Recipe no°14: Grown-up Time

2 oz. vodka

6 oz. fruit punch

Pour over ice and down it quickly, for maximum effect. Lord knows you need it.

Sorry, numerous fans, I know I've been lax in my duties (I wonder how many blog-entries start out this way, I bet millions) but first I went to Spain (more about that later) and then I started a new job, which meant I went from being mostly-never-always-having-time-to-blog busy to...well, busy. Which is good for me, I think, but already quite a shock...working EVERY DAY? Who does that? Please don't kill me.

It turns out this new enterprise of mine involves kid-wrangling, something I sometimes enjoy but I'm not sure if I'm,  you know, any good at. I tend to treat kids like little adults, thinking they'll share my interests and get my dumb jokes. Not so, oh, not so. But there are compromises: maybe I'll sing a few Beatles songs with them (is 'All Together Now' actually written for adults anyway?) to take the edge off 'Old MacDonald', and yes, we can discuss the fact that Doctor House is in fact named Docteur Maison. But here's my favorite exchange from Day 1:

Characters: me, a 5-year-old boy named Tanguy (this is actually a quite common French name, believe it or not; it's pronounced tong-ee).

NB: this conversation was held entirely in French, after I had been speaking mostly in French with the class for the past 10 minutes (except for the occasional overpronounced "BLUUUUUUUUUUUUE!".

Tanguy: Teacher, can you...speak French a little?

me: Well, Tanguy, what do you think?

Tanguy: (thinks hard)

me: Yes, Tanguy, I can speak French.

It only gets better from there. But in general, the little buggers are pretty cute and the job is pretty interesting so far. I may include some highlights, but I do have a nagging fear that somehow it's dangerous to write much about your job in a blog, as it could get you fired! I realize that the principal of my school is probably not on my list of 6 or so readers, but you never know. Suffice to say, it's a challenge, rewarding, interesting to observe de si près the French school system, and amazing how completely possible it is to be tormented by a 7-year-old, and I'm glad it ends in July.

Otherwise, I'm just getting ready for various visitors in the months to come: my dad, my mom and her new boyfriend (whom I've never met!) and then my dad again, this time with his wife...it's fun to plan though, and I know the next few months are going to fly by. 

Especially now that I'm BUSY!

p.s. For those of you who are just dying to know, I haven't totally broken things off with G., there's still an occasional text message after we ran into each other chez C. and the backstreet boys last weekend (and yes, I may have possibly kissed him and then promptly gone to bed. Alone!). But I'm not sweating it...I still would like to meet someone who doesn't live with their ex. If that's not too much to ask. 

Recipe no°13: Chocolat Vert (and apple juice?)

1 cup of hot chocolate
1 1/2 oz. Chartreuse verte

Combine these two ingredients for a lovely pick-me-up on a cold, snowy day. Sip slowly; can cause slight heartburn.

A friend of mine, Omar, known for coming up with obscure truisms, once put something into words that I had always felt but never really thought about concretely: "Isn't Sunday night, like, the most depressing time ever? It's still the weekend, but you know you have to go back to school or work the next day, and you feel the week starting already..." Yes. Sunday nights are a fleeting, paralyzing moment of the week where you scramble to finish what you started on the weekend, or what you need to have finished for Monday. Why do you think there's so much good TV on Sunday nights? To zone us out of our end-of-the week depression.

When I was a kid, living in my hippie community Longhouse, I somehow managed to forget every single week that Sunday night was potluck. My mom would yell to me to get ready for potluck and I would inwardly groan, again? It wasn't that I hated potluck, it's just I forgot about it every time and planned to use those two hours toward procrastinating and wallowing in the calm sadness of Sunday night, instead of being quizzed by neighbors and harassed by their children.

