change of plans, interesting man.

Sometimes plans change without warning, and you're left to make up something new. However bummed I was at this morning's change of plans, keeping me from the sunny seas, I decided to take a little time to myself and finally, almost one year later, check out the Fort Fleur d'epée in Grande-Terre. The sign, in English, said it would open at 9, so I had a half hour to wait. I enjoyed the view from outside the fort for a moment and went to wait in the shade. There was a man walking with his dog and I said bonjour, which was met with a smile, a bonjour, and "you're learning French..." From there we started a conversation that would last half of an hour. He did most of the talking, which is fine with me. I am generally about three sentences behind in any given French language conversation. This means when it's my turn to respond, I stare blankly, then fidget with my hands, raise and lower my eyebrows, offer a stupid smile, make some filler noise ala 'uhhhh'... while I try to somehow create the words I need. Pretty hilarious to see someone who talks with their hands when they know the language to try and speak a new language.
I got to learn quite a bit during this small chat. Christian is an ex police officer, and has gone to Boston before to work with police units there on various things. He finds the people in Boston to be extremely easy to work with, but difficult to get to know personally. I offered the idea that while people in the northeast can be perceived this way, once you get past the seemingly tough exterior, you'll find very straightforward people, down to earth. He agreed.
He told me some stories of his family, going back centuries...while I still miss some precise details in French, I got most of it. Christian has a cousin in a small town in France, and his family came from there long ago. When they came to Guadeloupe he believes they were not entirely welcome, but they made their living having started with nothing. I think his father was a police officer also. His son is 37. Christian told me that Davy Crocket has French ancestry, which I did not know. He told me the story of Boudin sourdough bakery in San Francisco, which I partly knew, but it was nice to hear the stories from his perspective, to hear of the French guys who came to America during the gold rush and began making bread using the unique wild yeast they discovered.
Christian told me my accent was 'charmant', which makes me happy because it's progress from people saying that the few words I knew were pronounced well. If I have an accent, I must be speaking, right? Woohoo! He told me that he walks each day there, if I wanted to walk with him and his dog and speak French and hear stories. How nice. He's my father's age I imagine. It was such an interesting conversation. The older I get, the more I realize the people ahead of me in age know some interesting stuff.
The fort had not opened at 9:35, so I decided to leave. Pity really, because in addition to the cool rooms of the fort, there is also an art exhibition there right now. I'll head back soon enough. All in all, the change in plans ended up in an interesting meeting. I love when that happens.

Good Morning, Gwada!

After reading The Omnivore's Dilemma and ranting and raving about food, I've been making an effort to buy locally grown food, both plant and animal. One of my favorite things about this area is the fruit. It's incredible. The colors scents and tastes leave me thinking how incredible it is that this stuff just grows. I admit it, it makes me very very happy on some kind of deeper, basic level, to go buy from the local merchant, pick from trees, and go home and make juice with what I've collected. The drawbacks? Well the fruit-flies for one, damn they arrive fast and with all their friends. There's the fact that my blender, however fabulous it is, will someday, at the end of it's life cycle, end up in some landfill someplace. Bummer.
Meantime, take a look at this morning's creation:





Mango, papaya, orange and lime, with some natural yogurt. MMMMMMMMMM-mmmmm!!!!!! Look at that color! You can almost taste it, can't you? And yes, I really do put the lime garnish on the side just for me. All those years of waiting tables paid off in the form of my being able to serve myself a beverage that is not only delicious but also attractive. Mom and Dad are so proud.

We're going with Hannukmas.

Ah the 'blended' family. What does that mean exactly? A blend of what? I guess it can be anything people normally would prefer to keep in a convenient box: race, religion, birth / adoption / step relatives/nationality. (What am I now, Guadamerican?) To me, blood does not a family make. I mean, sure, literally it does, but it's not the neccessary ingredient for a complete and happy family. The Pirate and Les Monstres had to rework their definition of family when the family changed, and then once again when I came into the picture after The Pirate kidnapped me and forced me to live this difficult life on this beautiful island.

In this family of ours, we aren't very pious. Neither one of us, me or The Pirate, was very pious coming into this, but we do each have some cultural habits that we enjoy. For me, the Christmas Tree is new, and in fact celebrating Christmas with family at all is new. For The Pirate and Les Monstres, Hanukkah is entirely foreign. And so we arrive at the first year of co-holiday celebration, and we've opted to dub it lovingly 'Hanukmas'. Why not Christmakkah? Well because: The Pirate cares not about the birth of Christ. It holds no significance for him or his family. Therefor, we left that part of the word out. It's more 'us'. Plus it involves the word 'mas' by accident which means 'more' in Spanish, and somehow that's significant - we've both got mas of lots these days: mas holidays, mas kids (for me), and in general mas happiness.

I do have to watch myself carefully since I tend to forget that Les Monstres believe in Pere Noel, or Santa Claus. They're under eight years old, so it's par for the course. Growing up in a Jewish home, well, what can I say - I just never thought that guy was real. We just didn't grow up with the stories in the same way as the Christmas kids. I have pretty clear memories of hearing the other kids at school around Christmas talking about Santa, and thinking I knew something they didn't know, and wondering when they would figure it out. It's not meant to be offensive, it's simply my reality.

I slipped once in front of Les Monstres by saying something like, "Oh yeah, who gave you that Playmobil truck last year, dad or was it grandma?" I was met with an incredulous look from The Pirate followed by a slowly spoken, "You mean Pere Noel, riiiiiiiiggghhhhtttt?" Petit Monstre gazed at my facial expression as it went from 'what the ...?' to 'ooooh riiiiiightt', to 'crap, sorry dude'. In the words of Homer Simpson, D'oh!!!!!
Oooooops. My bad. It's difficult to remember something imaginary that you didn't know before, but I'm working on it.

....
p.s. I don't know who that lady is up there in the picture, but it was the best real life sample of Hannukah and Christmas together I could find. Related story and credits here.

However ungraceful, it was a fitting response.

This weekend The Pirate and I went to a concert put on by a local collective of musicians. Outside music is fun anywhere, weather dependant, but I especially enjoy music in warm weather, under the starry Guadeloupean night sky. There was an impressive sound system: sound engineer and everything. Pas mal, not bad at all.

It's normal with this type of group that they're doing it for the love of the music and the social aspect, but alas, there needs to be some money. Instruments and equipment don't come cheap. There was food and beverage available, as well as t-shirts with the name of the collective. It was, in essence, a mini Guadapalooza, and I had a great time.
...until the end. I was searching for my bag that I left hanging on a chair someplace when...

"You forgot something?"
"Yeah, my bag, got it!...See you later..."
"Oh, are you English, or where are you from?"
"I'm American..California"
"Oh, we normally don't like Americans here very much"

So, I flipped him off.
Graceful? Not really. Automatic stupid response to a stupid statement? Yes. Am I sorry for it? Not at all. I didn't do anything to provoke the statement he made about Americans. I think that was unfair.

The Pirate and I differ on opinion on this one, and it was quite a point of contention for a day or two. He thinks I should have won the guy over by remaining calm and making him explain himself. Sure, that would have been cool, but in my mind a waste of my energy. He had already made up his mind, eh?

I don't hate the guy. I just don't feel it's my job to make him like me or any other American. I don't represent all Americans. There are certainly Americans I would refuse to represent, like for example a number of individuals who don't agree with gay marriage, and hate a whole bunch of people based on their religion/race/outlook on God.

