Feb 29, 2008 (did you do some kind of leap today? I did.)
People have been asking me alot recently how my French is. It's a weird question to me. I'm sure I could take some kind of competency test, and respond, "My French is at a B2 level," but well...the person asking probably wouldn't know what that means. So...compared to the average American, my French is quite good. Compared to the average French person, my French is terrible. And compared to all the non-French people in France, my French is somewhere in between quite good and terrible.
I can have conversations. I can communicate my needs (unless it's getting my building manager to deal with my sink). I can give directions, tell stories, and even, every once in a while, make a joke.
All of that said, I still encounter plenty of words that I don't know. Today's word(s) were a little more fun to learn...because I didn't have a dictionary, and I wasn't talking to a friend who is patient and understanding and gracious.
The first word I learned was "avoir." (For all of you who know French, please don't freak out on me, thinking that I don't know the word for "to have." Of course I know that "avoir" is 'to have.' Hence my confusion when the saleslady said it in a way that did not, in any way, mean "to have.") I had gone to a store to return something I'd bought. When I'd purchased it, I'd asked if I could return in, and was told "of course." No details given. When I returned it today, a different saleslady explained that she would give me "avoir." We went round and round, until I said, "You cannot give me my money back, but you can give me something and I can come again later and use it to buy something then?" Yes. Okay...avoir means store credit. Got it.
The second one, however, was a bit more fun. Sue Wee and I went to the smoothie place in the mall for the first time today. I've been craving a smoothie for days, and she remembered there is a place in the mall. As we stood looking at the menu, I struggled to keep my berries straight.
Fraise--strawberry
Framboise--raspberry
Myrtille--blueberry
Mure--what?
I stared at 'myrtille' and 'mure' and knew that one of them was blueberry. So what other kind of berry is there? I asked Sue Wee if she knew what a 'mure' was, and she didn't. Finally, we asked the woman working what a 'mure' was. She went and got one and brought it over to us. Sue Wee saw it and said, (in English), "It's a raspberry!"
I shook my head. "No, raspberry is framboise." The worker woman heard the word "framboise," and shook her head, and said in French, "No. It's not a framboise."
I asked Sue Wee, "Do you think it's a blackberry?"
She said, "But it's red. Raspberries are red. Are blackberries red--like that?"
We must have amused the worker woman. Especially since I really didn't care what kind of berry it was...I like all berries, so go ahead and throw the mysterious 'mure' into my smoothie. We stared at the menu for awhile longer, because all of the "boosts" were um...not understandable. I'm not sure I'd call them French. Official chemical names, maybe. What amused me most (and for which I am also thankful), is that the NAMES of the drinks (at least the ones with boosts) were in English...which helped me guess what the boost was.
There was the WAKE ME UP--with an energy boost, is my guess.
And the PROTECT ME--with an immunity boost.
And the SUPER VITAMIN--with, well...lots of vitamins.
So some days, my language still resorts to pointing and object lessons, like today at the smoothie shop. Most days, it consists of me forgetting words I use all the time (like 'maybe,' or 'since,' or 'early,') and having to ask the person next to me to spot the vocab real quick. I'm still learning new words every day. And today--I got some store credit and a PROTECT ME smoothie with blackberries in it to boot. Now, if I could just learn some colloquial phrases like 'to boot.'
Friday, February 29, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
resolution of the drama of the sink
Feb 27, 2008
Aren't you glad to know, simply from the title, that my sink has found resolution? And it means, therefore, that my sink can find atonement. We can all breathe a little easier now.
Superhero M of the MMTAT's showed up at our door today with a snake (and wearing a bright orange WAR EAGLE shirt to boot, as all Superheroes should wear!). A little while later, water was spinning rapidly down our drain. He blames funky French pipes for the problem.
Adding to his superhero-ness, he showed me how to change the light bulbs in our apartment. (You may not have heard my rant yesterday from across the ocean, but I very strongly said that if ANYONE tries to make "how many fill-in-the-blank-stupid-persons does it take to change a light bulb jokes," I might completely lose it.) French light bulbs do not simply twist in and out of the socket, and Sue Wee and I for the life of us could not figure out the trick. I already have one new scar on my finger from a glass breaking in my hand...I do not want another one from forcing a French lightbulb to turn an American way.
