February 28, 2010

Rob took the girls to Ireland. They were glad to hear English and enjoyed themselves.



We celebrated Erin's 9th birthday yesterday. She went to Aquaboulevard with Rob, which is a massive indoor water park. They had a great time, although Rob was forced to wear a Speedo. For some reason, baggy swim shorts are not allowed. Erin was traumatized but we are hopeful that, in time and with intensive therapy, she will be able to put the Speedo thing behind her.

Last week I went to see my old friend Franck (the 'c' is silent) at Blondes. For some reason, probably the long gray winter, my natural highlights have not yet appeared. Franck was not in a good mood. He was waving his arms around and shouting about the fact that the stereo system wasn't working. I offered to sing, but he just scowled at me.

I decided to try to make polite conversation. "So," I chirped, "someone told me that the French don't like blondes." In retrospect, this was a colossally stupid thing to say on my part, given the fact that Franck's professional life is devoted to turning French women into blondes.

He scowled at me. "Someone told me that Americans are all fat," he snapped. Ouch. After a few more pathetic attempts at conversation, I gave up. Franck was in no mood. His assistant showed up a few minutes later.

"You're late and the stereo doesn't work!" he shouted. "I cannot work without music." He shot a warning glance in my direction, lest I say something perky that he didn't want to hear.

His assistant was near tears. "I'm sorry, Franck, but there was an accident on the metro and we sat underground for an hour. I tried to call you."

"Did anyone die?" he asked her, as if merely being maimed by a speeding train was no reason to shut down the line. She didn't know.

"Well," he shouted, "I heard telephone ring and I did not answer it! Do you know why?"

At this moment, he was armed with his highlighter brush and palette and looked like a deranged artist.

The assistant shook her head, terrified.

"Because," Franck said, "I was thought it was Monique!"

The assistant whispered, "Monique from yesterday?"

"Monique from two weeks ago, from one week ago, from yesterday, and from last night!!" Franck said.

Apparently, Monique was not happy with her first set of highlights. She asked Franck to redo them, which he did. Then, she wasn't happy with those, so she asked Franck to do them yet again. The day before, apparently, she had appeared one more time and said there was something wrong with one of the strands of hair near her temple. He tried again. Then, the night before she had called him at 11 pm and complained yet again. It occurred to me that maybe she was one of those French people that doesn't like blondes, but I kept this to myself.

Franck lost it. He told her never to set foot in his salon again. He told her that he had long since passed the age where he could deal with such a woman. He told her that clearly, she was unhappy in general, and her dissatisfaction with her hair was just a symptom of the fact that she was crazy.

Now, I thought this story was fairly hilarious. But when Franck saw me smiling, he was furious. He started yelling at me.

"You think this is funny? You think I need to be treated in this way by crazy ladies?"

Franck was distraught. He kept pressing his middle fingers to his temples. Finally he looked at himself in the mirror.

"You see what this woman has done to me? You see my face? My skin?" he demanded. He did look a little pale and clammy, even for a French guy. At this point, I was afraid to say anything so I shut up for once.

He left and went back in the back of his salon, returning with a large fluffy makeup brush covered with powder. He took a deep breath and ran the brush expertly over his face. He put the brush away and took several deep breaths. Then, he examined himself again. I must say, he did a fabulous job. His skin tone was even, not too caky; luminous, even.

Everyone in the salon was silent. Would Franck recover? Could he get through this?

Miraculously, he composed himself. He picked up the highlight brush again and got back to work. At that moment, the sweet strains of Boy George tinkled through the salon. Franck permitted himself a small smile. The assistant had fixed the stereo!

Franck started to tap his foot as he worked. Then, he started humming "do you really want to hurt me; do you really want to make me cry..."

Finally, his hips started to swivel a bit. The assistant caught my eye and gave me a barely perceptible nod. Franck was going to be okay.

When he was finished with me and his assistant had dried my hair, he came over and fluffed it.

"It is perfect, no?" he said. It wasn't really a question.

"Absolutely," I gushed.

I'm thinking of waiting until I get back to the US to do any more highlighting.

February 23 ,2010

Rob and the girls left for Ireland this morning. I've been under the weather for the last few weeks and decided to stay here to try to recover. The girls are currently on a two-week break from school. Claire asked my why. Well, it's not Christmas break, which already happened, and it's not Spring break which happens in April.