I'm thinking a lot after this little interaction. What will I do differently the next time? Honestly, I don't know. The strange thing is, I can see things from that guys perspective if I try. Consider for a moment the number of people who have never set foot in the states, or have visited a limited piece of the states. What must the states look like to them? One big Starbucks/Hooters/McDonalds/GW Bush loving place? It's possible! At the same time, I think, hey schmuck, ever been to San Francisco? Where people rally in the streets for the rights of people in different parts of the world? Where there are people working for new clean energy initiatives? Also, I'm fairly certain that more than half of my American friends speak a second language. Open your eyes to things outside the 'news' on tv, online, and on your social networking site of choice. That's not a complete reality, and it's not something to judge an entire people by.

I don't think America is the 'best nation in the world'. I don't think any place is for that matter. I think it's subjective, to a point.

Well, there you have it. A little rant, a little rationalization. When I bump into him again, which I'm certain I will here on this island, I'll give it a better go. Maybe I'll even try to explain myself in French. Aie aie aie...



Afterthoughtfoodforthought.....

I found a nice summary on expatriatism here:
I especially like this excerpt:
"I do not believe America is evil. I do not think other countries, with the exception of Iceland, are “better,” or at least not much better. And I regard the idea that America is the “greatest nation on earth” as the kind of Barnumesqe mildew that grows on the brains of gun lobbyists, NASCAR addicts and people from Alabama generally. Like a pretty good novel, America has a pretty good story to tell. But as the hearings for judge Sonja Sotomayor just demonstrated, it can sound ugly in the mouths of dumb southern lawyers who get elected to the United States Senate."

Dating in another language, or, how to not be funny.

Sometimes I think I'm funny. You know, in my own head. Often I make the mistake of saying my funny thoughts out loud and they are met by blank stares. The Pirate thinks I am very funny. Laughing at me and laughing with me are two different things, but I don't want to split hairs.

I've been butchering learning French for eight months and still can't crack a joke or successfully use sarcasm. I don't pick up on it when it's coming my way either. It's kind of a drag, but then again, maybe people just aren't funny here. I don't know, I mean, living in Guadeloupe requires a certain level of humor just to not strangle someone every time the internet goes out. (read: a few times a day.)

The Pirate is a clever little bugger. He speaks four languages fluently. Ain't that a bitch when you're in Puerto Rico together and this sexy little thing comes up and they can just Espanol away, while I stand there hoping they're not planning their getaway right under my inferior bilingual nose. He wouldn't do that though, because clearly, I rock. I mean, I have a blog.
So, since The Pirate speaks English better than many native speakers I know, I talk at a pretty fast clip with him, at my normal pace. Now, I hail from the northeastern US, so really it's pretty fast. We joke around a lot. But from time to time, I crack a great joke that just ....passes him in both lanes. Whooosh! Not because he doesn't get it, but because I spoke too fast while not looking at him, or while my mouth was full of food, the latter being more likely. So it will go something like this:

Moi:"(insert incredibly clever thing to say here, based on context)"
Pirate:"What?"
Moi:"(repeat incredibly clever thing a bit louder)"
Pirate:"Whu...wait...because he did that then it's a what...?"
Moi:"(Insert half of incredibly clever thing, slower, with half the enthusiasm, and half smile. I'm not laughing anymore)"
Pirate:"Ohhhh..wait...what was the last part again?"
Moi:"(Incredibly clever thing. Slowly. No smile. I feel stupid now because I've been forced to repeat my clever thing so many times that now it doesn't appear so clever. I swear I hear that music that plays on tv when jokes fail: wuh wuh wuh wuuuuuhhhhh)"
Pirate: laughs....explains that he understands, only, he has mistaken some word or reference for something else entirely, but somehow it's still funny for him.
Me:"GAWD! Forget it!!"

Talk about lost in translation! Not to mention what a total witch I am! When this happens in reverse, I must confess that The Pirate somehow STILL makes me laugh even though I'm not getting the joke. He's so clever.

"It's white sox all the way back to the boat. Careful, they're marked."

I'd like to discuss what I believe is an epidemic. Although I'm fairly certain there has never been any formal research done, I just know there are other experts out there like moi who have been witnesses. The epidemic, people, is socks. White socks. Long, slightly slouched down but slightly pulled up, clean as if new, White. Socks.

I can't find any correlation that sticks, but there are some common ones:

White socks (always as previously described, unless otherwise noted) with:
-Puffy, clean, marshmallow-like white sneakers. Probably reserved for indoor use only.
-No socks.
-Topsiders or other boat worthy shoes.
-People on cruises.
-People who mall-walk.
-People in pictures from the 80's.
-People wearing black shoes. If you're not MJ, you can't. So then nobody can can they because the dude isn't alive. RIP.
-Socks with sandals. Just..no. N.O. no.

I thought at one time that this was an American specific epidemic. Mais non. I have witnessed other nationalities white-socking it. What I don't understand is, with all the variety and oh, have I mentioned fashion choices out there in terms of comfortable, athletic footwear and accompanying socks, why would you reach out your hand for the set that might as well come with a bullhorn so that you can yell, "Rip me off! I am nervous about the amount of walking I'm going to be doing, so I've got on these super duper comfortable, discreet socks here to bolster me! You there! Two streets away! You ready for me? I'm looking for a bargain and I know you've got one for me! I've never even heard of Puma or Converse! Reebok three-strap Velcro forever!"

Now, I review this and I think, wow, I am a total bitch. But you know what? I'm not alone. When I mentioned this to a friend in Mexico - at a stop on our cruise - he knew exactly what I was talking about. In fact when we left him, with about seven blocks to walk back to the ferry, he warned us that it would be white socks the rest of the way down the road. He knows this is the way to spot the tourists. We didn't want to be lumped into this category even though we were also on the cruise ship. We opted for flip flops, which, on a rainy day in the streets of Mexico, in a part of town where the sewage backs up in storms, left us feeling totally awesome about not having sneakers and big white socks. Totally. Awesome. Clean, too. Real clean.


just for fun, and also to prove that I am not alone:
fashion questions the white sock.
tacky tourists in Lisbon and white socks.
This is so awesome and relevant that I almost made a whole seperate entry about it!!

You know what's wicked fun? Coming home from vacation to find an ant nest. In your kitchen. Super!

So I really, really, REALLY can't complain about my life. Sure, some stuff really blows wind up my skirt, but then the wind dies down, y'know, it's all good.
So the wind this time is ants. Lots of them. Teeny, tiny ants eating a perfectly good wooden wine rack thingy. Now, who's to say that this doesn't happen elsewhere. Not me. I recall my father using superbly creative forms of the F word to describe the damage done by termites to a wall in the tv room.

THE TV ROOM.

It is strictly forbidden to do harm to this room at my parents house. In fact, now that I think of it I recall my father using even more creative forms of the F word among other four letter words (some three) to describe what was happening to the area of the rug where my mom would do aerobics ala Jane Fonda in front of the tv. Sacred space.

So, the ants. These freaking ants were marching from the sliding glass doors to the top of the cabinets. Couldn't for the life of me figure out why. Nothin' up there. So, I got up on the counter to peek at the top. Eeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwww. Then I left the nest for the Pirate to clean when he got home. Ain't love grand?

the problem with blogger and video

...is that the video doesn't show up when the blog is received by email. Stupid. I'm searching for a better blogging option. Tumblr? Wordpress? Joomla site? We'll see. If you only notice that it's smoother, that will be good. Fingers crossed.