Apparently, you have to push the bulb IN before turning it, in order to pull in OUT of the socket. I should have known to use opposite logic. I want to take the lightbulb out, so I push it in. Of course that makes sense. (I'm serious, no lightbulb jokes.)
So add Mr. M of the MMTAT's to the Superhero list. If Sue Wee hadn't already given him some cookies from the 10 POUND box of cookies, I would have made him some. Anybody have any ideas of how I can thank the Superhero? (By the way, Mrs. Superhero, your hubby ROCKS. Thanks again for everything both of yall do!)
Aren't you glad to know, simply from the title, that my sink has found resolution? And it means, therefore, that my sink can find atonement. We can all breathe a little easier now.
Superhero M of the MMTAT's showed up at our door today with a snake (and wearing a bright orange WAR EAGLE shirt to boot, as all Superheroes should wear!). A little while later, water was spinning rapidly down our drain. He blames funky French pipes for the problem.
Adding to his superhero-ness, he showed me how to change the light bulbs in our apartment. (You may not have heard my rant yesterday from across the ocean, but I very strongly said that if ANYONE tries to make "how many fill-in-the-blank-stupid-persons does it take to change a light bulb jokes," I might completely lose it.) French light bulbs do not simply twist in and out of the socket, and Sue Wee and I for the life of us could not figure out the trick. I already have one new scar on my finger from a glass breaking in my hand...I do not want another one from forcing a French lightbulb to turn an American way.
Apparently, you have to push the bulb IN before turning it, in order to pull in OUT of the socket. I should have known to use opposite logic. I want to take the lightbulb out, so I push it in. Of course that makes sense. (I'm serious, no lightbulb jokes.)
So add Mr. M of the MMTAT's to the Superhero list. If Sue Wee hadn't already given him some cookies from the 10 POUND box of cookies, I would have made him some. Anybody have any ideas of how I can thank the Superhero? (By the way, Mrs. Superhero, your hubby ROCKS. Thanks again for everything both of yall do!)
Sunday, February 24, 2008
the unresolved drama of the sink
Feb 24, 2008
Our bathroom sink is clogged.
Starting back in September, we were drano'ing it about once a month. Last month, it got considerably worse, and for all of February, we've been, well, putting off dealing with it. It causes me a little bit of stress.
It's not just any ordinary clogged. It's uberclogged. Ordinary clogged is resolved by drano. Uberclogged is resolved by snaking the drain. I don't know how to snake a drain. But I'm even getting ahead of myself here. Let me back up in how the uberclogged sink began stressing me out.
The obvious commencement of stress came from the mere fact that it was clogged. Water not going down a drain is a sign of something wrong in the same way as pain is a way of telling your body that something is not right. Something not being right with the sink is the slightest form of stress, I know...but still, a little one. Because you have to do something fix it and well...at our basest form, we humans are all the kind of lazy that gives a little sigh when you have to do something mundane like drano your sink. I'd much rather curl up with a book than go to the store and buy drano, then fight with the childproof cap and wish I had a man around to open it, then pour it down the drain and proceed to remember to not use that particular faucet to wash my hands under in the middle of the night when I've gotten up to go to the bathroom.
The next stress came when the water would go ever-so-slowly down the drain and leave residue of toothpaste or facewash or handsoap all over the sink. My sink looks eternally dirty. It makes me feel like there is no atonement for my sink. No atonement stresses me out.
Then came the speaking with the building manager. Let's just make that story a short one: She was fed up with Sue-Wee and me because we won't permanently give her the spare key, so anytime she needs to send someone up (this is the fourth time we've NEEDED a plumber, and all four times for a different reason), she has to wait for a key. She's fed up with our lack of language abilities. And after the plumber came, she was apparently fed up with the fact that we asked for a plumber for something so trivial as a clogged sink.
All this caused me more stress. I don't know how to say "drano" (as in the product or the verb) in French, because I don't even know what the REAL word for that is in English. How do you look up a word in a French/English dictionary when you only know the slang of it English? The same goes for "snake," as in "to snake a drain." While I believe that may be more legitimately correct, it still doesn't translate. And how do you say "uberclogged"? I mean, I have several more grey hairs now from trying to figure out how to explain that "we need a plumber because our _____ is ______, and despite several attempts to ________ it with _________, what it really needs is to be ______." My favorite word in French is "truc" which can be roughly translated to "thingamabob." But it only works for nouns, and I think I could only use it once in a sentence. So my explanation would have sounded like, "We need a plumber because our thingamabob is _______ and despite several attempts to ______ it with a thingamabob, what it really needs is to be _____." Still doesn't make sense. No wonder the building manager is fed up with us.
