the champagne punch, but I had gone for a 45-minute run that morning so I felt I could deal with that.

The first course was also a breeze: a seafood platter. I successfully avoided the butter, fresh mayonaise and baguette, but the mountain of shellfish was served with a great white wine, and it was a rather hot day...

Then came the disastorous main course: roast chicken with a rich cream sauce and horrors: home-made fried potatoes. Red wine accompanied this dish, of course. It was then followed by a cheese platter composed of different cheeses she'd bought at the farmer's market for the occasion.

But the worst was yet to come: strawberry tarte with loads of chantilly cream, chocolate mousse and fresh cherries. The damage being done, I also accepted to wash these wonderful sweets down with a glass and a half of pink champagne.

Needless to say, I came home with a midday hangover and am now 9.5 points in the red. The week will be long and very "light"! The lunch went on until about five when my nephews started begging for a swim at our place (the joys of having a pool!) So I jumped on the opportunity to accompany them to back to our house where I could at least get a swim in and feel somewhat lighter or at least cooler or a tad more sober.

When everyone left around 6 PM, my husband asked, "What's for dinner?" I won't tell you what my answer was: I'll let you imagine that one.

How do these French women do it? Do they just not eat all week and stuff themselves silly all weekend? In any case, most of them manage to remain incredibly thin without even going to the gym. Sure, American food contains all kinds of additives which they say explain why Americans get so fat, but have they ever considered how much fat these lunches contain or how much sugar each glass of wine contains? Are we just physically more equipped to stock up everything we eat while they only need to take a stroll around the block to "eliminate" the 4 thousand calorie meals?

Dog We Need : Yes We Can !

My daughters and I have been pleading for a dog for years. I’ve reminded my husband for the last 17 years that he promised we’d get a dog when I left mine behind before our move to France.

In November, I came across an ad scotch-taped to the counter of the local Newspaper shop and gave the person a call, just to see. A woman living in the same town was selling a golden retriever/lab for only 50 euros. Having scanned the occasional ad, I thought there was a zero missing, but there wasn’t. I guess because the dog is a mutt, he was a discount dog, like Marley. But there’s not much mutt involved in crossing a lab with a golden retriever. They’re pretty much in the same category in my book. This dog is, however, a cross between a golden retriever and a black lab. Half the puppies were black and half were cream colored.

Anyway, the woman had one male left and he would be ready to be taken in December, just in time for Christmas. Rather than trying to hide a puppy in a box for a week, I decided to approach my daughters first. “If you were getting a dog,” I asked them, “would you prefer it be a surprise or would you like to choose it yourselves?”

The “If” in my question was pretty ridiculous and they saw right through it and were instantly obsessed by the possibility of finally having a pet. Now all they had to do was convince Philippe.

What followed was pure politics. My daughters hung banners around the house. “Dog We Need, Yes we can!” Hey, if it worked for Obama (who calls himself a mutt as well) …

I guess my husband was still basking in the lovely aftermath of Obama-mania.

Donuts would have been called Obama if it hadn’t been for the tradition in this country of naming dogs. Like hurricanes, dogs get new letters each year. 2008 was a “D” year. I wanted to call him “Disco,” but the girls had become fans of Dunkin’ Donuts on our last trip to New York.

Disco might have been more suitable as he has this way of wagging his entire bottom end when he gets excited and he loves to dance, but Donuts has grown on me, maybe because I'm dieting and can't eat any.

He’s now 7 months old and about 25 kilos heavier than he was at Christmas time. We should have considered the possibility of having a dog when we chose to put in a pool and chose cream colored tiling for the deck. It is no longer solid but more often embellished with a kind of exotic pattern of beige paw prints. It kind of fits in with the fashion trend for exotic prints, right? We’re also out one door mat, four flip-flops, seven tomato plants (freshly planted), two dresses (mine), three sweatshirts (the girls’) and the neighbor’s cat (who more or less lives with us) is looking pretty mangy from having his entire head stuck inside Donut’s mouth. He’s also nibbled on a shutter. Our garden has been fenced in since to avoid further damage to summer vegetables. He has nipped at my Guess handbag and I keep reminding him that if he does damage to that or any of my shoes which aren’t made out of plastic, I may not be able be as quick to forgive him.