Holy not the same battle cry, Batman

A shameless repost of one of my favorite things. Couldn't help myself. Thanks, Family Guy for hours of entertainment for me and The Pirate. With love from Guadeloupe.

I remember when I used to read the comics in the newspaper when I was young. You know how there are certain words used to display certain actions, like 'kapow!' for a punch, or 'blam!' for an explosion? The thing is, I've realized that action words like these are not universal. Who knew? Outside of the comic strips, there are action words that people use in descriptive conversation. For example, I might say: "We just put the boards in the car, and bang we're ready to go surf". But The Pirate would say: "We just put the boards in the car, crack crack (with a French accent rrrrrr) and we're ready to go surf."

Crack, crack? What the heck is that? There are many more. It makes me laugh to hear them because I'm then forced to really listen to my own choice expressions and in the end they're all just noises.

So there's the comic strip sound words, the daily expression action words, and then there are the animal-imitated-by-human sounds. For example, we in the states all know that cows say 'moooooo', right? Right. And roosters crow like this: 'cock-a-doodle-dooooo!' And sheep say 'baaaaaaaa' and elephants...well, I'm not too sure on that one actually.
The French seem to disagree. Apparently, and I've verified this with childrens' books, the official source of animal-imitated-by-human sounds, French roosters, aka les coques, say, 'Coo-co-ri-cooooo!'

No. No they do not. But perhaps since they are speaking French, well, how can I argue with the sounds of the French language? They make so much sense after all. (read:not pronouncing entire syllables of words does NOT sense make, grasshopper)

I am so happy that somebody somewhere found the following clip from Family Guy (hellooo LOVE that show) amusing enough to post it on YouTube, because I can't yet figure out how to do that on my own. This is Stewie, playing with a classic 70's toy, See and Say. In case you are not familiar with See and Say, I'll explain:

I learned all of my animal-imitated-by-human sounds from See and Say. It's a big round disk with animal pictures on it. You pull a string on the side, and the device randomly chooses an animal, and then samples the sound for you. Something like:

''Cow, the cow says moooooooooooo''. (and it DID say moo because it was an American cow, I now realize. Had I been gifted a European See and Say, I would have been mocked on the playground, surely scarring me for life)

New site to love

This site is fantastic. I can just look up a verb and it lists all conjugations for me, just like that. Très cool! It's been added to my list of 'learning French' sites to the right. The site is called verb2verbe, and as a student of French, I think it's pretty sweet.

I just saw that I can also have this handy gadget on my iphone. Ya gotta love it!

food!

Went with a friend to a fruit farm today on Basse Terre, the western 'side' of the island. (Guadeloupe is actually two islands connected by bridges) It's green and lush over there, with banana plantations, lots of sugar cane, the forest, and the volcano.
Here are some of the fruits we got to take home from the fruit plantation. You get a bag of fruit, and an ice cold fruit drink made from the fruit on the farm...I had white guave juice....mmmmmmmmmmm! Incredible. I can't wait to bring visiting friends. It's a nice slice of life on this island.

May I recommend a watch, sir?

Much to the chagrin of my knees, I've signed up to train for a short distance triathlon here in Guadeloupe. I can do it. It's not really far: swim=.47 mi, bike=12.4mi, run=3.1mi. Seriously, I know I can do it.
Thing is, the first two training sessions were a bit of a disappointment, and I'm chalking it up to island time. Night number one. I call in the afternoon to confirm the time and place. All good. I show up at designated place five minutes early. I wait.

For. Forty. Five. Minutes.

During the minutes, I asked around. Everyone in the other groups was very nice, saying they had never really seen my group at the track. Ok. I called the guy, who said he was coming in ten minutes. He arrives, asks if it's me who's waiting for him, I say yes, and off we go. No' sorry', no 'how long have you been waiting', no 'this is a better time for you to come since I can't get here before now'...Okay. I went with the flow and had an okay workout.

Next day: today. Again, I call ahead and confirm the time, place, and person to look for. I arrive on time. I search the beach. I call the guy, no answer. I call the organization. No answer. I swim alone.

Now, I'm just saying, I could be wrong, but generally speaking, if you hand out a printed pamphlet including a schedule of events and meetings, shouldn't some of them actually happen, and could they possibly happen on time if I gifted the organization some free Timex watches? And if the meetings won't happen, shouldn't there be some sort of, oh I don't know, system, to let people know?
Consider email, perhaps, a lovely invention which allows entire lists of people (aka listserves) to be notified instantly and all at once of any news you'd like to send them.
Additionally- though a bit less advanced- is group texting. Straight to the mobile phone, same concept. I know this works because I watch people here in Guadeloupe texting while driving around the roundabouts allll the time! I'm fairly certain this would be the best method of communication.

All in all, I can't say I haven't started training. I ran. I swam. Plus, the exercise allows me to rationalize this ti-punch I'm about to have with The Pirate, alongside the vegetarian pizza(read:entirely overloaed, half a pound per slice, three cheeses also). So that's nice.
Now, I'll try again tomorrow and get some information from the other running group that seemed much more interesting, and interested.

Rasta Bug

Yeah, we're in the islands. Even the evil chenille caterpillar bugs who eat entire yards in one night are cool looking. Ten of these guys will seriously kill a yard in. one. night. What's fun though is knocking them out of the trees and vines with a broomstick and throwing them all in a plastic bag from the local toy store, and theeeeeeeen telling one of the kids to 'look what I got at the store!' and watch their face as they realize it's a bag full of angry writhing caterpillars with creepy shaped heads and big sucker feet, each one bigger than my biggest finger. HA!
A little cruel? Maybe, but quite harmless.

La Belle Mere

So I've been poking around the interweb as I threatened. I am THRILLED to have found some very cool blogs by stepmoms who want that glass of wine at the end of the day (or by lunch) as much as I do!
I could not have possibly said it better than Stepmother's Milk with this particular post. Which reminds me, why haven't any of my friends thrown me a belle mere shower?

Here's the post:

"Unlike the traditional baby shower, where mama-to-be receives gifts for the survival of the blessed babe, the stepmom shower honors the adult woman thrust into a scary and unknown world and like the infant, is similarly naïve and in need of care. We may have more years on the planet, but when it comes to stepmothering, many of us were born yesterday.

It’s time to start a new tradition.

I’ve been to countless baby showers and it seems that parenting inexperience is honored above more impressive qualities like daring or patience (Isn’t she adorable. She doesn’t even know how the Diaper Genie works. Dear, let me help you). If this is true, then who more deserves a kick-ass party with a bounty of presents, expert instruction and hard liquor than the stepmom, who gets no gestation period at all? No preparation. No handbook. If you’re like me, you just woke up one morning with half-grown kids sleeping down the hall.

It’s time to start a new tradition. There’s no reason why stepmoms shouldn’t be entitled to the same elevation and indulgence, if only for a long afternoon.

But, I’m hung up on one thing: the name. “Stepmom Shower” doesn’t sound all that fun. It’s got a dead ring to it, do you agree? Well, I don’t know about you, but if a party isn’t fun, then why did you waste your time cleaning the house and buying expensive cheese? So, I’m proposing a name change. A title that reflects the spirit and sentiment of the celebration.

Introducing, La Belle-Mere Party!