So last night we tried a different kind of drano-like product that I think is supposed to cause some kind of chemical implosion in the drain, completely eating away whatever it is that causes the uberclog. The stuff scared me a little bit.
While it definitely chemically imploded...it did not unclog our drain.
And there you have the unresolved drama of the sink. I am happy to take suggestions...if you will be so kind as to translate them into FRENCH first. thankyousomuch.
Our bathroom sink is clogged.
Starting back in September, we were drano'ing it about once a month. Last month, it got considerably worse, and for all of February, we've been, well, putting off dealing with it. It causes me a little bit of stress.
It's not just any ordinary clogged. It's uberclogged. Ordinary clogged is resolved by drano. Uberclogged is resolved by snaking the drain. I don't know how to snake a drain. But I'm even getting ahead of myself here. Let me back up in how the uberclogged sink began stressing me out.
The obvious commencement of stress came from the mere fact that it was clogged. Water not going down a drain is a sign of something wrong in the same way as pain is a way of telling your body that something is not right. Something not being right with the sink is the slightest form of stress, I know...but still, a little one. Because you have to do something fix it and well...at our basest form, we humans are all the kind of lazy that gives a little sigh when you have to do something mundane like drano your sink. I'd much rather curl up with a book than go to the store and buy drano, then fight with the childproof cap and wish I had a man around to open it, then pour it down the drain and proceed to remember to not use that particular faucet to wash my hands under in the middle of the night when I've gotten up to go to the bathroom.
The next stress came when the water would go ever-so-slowly down the drain and leave residue of toothpaste or facewash or handsoap all over the sink. My sink looks eternally dirty. It makes me feel like there is no atonement for my sink. No atonement stresses me out.
Then came the speaking with the building manager. Let's just make that story a short one: She was fed up with Sue-Wee and me because we won't permanently give her the spare key, so anytime she needs to send someone up (this is the fourth time we've NEEDED a plumber, and all four times for a different reason), she has to wait for a key. She's fed up with our lack of language abilities. And after the plumber came, she was apparently fed up with the fact that we asked for a plumber for something so trivial as a clogged sink.
All this caused me more stress. I don't know how to say "drano" (as in the product or the verb) in French, because I don't even know what the REAL word for that is in English. How do you look up a word in a French/English dictionary when you only know the slang of it English? The same goes for "snake," as in "to snake a drain." While I believe that may be more legitimately correct, it still doesn't translate. And how do you say "uberclogged"? I mean, I have several more grey hairs now from trying to figure out how to explain that "we need a plumber because our _____ is ______, and despite several attempts to ________ it with _________, what it really needs is to be ______." My favorite word in French is "truc" which can be roughly translated to "thingamabob." But it only works for nouns, and I think I could only use it once in a sentence. So my explanation would have sounded like, "We need a plumber because our thingamabob is _______ and despite several attempts to ______ it with a thingamabob, what it really needs is to be _____." Still doesn't make sense. No wonder the building manager is fed up with us.
So last night we tried a different kind of drano-like product that I think is supposed to cause some kind of chemical implosion in the drain, completely eating away whatever it is that causes the uberclog. The stuff scared me a little bit.
While it definitely chemically imploded...it did not unclog our drain.
And there you have the unresolved drama of the sink. I am happy to take suggestions...if you will be so kind as to translate them into FRENCH first. thankyousomuch.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
what should be 5 or 6 posts all crammed into one
Feb 23, 2008
I have this nagging sense of guilt about blogging lately. Blogging is something I love to do. I am a blogger. In French, je suis une blogeuse. (Yes, they have the word, 'blogeur,' for a guy, and 'blogeuse' for a girl!) I love to share all the little quirks of my world with the world via my blog. But I have felt for a long time like there is either (a) nothing to blog about or (b) things that are bloggable but I'm not allowed to blog about them or (c) things that seem really bloggable but anticlimactic and I therefore don't know how to write about them. Hmphf.