Claire finally had an "Aha" moment. "It's because," she explained, "we've been in school for six weeks without a break."

There you have it.

I have informally polled the girls on how they feel about being here. Megan would like to stay another year. Claire is very glad we came, but will be ready to go back to the US this summer. Erin was ready to go back last October.

Every few days, as I waddle to the creperie, I pass this place that claims (after I looked up a few words in the French-English dictionary) to use ultrasound technology to zap your fat. There are newspaper articles everywhere about this place and it's pretty crowded. So, I decided to check it out. Free consultation!!

I made the appointment for the consultation. Inside, there are several beautiful French women with gorgeous figures and long dark hair. They are all wearing white lab coats, so you know they have received the latest training in high technology, complex, medical fat zapping. They are professional fat zappers. I liked them immediately.

One of these gorgeous women took me into her examining room and sat me down. She explained the process to me.

It goes like this. You strip down to your skivvies and lie down on an examining table, at which point gorgeous French pretend doctor runs what looks suspiciously like a vacuum cleaner hose over your fatty areas. This contraption apparently "liquifies" you fat and poof!!! Away it goes, never to return.

Pretend French doctor became very animated as she explained the process to me. She helpfully pointed out all of the areas on my physique that could benefit from this latest medical breakthrough. Let's just say she covered a lot of ground.

"You will need double sessions," she informed me. Thanks so very much.

The really great part, she continued, is that there's no diet! The ONLY thing you need to do is drink lots of water, so that the zapped liquified fat can be eliminated through "natural processes." So far so good.

To summarize, I could continue to inhale croissants and crepes, and every few weeks or so lay down and have someone run a vacuum cleaner over me to liquify any accumulated fat. At which point I could happily begin the cycle all over again.

God, I love France!!

So, I was just getting ready to sign the contract, pay the euros, and be on my way to sveltification, when she handed me a stack of papers about two inches thick.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Ah," she purred, "these are just a few simple tips for how to arrange your meals during your treatment."

No problem. I could "arrange" my meals. I could "arrange" to have the croissants first, then the crepe, then the wine. Or, if pretend French doctor suggests it, I could happily start with wine, go to croissants, and finish with the crepe. I am, after all, committed to fat zapping.

So, I glanced at the instructions. A few things jumped out at me.

No alcohol. No alcohol??? I looked at her. "Ah," she said. "Alcohol interferes with the fat liquification process, so you should eliminate it. Of course, " she continued, "if you are at a wedding, you are permitted one glass of champagne."

I bit my lip. There's a whole lot of really good red wine here, and it's cheaper than CocaCola. Plus, I think I've mentioned that I'm alone with my three children for long stretches of time. However, it would just be for a few months, and I could just imagine my new svelte physique. I could do this. I could forgo alcohol for eight weeks or so.

I went back to reading.

Absolutely no sugar. Whoa. What's this? Again, she explained that sugar interferes with the zapping of fat. So, I wouldn't be able to have any. No crepes, no patisserie, no pain au chocolat, no tarte au pomme, not even sugar in my coffee.


I went on down the list. No carbohydrates in the evening, Only non-fat yogurt and milk. No real butter.

I composed myself. Pretend French doctor was tapping a perfectly French manicured nail on her desk. What was the holdup?

"I don't mean to be difficult," I said. "But this looks like a diet."

"It is certainly NOT a diet," she huffed. "It is an ARRANGEMENT of meals."

"What happens," I asked, "if I continue to drink like a fish and huff down croissants and crepes?"

Classic Gallic shrug. "Then, Madame, we cannot guarantee the results. But, if you do follow the arrangements, you will lose centimeters off your pudgy thighs and your stomach will no longer spill over the top of your jeans like a souffle."

I couldn't control myself. "Yeah, but if I follow the arrangements, I'll lose the fat anyway, without your fat zapper. Plus, I won't have to pay you anything."

She sighed. Clearly I was too stupid to understand the nuances of advanced medical technology.


As I left, I held the door for a woman who was just licking the last crumbs of a flaky, buttery croissant off her fingers. She looked hopeful.

Tomorrow, I'm going to the gym.

