French women don't get fat? Not sure.

Random thought:
French women do get fat. That is, they can. And if I'm to make blanket statements similar to the title of the famous book French Women Don't Get Fat, from my perspective here in Guadeloupe:

French women do get fat. They smoke. All of them. They eat McDonalds sometimes. They DO shave under their arms.

More blanket statements:
I see that French women here don't seem to get hung up on a non Kate Moss-like body. They rock that bikini at any age, often sans top, actively moving around the beach. They go to anti-cellulite massage, and make bread at home in a bread machine. They drink wine and beer. They bring the entire kitchen to the beach, table, chairs, pot right off the stove with real food in it. Okay so that last bit is typically Creole family style, but we're talking French Creole, et voila.

What stands out to me here is a lack of over-doing anything. Working, for example? Never too much. Eating? Enough to satiate, maybe some snacks with the apero, perhaps a dessert at dinner. No Doritos bags being carried around. No Big Gulps. No extra large triple shot half caf one third skim two thirds whole chocolate sprinkled on top chocka mocha hava nagila lattes. McDonalds, yes, but I tell you, I swear the Big Mac is smaller here.

Now that I've adjusted to expresso insead of iced lattes, I have to say, I'm enjoying (most of the time) my gastronomical journey in the land of good yet not so plenty.

Interesting article on French women and fat on subversify.com. Like it!
Playmobil Wine Bar - get yours today !

The lives within our life

Les Monstres are a busy pair. They look after so many things each day, you see. For one thing, there is the entire planet of LEGO which exists in the playroom. For another thing there is planet Playmobil. From time to time I find life in the playroom carrying on without Les Monstres, which is kind of freaky.

I found Batman and not quite Robin having a conversation in a not so well lit playroom, alone.

Then I opened the window for some sunlight, and saw the body of a LEGO man on one side, and the house they had ransacked, and gasp, the body of an innocent Playmobil man on the other side. Jeesh. I have no idea what went down but the aftermath is clear.

"Batman, we've got to clean up this mess before they come back. I don't know what the hell you were drinking last night but you should not have driven that Batmobile home. Now look: we've got a dead comrade and a dead Playmobil dude. But that's okay 'cos we can take his house...the Lego dude though..jeez dude, get it together!"

Living in Guadeloupe, amazing things can happen even when it seems unlikely

The other day I watched an incredibly beautiful sunset over Guadeloupe, the island of slow moving everything. At times, something gives me pause and I feel my solar plexus relax and I take a deep breath and think that I really can get past the differences between here and home that test my patience and my morale. Like what? A few things:

The Pirate. He is extraordinarily patient. He makes me laugh my ass off, which helps tremendously. Laughter really is one of the best medicines.
Les Monstres. I'm attached.
The friends I have managed to make here.
Exercise, when I get to it.
New comments from strangers who are reading my blog. So cool! I know, dork alert but bear with me...

I have received a small handful of comments on my blog about living in Guadeloupe. The people leaving the comments are living here now and like me, they are from someplace else. They are learning French also, or at least speak English, although I can't speak to the level of French for all of them. The common denominator amongst us is the perception that living in Guadeloupe certainly presents some challenges.

Just the other day I was thinking that on some level I had lost the battle here in Guadeloupe. I was feeling that I had tried to befriend her, tried to work with her, and ultimately could not figure out how to exist with this strong, slow moving beast. I was feeling unequipped. Then I received the comment from Jack, a reader on the island who wrote almost exactly what I was thinking. Wow. Really? Someone who feels the same as me and doesn't just shrug their shoulders in quiet acceptance of things? Intriguing.
Suddenly, I did not feel so alone in my seemingly typically American stress-outs about Guadeloupe. Suddenly, I'm feeling that perhaps together those of us who are baffled by some of the culture here can come together and find some inspiration, recall the great points of Guadeloupe in order to stay positive and create a more successful experience. We could exchange learned information in order to save time and energy. We could drink Budweiser and eat steak and clean our rifles....not exactly...but you get the idea.
So in combination with my attempt to look for inspiration rather than despair, I think I'll offer up a meeting with the folks who have contacted me specifically about life in Guadeloupe. No, like an actual in person meeting - old school - I know, CRAZY but it could be cool. It could be awful, who knows. All I know is I'm legitimately trying to focus on the good. I'm trying to remain calm, to find the zen spot more often than not. I believe that I can find the balance point. I believe that I can adjust. Some. I still stand by my beliefs in some spots though: I still believe it should not, in 2010, take three months to transfer internet service from one freaking house to another. Not. Budging. On. That.