I recently recounted this dilemma to my mother (who lovingly added to the nagging sense of guilt about my lack of blogging), and when I began to tell her the things from category C, she responded, "Yes, but we who read your blog never encounter things like that...so anticlimactic or not, we like hearing about them." Okay. So here goes. A written panoramic scan of all the interesting, yet anticlimactic things I have seen lately in life.
One night, I stepped onto the Metro with a friend of mine who is perfectly fluent in French and English. As in bilingual. I'm a little jealous. But I digress. There is a man behind us who is obviously having a conversation with someone, and having it loudly. When I say, "obviously," I say this because he pauses to listen to their responses. He responds to what they have said to him. He asks questions, listens to their answers, and then responds in nearly perfect French rhetoric.
The thing is, he's not talking to anyone that any of us can see. My friend leans over to me and says, "Maybe he's on the phone, one of those wireless ear piece phones or something." I sneak a look back at the man, and then scan a look around at us, at all the people watching the man--and laughing a bit. "Nope, no phone. He's having that conversation with his invisible friend."
The really unique thing about this particular crazy man talking with someone we couldn't see was that he seemed to be having a very educated conversation, at first anyway. "They" were discussing the various leaders of French history and what each one had done for France. He was definitely a fan of Napoleon. Every once in awhile I had to lean over to my friend and say, "Did he just say xyz?" for clarification, but for the most part...he was one of the most entertaining Metro rides I've had in a long time. Especially when he shouted at the top of his lungs that Napoleon had declared war on ROAST BEEF! (I clarified that with my friend, and sure enough, there was no mistaking it really...he really did say that.) Then he got off the Metro and left.
Another day I was walking near the Invalides (a beautiful, important, touristy building where Napoleon is buried), and stumbled upon a caravan of no less than 20 police vans filled with at least 6 policemen in each one, all in full riot gear. I looked around me, a little concerned. Nobody seemed to care. Life was as usual. I mean, police in riot gear is normal...but that many? Not so normal to me. I never did find out what was going on.
Speaking of police in riot gear...I was reading one evening in my bedroom when I heard all kinds of commotion. Strange sounds of commotion, as if it weren't quite in my building. I opened the window and stared down and out. At the base of my building...police in riot gear. Again, a little concerned. Just beside my building, a gym where apparently some kind of game/match was going on with lots of loud cheering and commotion. The police were there to make sure it didn't get out of control.
This past week, a friend of mine and I were taking a walk in Paris. We headed a direction we'd never been before...something I do all the time. I mean, ALL THE TIME, I go a-wandering in Paris. The only times, in an entire YEAR that I've done this, that I feel a little unsafe, is when I have to walk under bridges. Homeless people literally camp out under bridges...but in a city with so many of them, if you're going to walk along the river (a pleasant thing to do), it's inevitable that you walk under a bridge every once in awhile. I've never had anyone even notice me, much less hassle me.
So anyway, friend and I are wandering aimlessly. We turn on one street, and stumble upon a drug deal going down. Oops. Scurry off of that street. So we take a right and land ourselves onto a large street. With lots of people. We should be safe here. I mean, it was 4 in the afternoon, broad daylight. So imagine our surprise when we passed a prostitute standing out there, ready for work already. And then another. And another. And another. And then...an entire street block of them. (Paris has a red-light district, you might of heard of it, it's near the MOULIN ROUGE...we were nowhere near that area. It's the one place I know NOT to go!)
We finally got ourselves off that street, and headed towards an even larger street, walking towards one of the bigger train stations. This large street, however...was the GHETTO. Paris has the ghetto, to be sure--all in the suburbs. Not in the city. Or so I thought. This wasn't even on the outskirts of the city near the suburbs. This was downtown. How have I, in 14 months of wandering, always in a different direction, missed this? Anyway, we were definitely out of place down there. When we finally got to the train station, we quickly avoided the man with his hand down his pants, as well as the drunks, and well...I was happy to get on the train and go home. That was all a part of Paris I had been happy not knowing it existed.