February 13, 2010

Happy President's Day Weekend everyone! We are suffering a bit from winter colds, but otherwise fine. It turns out that Claire has had sinusitis which has gone undiagnosed, perhaps for years. We were referred to a specialist in France, which I view as an opportunity to explore a whole new neighborhood. Doctors' offices are definitely in the best areas of Paris. Anyway, this guy was a real loon.

After interviewing us at great length, he sat Claire down, donned his avatar headgear and proceeded to look up her nose. I will refrain from giving you all of the sordid details, except to say that he pronounced her nose very "curious." In spite of my best efforts, he never said why. Then he rifled around in his rows of sharp instruments and pulled out a pair of pincers that were about a foot long. He told her to sit still. Claire, sensible girl that she is, took one look at roboman with his pincers and covered her nose. I told Monsieur in French that Claire was afraid. He shrugged and replied "that's because she's a girl." Claire has been diligently studying French for 6 months now and gave him a withering look. Way to go Claire!

The upshot is that Claire is now on antibiotics, steroids, nasal spray, and stomach medicine to counter the effects of all of the other stuff. Next week, she has to have a CAT scan to see if there's any other curious stuff we haven't found yet. It's all very exciting.

While I'm sure you imagine that we spend evenings out at various bistros, wearing black berets, smoking Gauloises and drinking fine French wines, we actually spend almost every evening at home. After all, we live here. Consequently, I am watching quite a bit of US television which I download according to Megan's instructions. I did give French TV a try, but I got over it in a hurry.

As a result, I have become somewhat of an expert on crime shows, medical shows and, above all, sports. Let me now share with you a few of my startling conclusions, organized by genre and show.

Medical Shows: House.
Patient comes in, patient is very sick with mysterious symptoms, team bravely treats patient while dealing with their own interpersonal romantic issues, team really screws patient up, patient is dying, House has mundane conversation with janitor about cleaning fluid and, AHA!!, diagnoses real problem just as patient is about to expire.

Crime Shows:

CSI, CSI NY, CSI Miami: Person is murdered, forensics team, invariably showing massive amounts of cleavage and wearing stilettos and a whole lot of eyeliner wander around crime scene photographing matchsticks, chewing gum wrappers, and oil slicks and wondering why men don't take them seriously. Because they do it to sinister, yet very cool music, it seems like a glam job. Body is taken to the morgue where coroner is eccentric middle-aged man with a penchant for heavy metal, classical music, etc. Head of crime lab is either so ugly he has to wear sunglasses ALL the time, or obviously psychologically damaged which makes all of his busty minions want to give him a big hug. Obvious suspects are questioned first (motive AND opportunity AND a chainsaw in their trunk!!), then cleared, then re-suspected and nailed at the very end. More very cool music as well as many gratuitous shots of city.

Law and Order, Law and Order Criminal Intent, Law and Order SVU: Craggy DA, busty assistant DA, busty female detective and, you guessed it, psychologically damaged male partner who is damn good at interrogating those feisty suspects. I actually have a great idea for a new spinoff: Law & Order SUV. It's about the dedicated men and women that serve on an elite squad that investigates the senseless crimes committed by java-crazed stay-at-home-moms driving vehicles the size and maneuverability of amphibious assault ships and named after large, northern mountain ranges. "These are their stories."
Tell me you wouldn't tune in.

Which brings me to sports. I have to ask, WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON? Joe Buck started it during the Angels-Yankees series: He talked about the Yankees running game. Running game?? What is this, football? Then, Buck says "and the Phillies hold serve," right before they went to commercial break during a World Series game. Seriously? Tennis?

Now, I can forgive Joe. The poor guy announces more sports than Bob Costas. No wonder he's confused. But, the trend spread like H1N1 across all sports programming within about two weeks!

Acting like teenage girls, sportscasters across the nation started frantically searching for expressions to use from other sports in their sports! When they went home and their wives told them how pathetic they sounded, they pouted and said "Well, everyone else is doing it."

Dan Dierdorff, perhaps one of the stupidest people on television today (which is saying something) credited Braylon Edwards with an "assist" during the Jets-Raiders game. The only bright side is that this slightly reduced the amount of time he spent trashing the Raiders. By the way, I have found after years of research, that a football announcer's IQ is inversely proportional to the number of times he says "National Football League" instead of NFL.