Bisous!
...see? leaving on a positive note already! Good, right?!

Meltdowns, gambling, and why can't shit just work?

Every few weeks or so I have what I refer to as an 'I hate Gwada' meltdown. I don't hate Gwada. I don't necessarily understand Gwada, but I don't hate her. She tests me. Constantly. She tests me and she pushes me to use a lot of something I don't have much of: Patience. No seriously, I missed the line for that. I managed to come into this life equipped with the minimum, but I do believe somewhere along the way I should have received a notice of some sort with a code or something, instructing me where to go and fill out forms and in return receive more patience. It never came. It was probably sent using La Poste in Guadeloupe...ba dum dum...I'll be here all week.

The most recent meltdown arose as usual from a number of small things building up and resulting in meltown. Small annoying things in summary:

-bank card has not arrived and I was told I would have it in a week, twice. It's been five weeks.
-Work still has not paid me. I have been working since March 1.
-I had to reset the internet twice today.
-I got a flat tire and had to go to four gas stations to find one with an air pump.

Things came to a boil and then exploded. The Gwada Fit led me to decide that our plans to build a home should not happen. No really, I'm frightened at the prospect of trusting my home to the evidently incapable hands available to us here in Guadeloupe. I mean, nothing gets done in time, if at all. Okay maybe nothing is a bit of an exaggeration, but what I lack in patience I make up for in dramatic effect.

Here's the thing: we need to build a home. Who wants to throw money down the weird island toilet every month on rent? I'd like to make it interesting though. I'll use that to cover up my intense fear of the house building ending up in unfinished, cinder block disaster. Let's place bets. Vegas style, baby! Once our plans have been approved, I say we place bets on the day we are able to enter our home and begin living there. We'll say the time-frame is from groundbreaking to key-using. I'll present this to our circle of friends and we'll see how many takers we get. Hey it's something to pass the time. Me, I'm saying right now that from ground breaking to key using will be two full calendar years plus three months. Boom.

What say ye?

'not really'... really?

With a recent trip to France mainland I found that talking to people in French is getting a bit easier. I've decided - possibly for the sake of sanity - that the stuff I don't understand is probably best not understood. You cut out a lot of crap, actually, when you don't entirely understand or speak a language. Things are right to the point, since you don't really have much more than what you need...not much small talk or embellishment available in the ol' repertoire.

What leaves me speechless, in addition to actually not having the words, are the things people say sometimes. 'Not Really' seems to be a common theme in people's perception of my life. Let me give some examples...

I've spoken to many people about the subject of adoption. This conversation begins in many different ways. It can start with where I've lived - San Francisco, and move from there to the gay community and how people feel about gay rights, including adopting children. Discussion around this may go on for a while before I say that I was adopted, at which point, inevitably, I get the same response, perhaps varying a bit from person to person: "Oh, sorry, I didn't know...well, I mean, you know what I mean, because they're not really your parents" and "Oh...well yeah, then you know what I mean, it's like, you're not really Jewish".
Yeah.
Here, I tend to try to make small talk with people around things I can easily talk about in French. So, family is easy. I'm a step mother. Voila. "Uh-huh", they say, "And so now you want to have one of your own, right?", or "Ah...yes, I see, and so you'll really understand how beautiful it is when the child is yours, because it's (normally they take a look around and lower their voice) it's ...different...when they're not really yours".
Yeah. Who are they looking around for, I wonder, someone not to offend? Intriguing.
It's presumptuous, at best, to say these things, especially when preceded by 'you know what I mean'. Actually, no, I don't. But I can infer. I can infer that you are lacking a certain amount of sensitivity or openness that I am happy to possess.

So, it kind of piled up in my head the other day, all this 'not really' business. If I were less happy with the family I have (all of it, my folks, extended, ma petite famille Guadeloupean, my friends) well then I might get really bogged down by the thoughts that 'not really' comments create. Actually I just find it really intriguing to be honest.
I mean, look at it this way, what if I believed what so many people said...what would be my place in the world? If I were...
Not really my parents daughter.
Not really Jewish.
Not really connected to the two little boys in my life, les monstres?

Where would I be then? Floating in not really land? Not connected to anything or anyone by strong ties that bind? Relatively identity-less? Pffff
Good thing I can look at it differently, eh? I'm a free agent. It's not the questioners or the clear-cut mold needers who decide who I belong with or to. Mais non, c'est moi.

In fact, I feel a bit sad for people who can't see past the connection of blood when it comes to deep love or spirituality, I really do. it's just, I wonder if they're happy that way, or not really.