In happier news...If mail and packages constitutes love, Sue-Wee is the most loved person I have ever met in my life. Seriously, that girl receives more care packages than anyone I have ever known, ever. This week, one cousin sent a 10 POUND box of homemade cookies. I'm so not kidding. (Click on the red for proof.) 10 POUNDS of gingersnaps and oatmeal raisin, all in Ziploc bags. We have an entire cabinet FILLED with what I call "contraband" (stuff from America that you can't get here) that people have sent her.
I have this nagging sense of guilt about blogging lately. Blogging is something I love to do. I am a blogger. In French, je suis une blogeuse. (Yes, they have the word, 'blogeur,' for a guy, and 'blogeuse' for a girl!) I love to share all the little quirks of my world with the world via my blog. But I have felt for a long time like there is either (a) nothing to blog about or (b) things that are bloggable but I'm not allowed to blog about them or (c) things that seem really bloggable but anticlimactic and I therefore don't know how to write about them. Hmphf.
I recently recounted this dilemma to my mother (who lovingly added to the nagging sense of guilt about my lack of blogging), and when I began to tell her the things from category C, she responded, "Yes, but we who read your blog never encounter things like that...so anticlimactic or not, we like hearing about them." Okay. So here goes. A written panoramic scan of all the interesting, yet anticlimactic things I have seen lately in life.
One night, I stepped onto the Metro with a friend of mine who is perfectly fluent in French and English. As in bilingual. I'm a little jealous. But I digress. There is a man behind us who is obviously having a conversation with someone, and having it loudly. When I say, "obviously," I say this because he pauses to listen to their responses. He responds to what they have said to him. He asks questions, listens to their answers, and then responds in nearly perfect French rhetoric.
The thing is, he's not talking to anyone that any of us can see. My friend leans over to me and says, "Maybe he's on the phone, one of those wireless ear piece phones or something." I sneak a look back at the man, and then scan a look around at us, at all the people watching the man--and laughing a bit. "Nope, no phone. He's having that conversation with his invisible friend."
The really unique thing about this particular crazy man talking with someone we couldn't see was that he seemed to be having a very educated conversation, at first anyway. "They" were discussing the various leaders of French history and what each one had done for France. He was definitely a fan of Napoleon. Every once in awhile I had to lean over to my friend and say, "Did he just say xyz?" for clarification, but for the most part...he was one of the most entertaining Metro rides I've had in a long time. Especially when he shouted at the top of his lungs that Napoleon had declared war on ROAST BEEF! (I clarified that with my friend, and sure enough, there was no mistaking it really...he really did say that.) Then he got off the Metro and left.
Another day I was walking near the Invalides (a beautiful, important, touristy building where Napoleon is buried), and stumbled upon a caravan of no less than 20 police vans filled with at least 6 policemen in each one, all in full riot gear. I looked around me, a little concerned. Nobody seemed to care. Life was as usual. I mean, police in riot gear is normal...but that many? Not so normal to me. I never did find out what was going on.
Speaking of police in riot gear...I was reading one evening in my bedroom when I heard all kinds of commotion. Strange sounds of commotion, as if it weren't quite in my building. I opened the window and stared down and out. At the base of my building...police in riot gear. Again, a little concerned. Just beside my building, a gym where apparently some kind of game/match was going on with lots of loud cheering and commotion. The police were there to make sure it didn't get out of control.
This past week, a friend of mine and I were taking a walk in Paris. We headed a direction we'd never been before...something I do all the time. I mean, ALL THE TIME, I go a-wandering in Paris. The only times, in an entire YEAR that I've done this, that I feel a little unsafe, is when I have to walk under bridges. Homeless people literally camp out under bridges...but in a city with so many of them, if you're going to walk along the river (a pleasant thing to do), it's inevitable that you walk under a bridge every once in awhile. I've never had anyone even notice me, much less hassle me.
So anyway, friend and I are wandering aimlessly. We turn on one street, and stumble upon a drug deal going down. Oops. Scurry off of that street. So we take a right and land ourselves onto a large street. With lots of people. We should be safe here. I mean, it was 4 in the afternoon, broad daylight. So imagine our surprise when we passed a prostitute standing out there, ready for work already. And then another. And another. And another. And then...an entire street block of them. (Paris has a red-light district, you might of heard of it, it's near the MOULIN ROUGE...we were nowhere near that area. It's the one place I know NOT to go!)