Anyway, this weekend has been well-spent; went to see Benjamin Button (pretty to look at, but not near deserving of best picture, Oscar people), went out with friends...I really do feel I'm getting old sometimes though. I often go out, not wanting the night to end but hating every bar I try to go into; too crowded, nowhere to put jackets, umbrellas, etc. I think, this is why it's good to be rich. Room to sit down or dance, coat checks, and someone to drive you home at the end. I would just so much rather have a nice wine-soaked dinner party with friends, a dance party in my living room, or a leisurely meal out on the town when I can afford it. While I've never been a real discothèque type, I'm finding myself even starting to hate the crowded bar scene, especially in France (must say the U.S. is worlds ahead of France in fun bars--or maybe I just don't know where to go--and cocktails aren't even worth mentioning/buying here, for the most part). More and more it seems that going out is great way to spend more for your drinks while being fondled/harassed/having your hair sniffed by strangers.

Unfortunately I live with a host family, and too far out of town to have many elegant dinner parties, but I'm trying.

I never heard from G. this weekend, and I think I inadvertently offended him with a text message (ah, the convenience of modern technology). I didn't realize it was to the point of permanently ending our budding friendship, however. C. told me not to say mais, bon after telling him I didn't really understand his last text (and why must he write in English, not his native language, that's just asking for trouble!), but honestly I hate cryptic texts and wanted to convey my vaguely-pissed-off-ness with a casual, but, you know, whatever. Maybe I shouldn't write in French!

Well, off to savor my Sunday-afternoon gloom while it crescendoes slowly into full-blown Sunday-evening existential dilemma...I'll try to savor it. For the rest of you frittering away your Sunday on the interwebs, I hope I've entertained you and helped you to pass approximately 4 minutes. I'll leave you with another of Omar's gems:

Isn't apple juice sometimes, just like the best thing you've ever tasted? And sometimes, it's just, like, meh?

Totally.

Recipe no°12: Cold As Ice

2 shots Zicam nasal gel

1 Non-drowsy Sudafed

1 Tylenol Cold PM (if desired)

as much hot liquid as you wish

Insert Zicam shots up each nostril every 4 hours. Mix the rest of the ingredients as needed. Garnish with thousands, and thousands of tissues; finish with a generous helping of Vick's Vap-o-rub.

Lucky for me, being enrhumée this week (what a great word, sounds like I got run over by a rhinoceros) kept me from making what apparently all y'all think is potentially the worst dating mistake in the history of the entire world: seeing G. again. Yes, I get it. He is bad news. Ironically, I was trying to give a fair and balanced opinion of him in my last entry; the negative effect it had on the greater public was overwhelming. Not all responses appeared as posts on the blog; elsewhere, I was even accused of liking G. "because he is French". OK, I will admit I moved here in part to lower my standards a teensy, eensy bit, but if I were attracted to people based on the mere fact that they speak the language of my beloved Balzac (to whom I am STILL not attracted), I would not still be shoppin' for a copain. Already I've shot down several would-be wooers, from a 22-year old student with a ponytail to a 50-year old café server who admired me from afar. Non, non, it is not G.'s Frenchness that holds his appeal.

But less and less I am remembering what DID hold it in the first place, if it was not the timeless age-old trick that always sucker-punches me: he likes ME. Obviously this does not work for everyone (see above) but if you're mildly cute and entertaining (and my age)...

Yeah, yeah; I'm working on that old self-esteem, ok? Does it help if I mention that G. is not only a plumber, but a self-proclaimed graffiti artist? That he kissed me on the forehead when saying goodnight, and said HE wanted to take things slow?

Well, thanks to my internet friends, it's going to go glacially, planet-formingly slow. We didn't see each other again this weekend, and my illness has prevented me from wanting to spend time with other sentient beings. I can only hope that R.'s proven technique of "not talking ever again" to someone will work, but unfortunately I'm not as, let's say, resolute as she can be. Which is a problem. My real plan: when he surfaces again, as I'm sure he will, I will say that since last week I've had some time to mull over the fact that he LIVES WITH HIS EX and that I don't think it's the right time but we can be friends blah blah *** (here's where I choke on the attack of the killer clichés that I hate but have not yet found anything with which to replace them).

Wow, I really know how to pick 'em, don't I? Did I mention he also does deliveries, in addition to graffiti-ing and plumbing? 

Where do the literature boys hang out??