What the hell is that? She had me up until this point, but now she’s throwing around a foreign language. I’m confused.

Is this what you are thinking? Well, let me explain. First, I blame my mother and so should you. She is convinced (and works very hard to sway others) that the French are far more sophisticated and appealing than Americans. I do agree with her that the French have much prettier words, so there’s that.

Second, and more importantly, La Belle-Mere is actually French street slang for stepmother, so I didn’t just make it up to sound fancy. And translated, it means the mother even more, all the more or more than ever.

Now, I’m no language expert, so the following interpretation is my own (I’m sure my college French professor would shake her head “tsk, tsk” and fail me again). But, when I think of myself as a “mother all the more,” I’m struck with a sense of relief and significance. I am not Mom, “the original” and I will never replace her, but instead of imagining myself as the awkward, shadow figure in the background, I’m standing right beside her with my head held high. The mother more than ever.

I think it’s important that we (myself included) start thinking of ourselves as more, not less. We all bring something to the blended family table. We belong. We have a place. It may take me a while (like years) to truly feel this way, but I’m going to keep repeating it under my breath until I do.

With that, a raise my glass to you, my step-ladies! Here’s to your friendship, good humor and grit. Let the 2008 La Belle-Mere Tour begin! Start clearing your calendars for a trip to Austin. Details to follow."

Oh, just ignore me. Right, you already did that.

Yeah, my blog is about the mostly funny side of starting a new life, in a new country, with a new language, and a new family. I also like to talk about food. This morning however I must focus on one particular topic that is ever-present: my new quasi stepmother status.

To be blunt, it's quite shocking even still to wake up some days and realize that I have responsibilities involving children. Two of them. Under the age of 8. I confess to daydreams of an apartment that had been listed as 'great for one person or a couple without children'. I confess also to longing for a sofa that is free of cookie crumbs, a toilet seat that is always down when I get to it, and just. plain. silence.

Now, there is no way that I'd rather be anyplace else - in general. But at times, yes, I would like to be teleported away. I'm sure The Pirate feels the same way as he's got a lot on his plate as well. But, I do protest that he's had a few years to practice getting used to this. Pas moi. I've been feeling ...well...it's hard to say really as I've been feeling many things, but mostly frustrated, so I turned to the all knowing interweb to see if I could find anything interesting to read about being a stepmom who hasn't had any previous experience with children. I did find LOTS of information. There seem to be a few general types of sites offering information about stepmother-hood. I find them to be in one of the following creepy categories:

a. Way too positive and chirpy and hopeful for me to even begin to relate to. I think these people are not really stepmoms, but rather friends of stepmoms giving the kind of advice only non stepmoms can give, ala 'oooohhhh, it's not so bad..be happy and set a great example!. Okay lady. Spend an afternoon trying to convince a five year old that you don't have the snacks he wants in the house - in French - which you don't speak very well, while he cries on the floor for his mother, and then tell me that again.

b. Just a plain bitch session, and mostly about the mother of the child or children. I just can't get into that. My stress points are my own and they have nothing to do with the mother of my stepkids. Thankfully the relationship with her is good. I really don't believe bitching about the mother makes anything easier for anyone, and really believe it's a harmful thing to do to the children and the ex husband.

The one thing I haven't found yet - and I'm hopeful - is information about how to deal with the normal stresses of being a new stepmom while you are also learning the kids language. Because for me, it comes down to being ignored and I detest that.

In general, it's easier for a lot of people to keep limited conversation with me, or to not try to talk with me. I understand this: I can only get so far in conversation in French, and if you can only get so far in English, well, there you have it. Entirely understandable. The same goes for the kids. Pile on top of that the fact that I'm still a relatively new arrival on the scene that is their everyday life, the fact that I'm not their mom, and the fact that they are human and just simply don't want another adult around who has the authority to tell them what to do, and well....yeah...the amount of ignoring that happens is large. I mean really, they literally just....watch me talk, and then walk away. Or don't even turn their heads when I speak, or act as if The Pirate is the only one in the room.

It's easier for them. I get it. But you know what? It really sucks.
What I realized just recently in an 'aha' moment that left me pretty bummed for the remainder of the afternoon is this: No matter what I do, no matter how fluent in French I become, no matter how much time, energy, and emotion I put into this situation, I will never reap the benefits of being the person these kids turn to for much of anything except a snack. No. It will always be a parent. I will never be the first person they think of when they panic, I won't be an automatic consideration for parent teacher day or anything like that. I'll always be just one step outside.
It's normal. It's par for the course. They have parents. I have no desire to replace or better any parent. It's strictly a matter of realizing, wow, I'm doing all the things parents do, the shopping, the driving to sports, the feeding, the coddling, the book reading, I'll do it all, because any other way just isn't natural to me, I'm not going to hold back...but in spite of these clearly parental actions, I'll always be, as they say in baseball, juuuuuust a bit outside.

I must confess, it's ...well...it's a bummer. Like I said, it won't change what I do, but it sure changes how I feel. I have moments of spitefulness: 'I'm just a babysitter, and for what?'.
So, the question to ask is, what am I going to do about it? Well, I'm enrolling in French school for non French speakers for one thing. Learning on my own simply isn't cutting it. I look forward to being able to understand more and talk back more, both in good situations and bad. That should help tremendously, but it will take time. I'm going to read more from other stepmoms so I don't feel so isolated and/or crazy in this situation. I'm going to ask my cousins who have raised amazing boys what I should expect, because I realize that a lot of behavior is simply 'kids' and not necessarily 'step kids', but how would I know the difference?
Lastly, The Pirate. The coolest guy I know. What to do with him when it comes to all this? To be honest I'm not sure. I think two kids, and having to help me with many things since I'm French deficient, well it's already a lot. That being said, there may be some things we can go over, things that may need to be adjusted now that he has a slightly different type of family. For me it's scary ground to walk on. I mean, if I know nothing, who am I to tell him how things should go?

I'm just going to put on some Bob Marley now, 'Please, don't you rock ....my boat...." Hahahaa...

Dear France, See? Not all Americans make fun of berets. Love, moi.

I just loved this little gem from Bill Maher's show. Speaks for itself, so enjoy!

That farmer next door and his magic fertilizer

I'm sure I've mentioned the farmer next door who came looking for his pigs in our complex one day? Yes, he farms a plot of land over there which I view each time I go in or out of the complex. It seems to have the power of the legendary beanstalk that Jack climbed. I tell you, it is growing at such a rate that I simply MUST know how he does it. How is it that just a quarter mile away in my own little garden, everything was chomped, stolen, destroyed overnight and his plot flourishes so, leaving me green (cheesey pun entirely intended) with envy?

Well, I have some options. I could a. go over and ask him in my broken French how he does it and if I can have a plant, or b. stare longingly at the plot each time I go by, make some guesses, spend some time online, and try once again to make a garden at our house. A is a lot of courage for me to be honest, but B is a whole lot of work which could just be stolen again in the night. Wait a minute...maybe the pigs took my garden? Maybe they ate it. Which would mean they would have returned home to their lush plot and 'fertilized' that plot, making some of that plot rightfully mine, right?

Maybe I'll start with finding out what he's doing over there. It's a veritable farm and I'm jealous. I'll keep you posted, as I'm pretty determined to be a gardening success at some point. 