But he’s an excellent watch dog. He barks rather viciously at airplanes which have blinking lights at night, the lawnmower, vacuum cleaner, hair dryer and my cell phone which rings to the song “I’ve got a pocket full of sunshine” (cranked up to the highest volume possible so that I hear it soon enough to find it in the bottom of my Guess handbag which may explain his fetish for it).

As I write this, he is napping underneath the desk, using my feet as a pillow. He wakes up occasionally to give me a full foot bath. Okay, I can live without a few dresses, but I do hope he leaves my bag alone!

A French (even more meticulous) Bree

There's this woman whose children have been going to the same schools as mine for over ten years now. She has a knack of making me feel like a deshevled, fat cow with no taste every time I see her. And, of course, blonde woman that I am, I always seem to say or do something extremely stupid in her presence. The worst part is she remains overwhelmingly nice to me in spite of my awkwardness.

Our daughters were very good friends for a long time in kindergarten, and they did the sleepover thing for a couple of years. One time her daughter came just after Halloween which wasn't yet celebrated in France. I had been invited into the classroom, however, to do a demonstration of a pumpkin carving and talk about how we celebrated the holiday in the States. The pumpkin had come back to our house and I'd left it out by the front door the night her daughter arrived. The following morning, the pumpkin was gone and when Mme Bree asked me about the pumpkin, I told her I'd had to throw it out because it had begun to rot. For reasons seemingly beyond my control, I went on and on about this. I don't quite remember what I said, but I do know that I got pretty specific about how the pumpkin had fallen apart when I'd tried to lift it off the platter and into the garbage, and I believe I'd gone on to evoke specific odours that accompanied this ritual. I suppose that I was filling up the silence with whatever I could come up with. But then I went on to tell her that we'd all eaten homemade pumpkin soup for dinner (all of us, including her daughter of course). Realizing what I'd just done, I quickly explained that it hadn't been made with the rotten pumpkin, but it was too late. The damage was done. She quickly replaced the disgust on her face with one of her charming smiles, but I knew she continued to believe her daughter had been fed rotten pumpkin soup and she was worrying about the consequences this would have on her health. Anyway, this is the type of gaffe I tend to always make in front of her.

I hadn't seen her in over a year since our daughters have gone off to different high schools. But yesterday, a Wednesday, I did my grocery shopping in town. I was having a bad hair day and a red face day. I had also had to change at the last minute because my dog had ripped my dress so I'd thrown on a tee shirt I never wear because it's bright coral and makes my face even redder. Needless to say, I was feeling rather ugly. So there I am, my shopping cart overflowing with stuff, and Mme Bree shows up with her little woven basket over her arm, dressed in a finely tailored suit, looking tan and radiant. Her hair was perfect and I almost wanted to ask her what shampoo she used to keep her hair from going brittle despite the coloring, but I'm getting better now about making such remarks.

This said, I had to lay all my goods out on the counter while she checked out and cheerfully chatted to me. I noticed her eyes catch a glimpse of the coupons in my fist and the bag-in-the-box rosé wine, the chocolate bars, the Old El Paso taco dinners...and I remembered how one day I had just spurted it all out to her and said something insane like "I don't know how some women manage to do it all. I just can't keep up with it. I can't be perfect all the time." I even remember crying in front of her while I said this. I wonder if she understood that those "some people" were only people like her, and in fact, she is the only person I know who can live up to that standard. And then I remembered what my husband said when we talked about her perfect-ness one time: people who look that great on the outside probably wear dirty underwear.

The Wednesay Mom Blues

This Wednesday thing is one of the things that make me miss the States. In the U.S., kids get out of school early every day, and they can do all kinds of things after school, at school. They don’t need to be driven around from one activity to the next. When they get old enough to go to places like the movies or the mall on their own, they also get old enough to drive there themselves. (Okay, well maybe that’s one thing I don’t mind giving up).