We finally got ourselves off that street, and headed towards an even larger street, walking towards one of the bigger train stations. This large street, however...was the GHETTO. Paris has the ghetto, to be sure--all in the suburbs. Not in the city. Or so I thought. This wasn't even on the outskirts of the city near the suburbs. This was downtown. How have I, in 14 months of wandering, always in a different direction, missed this? Anyway, we were definitely out of place down there. When we finally got to the train station, we quickly avoided the man with his hand down his pants, as well as the drunks, and well...I was happy to get on the train and go home. That was all a part of Paris I had been happy not knowing it existed.
In happier news...If mail and packages constitutes love, Sue-Wee is the most loved person I have ever met in my life. Seriously, that girl receives more care packages than anyone I have ever known, ever. This week, one cousin sent a 10 POUND box of homemade cookies. I'm so not kidding. (Click on the red for proof.) 10 POUNDS of gingersnaps and oatmeal raisin, all in Ziploc bags. We have an entire cabinet FILLED with what I call "contraband" (stuff from America that you can't get here) that people have sent her.
- Hamburger Helper (makes a great meal)
- Kraft Mac n Cheese
- Velveeta Shells n Cheese
- Velveeta Cheese
- Marshmellows of various sizes (which I think are mine, actually)
- Chocolate chips of various brands and "flavours"--including toffee chips (also mine...except maybe the toffee chips? I don't know if I like toffee...doesn't it taste like nuts?)
- Non dairy flavored creamer (Sue-Wee doesn't drink coffee, and I don't put cream in my coffee...and she has informed since I posted this that the cream came with a group of people who came bearing gifts...)
- Every assortment of candy ever sold by Reese's (she loves Reese's)
- Six LARGE (I'm talking economy sized) jars of peanut butter (she also loves peanut butter) (I didn't actually count, so there may more or less that many jars, I'm not exactly sure.)
- Hostess Cup Cakes
- Betty Crocker cookie mixes (as if we'll ever need those...we have a lifetime supply of cookies due to the 10 POUND box)
- Duncan Hines cake mixes
- All kinds of Campbell's condensed soup cans. Yes, people have mailed her CANS of soup!
- Cranberry sauce in a can, which I think was supposed to be used during the holidays? (Also from the random gifts brought from people, and neither of us like cranberry sauce, which is why it's still there, I guess)
- Rotel sauce (to go with the Velveeta cheese)
- Planter's Nuts
- An entire shelf of every kind of RICE you could imagine (apparently her mother won a doorprize of RICE and mailed it to us)
- Instant Oatmeal
- Several jars of French's mustard...because in FRANCE, we can't get French's mustard. Ironic, huh?
- Also, since I'm adding things that are mine in the contraband cabinet...several large bags of light brown sugar, and at least two jars of vanilla extract...
- Plus, in her room, a box I can't inventory, but I spy that is FILLED with candy. Every kind of candy you could ever imagine. And the box is bigger than the 10 POUND box, but I am guessing that it is a conglomeration of several care packages all dumped into one big box.
And that's just all the FOOD items! Yesterday, someone sent her a pretty little notepad, a pen, and randomly enough...a magnet of a banana. Her mom sends the most random things. But other people do, too. She has picture frames. Mugs. Sweatshirts and tee-shirts. (All Arkansas contraband...seriously, you Auburn folk need to get on the ball. I'm Hogged out here.) Books. CD's. DVD's. Pictures. Letters. Cards. You name it, she's gotten it in the mail. I've never seen anything like it in my life. And here's the complete irony of it all--her love language isn't even receiving gifts. I am thankful, though, that so many people send her stuff. Because she's great at sharing. :)
Okay, I will now end the written panoramic scan of my life for you. I promise I will try to be better at writing about the random things I see and experience, even if I find them mundane, normal, or anticlimactic. But you, dear reader, faithful friend, have to promise to leave me a comment when you read. No comments makes me feel like I'm just out here in cyberspace talking to myself. While I do live in a world where people talk to themselves, I like to believe that I am not actual one of them.
Monday, February 04, 2008
non-bloggable life
February 4, 2008
Not much going on that I can blog about right now. I'm trying to at least keep up the photoblog, so keep checking back there. www.photoblog.com/bettercountry
Not much going on that I can blog about right now. I'm trying to at least keep up the photoblog, so keep checking back there. www.photoblog.com/bettercountry
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