Facts about refrigerators and cheese

Contrary to popular (I can only assume American, since it's my experience) belief, cheese in fact does not need to be refrigerated in order to be consumed without falling ill in the way of something similar to Montezuma's revenge. This I learned during our Experiment: no Frigo. I admit it: I bought cheese anyway. I wanted it. I figured, like so often in the past, I would simply sit down with a block of cheese and a knife on the sofa, watch tv, and it would be bliss as usual. 
Yah. Not so much.
First let me clarify about the cheese not needing to be refrigerated. Apparently, according to my French (read:Guadeloupean is an entirely different breed of French but I have yet to determine exactly how to call it) boyfriend, he knows people - French people - who live in France - who keep cheeses in a fridge that is not plugged into any electrical power thereby rendering it not cold. The saying goes, "The cheese isn't ready to eat until it has moved at least five millimeters."  Remember, nobody's moving  the cheese. They wait for the cheese to ... fester...until it shifts...and then, and only then is it ready for consumption.
Alrighty then. When it comes to cheese, I'll try almost anything. So I bought the cheese and kept it in an airtight container, sans refrigeration, and nibbled at it for a few days. It's hot here. And humid. And I began to realize that the cheese moving-waiting people probably live in a climate that, I don't know, gets SNOW?! Or at the very least is not a climate like this, where, if left standing still for any tiny length of time, food and humans alike attract various bugs like LA does wannabe movie stars. Holy sweaty cheese, Batman. After the taste began to go in a direction that didn't really work for me, I left the cheese there just to see if it would in fact move.
It didn't. Well, it didn't move left, or right, or up. It sank a bit in the center and crusted a little on the edges, but I'm not sure this is enough to consider it as in the running for being consumed by a hearty French elderly in the countryside.
After a few days I opened the box to receive the gift of old non refrigerated cheese. Read: on a tropical island. Not. Good.

In conclusion, I'm keeping my cheese cold, or room temp for now. Hot cheese needs to be on pizza or fondue. That being said, I dare say that I relish the idea of visiting that person on the farm with the non operating fridge full of moving cheese and tasting a few bites. What could go wrong?

What's that? Who's calling for me? Monty? Montezuma? Ah yes, no, no I'm not taking that call.

The things you say

I realize that there are statements in my day to day vocabulary now that weren't there before. This is normal, I suppose, as life goes on.  I mean, one wouldn't use the term 'my ex' until it applied, right, but I'm talking about regular every day statements, things I say often, that I definitely did not say often before.  Previously, something I said daily was, "Hi, medium latte with whole milk, please. No, I don't need a gift card. No, thanks, I don't want a muffin, they're fattening. No, no I don't want a low fat one that is twice the size of the full fat one..."
Nowadays, some of the every day statements strike me as funny or just odd, especially taken out of context, for examples:

"Yep, that's a road. Just get into first gear, yeah yeah it's fine."

"There's a friend in the hall. I killed him, but you can pick him up and dispose of the body. I'm just not there yet."

"No, I don't feel like going to the beach today."

"Ok, we are looking for the big palm tree. That's where we turn."

"Who smells like kaka? Come here. Let me look in your underwear."

"Close the window in case a bat flies in."


"Allo? Je ne parle pas Francais. Desole."

"Je suis Americaine.  .....No, je ne sais pas pourquoi. C'est un dommage."
(I'm American....(in response to where are you from)..No, I don't know why, it's a pity" (in response to people asking why all Americans only speak one language...)

"My lime tree is gone."

Inspiration from a quitter

Our refrigerator, 'frigo' en Francais, decided to quit three days ago. Or maybe since I'm in a department of France I should say that he is on strike. That seems more fitting.

Frigo is saying nothing, doing nothing, holding nothing but a few scraps of stray dry lettuce leaf and strawberry flower, a dried up spill of apple juice. Now, a few things come into effect here. First, there is Gwada time, which is lengthier by the hour than any other time on earth.  So the time it will take to have this repaired is two days normal time=three weeks Gwada time.  Then, there is the fact that I'm actually enjoying the small challenge that is living without Frigo. In fact, I'm finding that the challenge is different than I thought.

I assumed that the difficulty would lie in not having anything in the fridge: what do we eat? What can I cook? What about all that stuff that's always in there, and even the stuff we end up throwing away, even though we have a perfectly good place to keep it until we want to eat it....
I realize now that there is opportunity in this seemingly unfortunate event. I've been meaning to get to the big outdoor markets that happen all over the island, but have only managed to get to Carrefour and to stop at some of the trucks on the roadside selling produce. Now, I have to go to the markets, a few times a week at that, if I want veggies, fruit, and fish. The climate on Guadeloupe is humid, and bugs are a plenty. Everything is open air. No Frigo in that setting, well, you do the math.

At the same time that Frigo went on strike, I came across my cousin's latest updates. He's embarking on a great adventure with his girlfriend: they are quitting their jobs in San Franciso, arguably one of the best cities in the world, and going to southeastern France to mind a farm for half a year or so. A working farm, with chickens and growing food. How cool is that?! And so I was reminded of just how interested I am in food. What I mean by that is actually how far we can be from our food sources. Many people, myself included at one point, have no idea what happens between the cute yellow baby chick and the boneless skinless breast in plastic packaging.

Without beginning some sort of big ripple at this time, I'll just leave it here for now. I've been thinking about food and what's involved with food: farming, hunting, production practices, waste, cooking, ingredients, processing - for quite some time now. As a suburban raised American, I have my own perspective, and I'm just a regular 'joe'- no special degree related to the environment, or food, or animals. I've read a few good books that I think would spark interest in any average joe. They're not books for experts, but they hold information that makes you want more. I'm trying to gain knowledge as a regular joe. Living in a new place adds to the desire to find out more. It's fun to explore. I'm looking forward to having enough French to go talk to the guy who was looking for his pigs in our apartment complex the other day. He works an enormous piece of land right next door, all by hand, and grows a variety of trees and plants. ...and occasionally loses his pigs.

And so, a big focus of the blog moving forward will be the entity of food. Of course, I can't resist posting about half eaten frogs that were thrown up on the patio by the cat because well, that's just gross and kind of funny. French cat throwing up frog legs?? Come on, there's something there. I'll keep reviewing restaurants and things to see on tripadvisor, but right now, I'm going to cook up some French green lentils and veggies and rice and drink some sun tea - all without the help of a fridge. Oh, and I need to clean that half eaten frog off the patio....awesome!

Ti-punch, when fruit punch just won't cut it.

What's that? You can't understand the Wiki definition of ti-punch because it's in French?

Welcome to my world, all day, every day.

..well okay I'm improving, but if I lose focus for two freaking seconds in a conversation, it's like trying to follow a philosophy lecture...'yep, yep, got it, totally, okay...I'm good. Uh-huh, okay...wait. Wait a minute. No, really stop, just hang on a second, I need to go back to - what? Wait, that's what you're talking about? No. No! No, I....oooooohhhh ohkayyyyyyy, I was right with you all along after all! I totally get it! Wait, what? ....what the hell are you saying right now?!! Dammit!"