Over here, they get out of school after dark in the winter. Now that it’s nearly summer and the days are longer, they can at least see the sun for a couple of hours before going to bed, but their days are eternal. But on Wednesdays they only have half days. That means that everything they can’t do all week while they’re in school must be crammed into Wednesday afternoons.

I asked to have one day a week off from work. I also asked that it not be a Wednesday. Of course, that’s what I got off. I suppose the person in charge of my schedule thought it was a mistake. Don’t all mothers in this country want Wednesdays off?

No! I don’t!

I want a real day off!

Besides, my children are teenagers. They would be perfectly happy spending their afternoons in front of the television and on MSN messenger without me pestering them to go outside and play.

“Play?” I can just hear my thirteen-year-old twin girls saying. “We aren’t children anymore.”

They are, of course, children and capable of spending hours out there creating gymnastics/dance routines or splashing in the pool, but they just can’t call that playing and I’d be laughed at for suggesting such an insane idea.

They do go out, however. They go out with friends to places I need to drive them to. Or they beg me to take them shopping. They also have all kinds of activities on Wednesdays, even if I wisely attempted to limit those.

I once thought this Wednesday thing would get better as they grew older, but it gets worse. Now that they are in high school and junior high school, they have odd schedules that allow them to get out early. One only has two hours of class, from eight to ten which means I have to wake up early too.

And, of course, I’m home, and I have “nothing else to do” according to my daughters and even my husband. So I get to drive everyone to all the places they have and want to go to, and then I get to do the grocery shopping and run errands that my husband (who works all day on Wednesdays and every other day of the week) doesn’t have time to do.

I get to make lunch for everyone too, and then clean up.

So Wednesdays are very convenient days for me to have off for everyone else but me.

It is nearly three in the afternoon and I have yet to find a moment alone to do anything that might coincide in some way with the ideology of “a day off.”

To get a real day off, I’d have to call in sick on some other day of the week. But in this country that would also mean I’d actually have to be sick as they don’t just take your word for it but expect you to furnish a document signed by a doctor ordering you to stay home. That would also mean that I’d actually have to stay home all day and I wouldn’t be able to do all those things I would like to do on a day off like shop or get my hair done. If I just stayed home, I’d end up cleaning, cooking, ironing and correcting papers all day so it’s really not worth it. I work less at work.

But I must remind myself that in just a few weeks, we’ll all be off on summer break. That sure sounds nice, doesn’t it? I picture myself lying out by the pool, flipping through a women’s magazine. But then, my realistic thoughts interfere with that fantasy. We’ll all be home. All day, every day. My children, oh sorry, teenagers, will want to go places. Or they’ll lounge around the house in pyjamas or wet bathing suits until Philippe and I put an end to their rituals by pulling the plug on every object equipped with a screen. My husband will want me to help him do things around the house and the yard. There will be three meals a day to prepare and three tables to clear…maybe next year I’ll get Thursdays off. Now that’s something to dream about.

Who You Are Test

I've been looking for this test for years! The last time I took this test, the results gave birth to nicknames for my best friend and I. Is she still out there? I know we will contect again, China. Chrystal misses you. You are still my soul sister even if we seem to have lost touch. I'll always remember the time you found my earring on that Atlantic City beach at dawn. I guess that's proof that we will always find each other, one day.

http://buenluz.blogspot.com/2009/02/relational-psychology-test.html

Memories of one of the best weeks of my life

Times Square viewed from the M&M's store.






My daughters, hubby and Kaelee

















A warm welcome after a long trip!


















Wish I was back on that plane! Has it already been a year???

My Name is on Amazon!

I didn't even know this! When I google my name, I found a link to Amazon where a book including one of my stories is still on sale. That's kind of cool.

http://www.amazon.com/WATCHING-TIME-Anthology-Prizewinng-Stories/dp/184728969X

My Old Writing Blog

This page won't be up much longer because they're shutting Geocities down. I'm including the link here in the hopes that it won't just disappear.


http://www.geocities.com/rebeccamarshallcourtois/bio.html

What Season Are You?