Next, Brian Billick talked repeatedly about Michael Crabtree's "pitch count" during the 49ers-Texans game.

Even Chris Collingsworth, who's a pretty decent sportscaster, jumped on the sportocross bike during the playoffs. To his credit, Phil Simms completely ignored Collingsworth's lame tennis references.

But the worst, to date, is Len Elmore. During the Georgetown-Villanova basketball game last week, he said "Georgetown has to hold home court serve. WHAT??? There's not even a dedicated offense and defense in basketball. WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT??

I think I better go to a bistro and order a bottle of fine French wine.

February 6, 2010

On Language (With Thanks to the Late Great William Safire)


The French language is beautiful and complex, not unlike the French themselves. If you try to translate directly from English, you can get yourself into deep trouble. For example, the word for lawyer is "avocat." Unfortunately, this is also the word for avocado.

The word for new is "neuf," yet this can also mean "nine."

So, if you find yourself in prison because, say, your old school refused to refund your tuition and threatened to sue you for libel if you told anyone how your children were treated, prompting you to toss the school's lawyer through a plate glass window (all of this is hypothetical, of course, I'm just saying "if") and if your court-appointed lawyer has a head shaped like a bullet, and is wearing a suit that is two sizes too small, revealing exceptionally hairy wrists, and if you ask for a new lawyer, you could very well end up with nine avocados. Not that this would ever happen. I'm just saying.

More interesting still is the appropriate translation of the verb "to wait." There are two common translations of this verb: "attendre" and "patienter." The verb "attendre" means to anticipate, to expect, or both: to wait with the expectation that something will happen. "Patienter" means, simply, to wait; the implication is that you will wait patiently without expecting any results. So, which one should you use? Well, your overwhelming temptation will probably be to use "attendre," as in "I'm waiting for a table," or "I'm waiting for my money." After all, you do expect your request to be met. However, if you use this translation you will probably be unsuccessful obtaining either. You have, you see, committed the fatal mistake of suggesting that you expect your wish to be fulfilled. Service people in France invariably use "patienter" when asking you to wait. What they are saying, in essence, is that you need to wait without any expectations and they will decide whether to grant you a table, your money, etc. Even the ATM machines ask you to "patienter" instead of "attendre." Once you accept this, and expunge the verb "attendre" from your conversations with anyone but small children or recalcitrant dogs, you will be treated with much greater respect.

Which brings me to conversations with shopkeepers. You may think you can walk into a store, ask for 2 croissants, pay for them, and leave. You can do this, but you will surely get the very worst croissants, be scowled at, and generally treated like the crass foreigner you are. Every transaction is part of a larger conversation. Let me demonstrate.

"Good morning, Madame."

"Good morning, Madame."

"How are you today? I trust all is well?"

"Yes, I am doing very well, thank you."

"It is quite cold, today, is it not?"

"Yes, but in any case, it is winter."

"Ah, yes, you are right, it is indeed winter."

"So, naturally it is cold."

"Because it is winter."

"Yes, that is right,"

"Is there anything I can help you with today?"

"Yes, thank you, I would like four croissants."

"You would like four croissants?"

"Yes, four croissants."

"Well, let me see, ah, yes, four croissants. One, two, three, four. Here you are. Four croissants, Madame. Please take them."

"Thank you very much. How much?"

"For four croissants?"

"Yes, how much for four croissants?"

"Let me see, four croissants. Eighty, one-sixty, two-forty, three-twenty. Three-twenty for four croissants, Madame."

"Here you are."

"Three-twenty for four croissants. That is correct. Thank you Madame. Have a good rest of the day. But be careful, it is quite cold."

"Because it is winter."

"Exactly. Because it is winter."


As you can imagine, if you don't know what you want, the simple act of acquiring fresh breads for breakfast could stretch well into lunchtime.

Now, you might try to get around this conversation inflation by ordering ten or twelve croissants at a time. In economics terms, spread the conversation fixed cost over more croissants (variable cost), thereby increasing the efficiency of the process. Nice try, genius. Now you look like a gluttonous cretin who doesn't appreciate fresh bread. You'll never be served.