What can I say, I wanted you to share the experience for a moment. And now for the good stuff: Ti-punch. The chicanition (that's a definition by chica, btw) is:

1. Grab a small glass. I mean small like your Gramma used for prune juice. Trust me.
2. Throw a couple of spoonfuls of pure cane sugar in the glass, give or take some.
3. Squeeze juice of one lime in to the glass, more or less depending on your guts/rhum taste tolerance.
4. Mash sugar and lime juice together extremely well.
5. Take some space shuttle fuel Caribbean rhum (I recommend Pere Labat, but Bologne is common at restaurants)and pour about three ounces into the glass.
6. Take note of the proof - it will be 50 or 59 proof. Consider this for a moment. Take a sip.
7. Enjoy the __________
(insert whatever it is you're enjoying, i.e. the view of the sea, the silence of the lambs as the children sleep, the card game, your friends face since he thought s/he was about to sip something mellow, like punch, regular ol' giant-red-pitcher-mascot punch.)

You won't know how to get there unless you've gone the wrong way at least twice.

I have decided that there is a phenomenon in Guadeloupe (and I might guess on many islands with a similar setup) which is: giving directions by giving every direction aside from the ones you actually need, thereby sending a person precisely where they need to go.

An excerpt of conversation between me and the pirate proving that this exists:

Me: (driving the 'woods' road through the island) "See? I know my way around. I'm good now , huh?"
Pirate: "Yeah, and now, since we took that turn, do you know where we are?"
Me: "Ummmm, yeah, okay, that house over there looks like the back of the house across the street from the little house by the other beach that we didn't rent, but it's not, but it reminds me of it, and makes me remember that I'm not there, but here, after the kind of main road, and before the big part of the woods, and so I know that this is where I stay left to get to that other part of the woods road where the guys live instead of going right because that makes me go to the top of that hill with the school with the white fence near where we went to your friends house that night, and I don't want to go that way."
Pirate: "Exactly! I'm impressed."

France vs Guadeloupe, and I don't mean who can hold the longest strike

http://www.ciscoshow.com/6-differences-entre-la-france-et-la-guadeloupe-ou-le-contraire

I found this blog, and well, I guess my French is improving because some of the stuff I can actually read, understand, and appreciate, which for this Americaine is quite shocking.
The proof is in the pudding, I must be somewhat Gwada-ized since I can appreciate the humor in this post about the difference between France and Guadeloupe.

Translation (as always, not perfect)

"To begin, I'd like to repeat a phrase I heard a while ago, 'Guadeloupe is France, but France is not Guadeloupe'. There it is, and now I'll make a little attack with a list of the differences between Guadeloupe and France:

1. In France, gas costs around 1,23 euros per liter. In Guadeloupe, gas costs 1,08 euros per liter. (+1 Guadeloupe)

2. In France, tomatoes are 4,85 euros per kilo. In Guadeloupe, after the strikes, we had no more trouble finding tomatoes at 2 euros per kilo. (+2 Guadeloupe)

3. In France, rum costs about 16 euros per liter. In Guadeloupe, rum costs about 7 euros per liter. (+3 Guadeloupe)

4. In Paris, to go to the beach, you take the A6, the A10, the train or a plane (if you're poor you stay in Paris beach). In Guadeloupe....(4 zip, Guadeloupe)

5. In France, a high speed Internet connection costs 30 euros a month for 20 Megabytes, phone is free 24/7, and dozens of free cable channels. In Guadeloupe, when you have Internet and the connection is good, you know it's going to be a good day. (+1 France)

6. In France, even summer is a bit chilly. In Guadeloupe, even winter can be too hot.

5-1, Guadeloupe wins...for the moment! You need to travel outside of your island to know that you can feel good there after all."


Image of Paris beach: Paris Plage 2004, Photo by Pascal Fonquernie, parismarais.com

This one day I was kite surfing, and almost had my ear cut off...

That's actually a loosely quoted sentence from a friend of mine. Yesterday we went to watch him and some other people do some kite surfing, a big thing here on the windy south eastern coastlines. I'm no expert, but did find some nice explanations of kite surfing in Guadeloupe along with information about lessons - in English.
I took some photos, and perhaps
against my better judgement (read:moms worried
voice echoing in my head) decided that I'd like to give it a try someday. Someday when there is hardly anyone in the water that is. The idea of some of the strings that connect the kite to the surf(er) coming by my ear at such a speed that the ear almost swims with the fish on its own makes the experience so inviting, I mean all I have to do is come out with my ears intact and I'm a success!

cable tv, a tool for language learning and just plain making fun of people

We recently drilled holes into the outside of our home in order to mount the satellite dish for CanalSat. After months of me pleading my case to the Pirate, he finally gave in and went out to get the family the gift of slower brain waves, satellite cable. It took me some time, and I'm sure those days of tears didn't hurt, but my argument that my French would improve drastically with viewings of Télé Maison under my belt has finally resulted in the dish being strapped to the building, the beam of the life of so many channels entering our lives. As long as the wind doesn't come up too strong.

So far Télé Maison takes the top spot for my viewing, followed closely by planet, followed by Friends dubbed over in French, which I find hysterical. The voices are not quite the same as the original cast members, and well, something is lost in translation. Something is also gained. I imagine though the dubbing is supposed to be a direct translation of the lines, something happens that makes it just a little, well...French. I can't quite describe what that means but I won't apologize for saying it. It's language, you know? The tone, the intonation, the voice in French that I imagine would go with different body language than what I see it dubbed with. More like dub over acting than simply voice dub. With the French language, I don't imagine it's easy to simply say something. There is always feeling. Always insinuation. It's French.

Has my French improved, moving in direct correlation with number of hours of television? Maybe. It's fun to imitate people on the different shows. This is imitation with expression, which is realistic. When I imitate 'Hugo' from my French in three months kit, well, it's correct, yes, but it's also v.e.r.y.m.o.n.o.t.o.n.o.u.s. I wonder if Hugo auditioned to host a cable show and was denied the role hence launching his career as a French audio book voice......

when bar food is a cheese plate life is good

Scrumptious cheese plate and other delicious tapas can be found at one of my favorite casual spots, La Boca. They have really nice staff, free wi-fi, and yummy tapas. What else do you want in a restaurant on the marina?

That pretty much says it. Oh, and an additional fact: Ricard is both a refreshing beverage as well as a breath mint. Genius.

Julia Roberts Filming 'Eat, Pray, Love' In NYC and India || Jaunted

Julia Roberts Filming 'Eat, Pray, Love' In NYC and India || Jaunted

I have to say that I am both excited and nervous about the making of the book 'Eat, Pray, Love'. I read the book during the aftershock of a ridiculous relationship having ended. I was sitting in a hammock with a cold beer at night in Bocas del Toro, Panama, and I was reading the part about how when you finish a relationship, you have all this crap in your mind about that person. The authors friend talked to the author about how she should push that stuff out of the way and make room for something new, or someone new, and pretty much buck up, get over it, be strong, and yes, clear that space in your mind occupied by that person. I cried. Yeah. I did. It's funny to think of it, but you know, sometimes something, no matter how ridiculous, just hits you - booooom - right in the gut.

These types of memories are great...when you're someplace else, when you have a moment in time that sticks with you - every little detail sticks with you from that one fraction of a minute..I remember the wind, the time of day - dusk, the location - the porch upstairs in the Spanish school I stayed at, what the dirt felt like between my feet and the wooden porch floor, the music coming through the air from the tiny packed church down the street that I walked by earlier, voices coming up from downstairs as the nightlife began, the green color of the plastic corrugated roof over the porch and the bright paint color on the wooden railing of the porch, the stripes of the hammock. How I felt that that particular paragraph was written for me specifically at that exact moment. Then I laughed my ass off at myself, and I'm not sure, but I probably scratched a mosquito bite.