I still haven't figured this one out, but I keep trying. Maybe my problem is I love all the colors on the charts, but I do know that I can't wear anything reddish because I look like I've just come back from an hour-long run.

Here are a few links to check out:

http://www.colormebeautiful.com/seasons/index.html

(They tell you your season, but they sell you the color charts... sniff!!)

http://www.chickjunk.com/colors-of-the-seasons/

(Can someone please explain how to find out what your undertones are???)

Shopping: Where to Buy American Clothes

Two of my favorite American stores deliver to France and in other countries around the world. The upside is the dollar is down so it may also save you money. The downside is you must remember you'll be taxed on the items you buy and this can sometimes almost double the costs of delivery which are already pretty high. But since I am tired of coming to work to find someone wearing the same dress or skirt or top bought at Promod or Etam, I think it's sometimes worth the extra wait and prices.

victoriassecret.com

The best bras in the world! Also great clothes, designer shoes and handbags.

forever21.com

Low prices, almost too many to choose from. My teen daughters adore this brand.

Know any more? Happy shopping!

Shopping: French American Size Equivalents

Just thought this might be of use to some of you. At this link, you'll find all the size equivalents for the United States, France and the UK.

http://www.cfps23.com/information/sizes.php

How to Stop Bra Bumps

8 out of 10 women don't know what their bra size is. The results are visible and uncomfortable.

Here's how to find the right bra size in France:

Before trying on bras, take your measurements:

Using a measuring tape, find your measure by placing the ribbon just under your breasts. Add 15 to the number of centimeters. For example, if you measure 80 cm, your bra size would be 95. Then you find the cup size, basically by trying on bras.

How can you be sure a bra fits when you try in on?

Move! Don't hesitate to move your arms, bend over, stretch your arms over your head and check to see if the part between your breasts stays in place, touching your skin.

Adjust the straps, but don't pull them too tight.

It is best to use the center setting on the back (or front) to leave room for any weight gain or loss.

For more information on French sizes, check out this link with a chart on sizing:

http://www.linternaute.com/femmes/luxe_mode/conseils/0802-soutien-gorge.shtml

Go To
For more information, including answers to all common problems and even a video demonstration check out this link:

http://www.wikihow.com/Measure-Your-Bra-Size


For more information which is more specific for US sizes, go to this link:

http://www.007b.com/bra-fitting.php

Challenge

Can you do this?

Tell your life story in 10 words or less.

Here's mine:

American partier married French man and became French mom/teacher.

Dessus or Dessous?

You’re going to think I’m crazy. How can anyone just up and go on a whim? How could you leave your country, your family, your friends and almost all your belongings behind to go and live in a country you’ve never been to before? How could anyone move to a place without learning to speak the language first?
Okay. I am crazy, or at least I was.
But haven’t you ever dreamt of doing just that? Haven’t we all dreamt of starting over at some point in our lives?
As a little girl I used to love to lounge out on the back seat of the car whenever we went on longer trips. I would watch the clouds above me through the window and pretend I was running away. I would imagine a whole new life for myself, but I usually imagined my destination would be Florida or Maine.
So I guess I fell in love with the idea of starting over years prior to falling in love with the man who would offer me the chance to do just that. When he asked me to move with him to France, I stunned him by saying yes. I didn’t hesitate for a second because in a way, I’d been planning that move my entire life.
It sounds easy doesn’t it? I wish it had been. I wish it was.
If you’ve ever travelled and lived far away from your country for a long period of time, you know that it’s never easy. There are things you miss and days you would do just about anything to go back to where you believe you belong. There are other days when you do go back and sometimes get the feeling that you no longer belong there either. You become this person who just can’t feel completely at home anywhere.
If I remain here, in seven years, I will have lived half my life in each country. I wonder if by then, I’ll finally have managed to pronounce dessus and dessous differently and therefore correctly and without having to resort to theatrics in order to indicate whether I mean above or below. That pretty much is how I feel most days over here—like I’m caught between that above and below, not sure exactly where I’m at but floating somewhere in the middle.