Maybe when we travel to other places we have an opportunity to leave some 'stuff' there. I tell you, I left Bocas happy :-)

I've digressed a bit, but in fact the memory of that moment was created by the book. And now the book will become a movie. Imagination from a book usually trumps the experience you have laid out for you by a movie, but I'm definitely going to give this one a chance. It is Julia, after all, and it is a great book.

The daily routine celebrated as a huge victory... the new secret to success. ...or survival.

A top secret of successful expats! This key to success can be YOURS for JUST three payments of NINE NINETY NINE!.....but WAIT! There's MORE! What? Yes, MORE! We'll throw in a SECOND SET of life lessons FREE! ..when you buy now! Only ten minutes left to go folks so place your calls.

Yeah, yeah, they have those informercials here in Guadeloupe too. They're selling the same stuff as well: miraculous oxegynated cleaner that's as safe for your laundry and the planet as it is in your spicerack....
Making small victories big ones is free - as long as you don't count occasionally losing your pride and dignity as a large expense.

When I first arrived in Guadeloupe, I was a shell of my former 'I'm going to go walk around and meet some people' self. Now, in fairness this is partially due to the lay of the land. If you don't live close enough to the beach or the centre commercial to walk there, well, you don't. But also, I was afraid. Going out meant a lot of non-victories: language unknown, directions unknown, being unable to ask, not being able to communicate with the kids, nevermind command any respect as an adult, etc. These events can trigger anxiety in me remeniscent of my elementary school days when I had a teacher who would turn my desk upside down and shake out all the contents just so I would have to put them back.

Now, months into my expat life, I sometimes feel brave...

The Pirate was working so I took Big Little Monstre and Little Little Monstre in the car to the supermarket. The first question out of Little Little Monstre was about whether or not we had enough gas to get there, after the debacle of my having no euros to buy gas with when we tried to go to the beach the other day. Excellent - the kids are keeping track of my poor planning.

Once at the supermarket, things progressed well. I explained to les monstres that if - IF - they were nice while we were in the store that we could go for something to eat in the restaurant afterwards. Four big eyes and two heads nodded in fast agreement. Even without having kids 'of my own' I swiftly learned the art of negotiation, and it's place in every day life.

Les monstres and I travelled through the store, communicating with my broken French quite well, if I do say so myself, with only the occasional request for sugary items that warranted an immediate 'non' which was accepted without challenge. THIS is a victory, I have to say. The very fact that les monstres and I have an exchange - in French - where they ask, I answer, and they accept - wow. That's deserves a glass of wine right there. I'll take some red, thank you very much.

Exiting the store is always a point of slight panic for me. What if the check out lady asks me something I don't understand? What if someone in line asks me something I don't understand? What if I forgot my shopping bags? (In Guadeloupe, you bring your own reusable bags, or you buy them at checkout, a fantastically eco-friendly system) Actually I had already handled the latter issue on a previous visit, calling upon my limited French to ask for a bag to buy, and the checkout lady understood me and gave me a bag. (victory!) What if one of the petits monstres has a monstre meltdown during the checkout process?

Well, all of these things could happen. This time, though, it's something new:

"Something something something about a bag, and a code, for this thing here ...?" said the check out lady. In very fast French.
"Uh...je ne comprend pas....le probleme c'est quoi?"
I asked what the problem was, and then as my pulse rose and my face flushed I wondered why I invited more French when I already could not understand.

The entire line of customers was looking at us. The check out lady was looking at us. I understood that the soccer balls I picked up for les monstres did not have price tags on them, and I had no idea what she was asking me. Did she want me to go get a price tag? Did she think that I looked at the bar code and I could have recited it? Did she not see the look of an oncoming meltdown with the kids?
For the love of a good red wine, please, I silently begged, call for a price check and stop asking me anything. I don't have an answer, at least not in French, but you have other employees available to help you with the bar code. In French.
This moment was like an ad for anti-anxiety medication, you know, the kind with side effects that outweigh the benefits? I developed a fish-eyed view of the checkout line.

After saying to me in English, "You don't speak French?", to which I replied, in French, "Yes, I do, if you speak slowly I understand."

The checkout lady got on her store phone and laughed about me to a coworker. That much I understood. Lovely. Eventually they managed to get a price and we paid and we moved to the other counter to pick up a warranty for the blender I chose.....where I managed to have a small conversation en Francais with a complete stranger about how much the blender cost. Small talk in French: victory!

On the way home, les monstres and I had a talk about the restaurant, that the line was too long, and that we would go and see if The Pirate would like to join us at the restaurant, and to put away the food we just bought from the check out lady who talked about me in front of me.

Yeah, well, c'est la vie when you're learning I guess. So you see, the things I used to do so easily, like food shopping, have now become these moments of sink or swim. I'm happy to say that I do believe I am swimming much more than sinking, which feels good. Errands are still something that I don't always look forward to, like going to the post office, food shopping, and actually, though it's not an errand, answering our home phone. Ick.

So the little things become big things, big victories. It might sound sad, but in a situation like this, I'm okay with it. In fact, it's a neccesity for me to alter my measurement of success: quality, quantity, type, it's all different now. And it's nice actually. Allowing yourself small victories with huge celebration can be a good thing. Just don't start celebrating with a glass of wine and buying a new wardrobe each time you feel victorious, it could get messy.

How do you not take a kid in his Spider Man underwear seriously?

This one evening Big Little Monstre told the Pirate and me about his future plans. Big Little Monstre is almost seven years old and apparently his new Spider Man underwear gives him incredible thinking power as he has thought out the entire thing:

"I'm going to finish school fast because it's not that fun. Then I'm going to relax and choose what I want to do because I don't want a job that's that difficult."

The Pirate replied wide eyed, "Oh, well you should make sure you do well in school and then you can choose what job you want."

Big Little Monstre: "Oh, did you go to school?... Because it's not that fun...."
"Yes, for a long time", stated the Pirate solemnly.
"Oh, is that why you have such an easy job?"

The Pirate works with airplanes. He makes sure they get where they're going without crashing and killing everyone on board. Yep. So easy.

Le phoque and other fun words

Sometimes, my own childish-ness is alarming. Recently propped against fluffy hotel pillows, glass of wine in hand, Fraggle Rock on the tv for the kids, we recounted the days events in the outlandishly expensive sweatbox that is Sea World.
Suddenly I'm pulled out of my after-a-day-of-standing-in-line-in-the-sun zone by one of the kids swearing. In English.
Wait a minute. How do they know that word?
Now I'm in a panic. Has my potty mouth got away from me again? How angry will my the Pirate be with me for inadvertently teaching his children English swear words?
The word in question is 'the f word'. Fuck. Yep, it's a nasty one when heard repeated back to you by small children you then realize you mistakenly used it around.
What had happened? Was it when I stubbed my toe on the chair rushing up to answer the only phone call I've ever received in Guadeloupe? Was it when I packed the kids into the car with promises of the beach only to realize that there was a. no gas in the vehicle and b. I had no Euros? I couldn't be sure.

"Fuck?!" I looked inquisitively at the Pirate while realizing I had just repeated the offense.
"Le fuck," He halfway imitated me. I assumed he was trying to make fun of my attempt to frenchify words by simply applying a fancy French accent to English words. "Le phoque", he continued "is a seal. It means seal. P-H-O-Q-U-E, chica. Seal. Like we saw in Sea World."

aha.


Of course, this is only the beginning of fun words. I particularly like the French word for peanuts: les cacahouètes, pronounced like 'kaka-wet'
I'm sure I'll uncover more as I stumble through acquiring the French language, and I'll keep you posted.

fun with words

"Got any cash?" he asked his friend.
"Nah, no dough, dude", said the friend.

Dough, bread, come on, it's funny that the atm says 'Bred' on it. You know it is.

Super big food: we are not alone

Allow me to contradict my latest post just a bit, for I have found the supersize in Guadeloupe.
The roadside burger stand that serves up this tasty treat is called 'Big Mamma' En Francais: Big Mamman.

The funniest thing about this is that on the awning in front of the stand it says 'Cooking Light'
There is nothing light about a sandwich that is about four times the size of a CD. Yep. True. See picture.

I ate the entire thing.

What doesn't kill me.....wait, learning French AND how to be a stepmom at the same time just might.

A new country, a new family. It's nice, this new way of life. A good lesson: to not just think for me, but to have to consider those immediately around me at all times. I'm totally up for it. Many times, I feel a lot of love and stuff that I've never felt in quite this way, not having kids of my own. Then again, many times I feel a level of anxiety that I'm not sure is normal or healthy.
Being in a step mom position brings all sorts of new emotions. It's a new language, really.

So the languages I'm learning as an ex-patriot are:
1 .French
2. Children

It's kind of a catch-22, chicken-egg situation isn't it? Because number two would certainly be easier if it were a. in English, or b. in a familiar place. It's not, and I want it that way, I want the new place and the new language(s), but I will say that becoming a step mom brings challenges, and becoming a step mom in a new country and new language? ...yeah. It's one of those times when I believe the universe took a look at me and said, 'oh yeah? You want a challenge? Ha! HERE ya go.'


Intensive life training situation numer 9734:

You are in a new place, you are learning (insert language here).
You will be placed in a new domestic position requiring the following skills:
Patience, the ability to withstand being ignored often, the ability to apply ointment and bandaids in an expert fashion, and oh yes, the ability to speak (insert same language as above) in times of crises involving said bandaids.
You must develop an ability to control a room full of children under the age of seven with whatever (language) you have acquired.
You must willingly listen to those who refuse to comprehend that you do not yet speak fluent (language) while they tell you stories of cats and trees each time you pass them in the apartment complex. (at least that's what you think they're saying).


Ah, learning. There's nothing like saying something in a very stern voice to a child, in broken French, and having them reply with a look that says, 'What the HELL are you trying to say? Since I can't understand you, you silly woman, I will simply shrug my shoulders and walk away. Watch.'

Thankfully, most adults here in Guadeloupe make more of an effort. In fact, people are generally really nice and accomodating, even if we make conversation in broken sentences with a lot of mime.

Earning the respect of children when you are not the parent AND you don't speak the language remains one of my biggest challenges in my new life. In fact, I'm not even sure fluent French will help....which brings me to the question of the day:
Should I study French today or should I study step parenting?

Birth of a sterotype

Once you begin life Someplace Else, you begin to adjust. Someplace Else could be five miles away or five thousand. It matters not. In the same city I have adjusted to new neighborhoods, noticed the many little differences in many little things, such as the quality and quantity of coffee houses with free wi-fi, the presence of a natural food store, the cleanliness of the bus lines that stop there, the murals or graffiti, a difference in the cost of car insurance.

Now that I've been living Someplace Else for about half a year, it was on a recent trip with my new family to Disney World in Orlando that I felt a touch of what Orlando must look like people who have never been there before, people who (gasp) may have never seen a supersized anything.

Suddenly the average size of a person was quite noticeably different. We're not talking height, or basic body type per se, but rather that on average, people in and around the Disney Parks were in what seemed to me, a rather unhealthy state of obesity. Orlando itself, the land of never ending competition between chain restaurants and strip malls and outlet centers forced me into a big 'aha'.

I realized that had I been from say, a small town outside the States, and travelled for my first time to the States, to see Orlando in all it's glory, this would be my impression of America and her people. Some of the words I would use to describe the area surrounding Disney's parks are: big, repetetive, too much, loud, turkey leg fast food, and really white sneakers.

Et, voila, a stereotype is born. Got it.

The King...how could I not.

Much like the news from the US, MJ's death is all over the news here, online, on tv, on the radio. Check out this article from the local news, France-Antilles. It's in french, sure, but it's a peek at the local online news.

Since I had a poster of MJ in my bedroom growing up, the one with him all in white and a yellow border around the outside, I have to post simply to acknowledge his passing.
I'm bummed that I never went to a concert, but then I have mixed feelings about him and the whole sharing a bed with children thing.

So there it is, my small, heartfelt, electronic condolence.

Swimming to a tiny island from a bigger one...

Island life has a lot to offer in terms of outdoor exercise, in spite of the insane heat this time of year. Swimming is top on my list: I can do it, it keeps me cool, and who doesn't love the beach.
I couldn't help but think of some cheesy symbolism in my swim: I leave the big piece of land for a smaller one. Just like leaving the States for this island of Guadeloupe. The difference is that in reality, I'm not heading directly back to the bigger piece of land, the States, for a nice sandwich and a nap on my towel. No, I'm staying on the smaller piece of land.

I do wish the smaller piece of land had a bit more to offer though. Just as during my swim, I get to the small island, and while I love the beauty, the natural state, and the people who are there are nice, it's just ... well...it's an adjustment. Perhaps in life it's like the swim: each time I go back and forth to my small island from the big one, it gets easier. Each time the current is strong but I still make it.

How did I get here and where is the mall.

I'm not serious about the mall. Well, okay a little. Here I am, on the island of Guadeloupe in the french west indies. It's a laid back place filled with exciting little events, like coconuts falling from trees or having to kill an enormous cockroach with your flip flop. Yeah, it's not always roses, especially when you become convinced that the roaches know who you are and are running at you, ensemble, in some form of attack. Despite my war with the roaches, life is pretty sweet.

Now in my mid thirties, (when do I say late thirties? I refuse to do so until I've hit at least 38) I have this amazing opportunity to learn a new language, a new culture, and how to live in a family that consists of more than just myself. I'm learning a lot more than that but those are the majors. All of this learning makes for what I think are some pretty funny/cool/touching/interesting moments. I had the urge to share the ones that gave me the biggest belly laugh, a tear in my eye, a devilish grin, or that left me looking like a dork, the latter probably being the most common.

I grew up in the northeast of United States. I spent the last ten years in California. How did I get to Guadeloupe? Let's chalk it up to love. You just never know when it can hit, and all the major facets of your life seem to coordinate in a perfect performance, with you out in front, being pushed ahead in a way you never could have conceived of, until you are finally there, center stage. It's a little stressful, admitedly. Love can bring you places, but you still have to make your own way when you get there.

Life is different here as compared to where I have lived before: a bit slower. In a new place, without your close friends, it's easy to feel lonely even surrounded by people. I found myself thinking of walking around the mall here for many reasons, the first of which being that the mall is air conditioned. Heaven. The second reason is that well, sadly, I feel at ease there. I can just walk, look, listen, and if I so desire, pay for some goods. Easy. Easier than trying to keep up with french conversation moving at 100 miles an hour when you're stuck on the first sentence that ended five minutes ago. Someday......at least the book I bought said I'd be speaking French in 'just three months'!

...and so, this is the world of a suburban-raised, city loving, now island living girl who doesn't surf.