September 20, 2009

School

We have transferred the girls from the Ecole Active Bilingue Jeannine Manuel to the Ecole Active Bilingue Victor Hugo. We will forgive you if you don't quite perceive the difference. Apparently the two schools were one until the late 70's, when Jeannine Manuel realized that the children were enjoying school. They understood what the teachers were saying! They understood their homework! Quel horreur (holy #%$^#)! She immediately put a stop to it by setting up her own school and hiring sadistic spinsters who live alone, always wear black and have lots of cats.

Claire and Erin started at the new school on Friday and were delighted that their teachers speak English. They will still take French every day and will have sports, music and art with French kids. Megan starts on Monday. We are looking forward to getting settled in school and hopeful that the psychic trauma of the first school will require, at most, a year of therapy. As an alternative, I have offered the girls the option of writing a scathing expose of my parenting after they have graduated from college and are no longer financially dependent on us. I imagine them coming home in their twenties, lavishing Rob with affection and confidences and treating me like a potted plant that was left in the middle of the room by mistake.

Food
I went to the open market just up the street from our flat this morning. Amazing. Fresh fruit, vegetables, fish, poultry, socks, shoes, you name it. A handsome young poultry vendor winked at me and said something flirtatious, I thought, until I realized what he'd actually said was: "Eh, Madame, want a chicken to go with that baguette?"

Which brings me to what we've been eating. Brace yourselves. Claire has declared herself "over" pasta and is carefully researching which Parisian pizzeria prepares the best pizza margharita. Stay tuned. Megan is venturing into new pizza and pasta toppings and has a special place in her heart for lasagne. Erin is trying anything and everything, but falls back on pasta and pizza. Is it me or did we pick the wrong country to live in?

As for me, here's an example of my French and Orindan diets.

Paris
Breakfast: fresh fruit, cereal
Lunch: celery remoulade, tabouli
Snack: fruit smoothie
Dinner: roast chicken, avocado soup, SALAD


Orinda
Breakfast: Slimfast
Lunch: Slimfast
Snack: Squirt and a bag of cinnamon pita chips
Dinner: Whatever Rob's cooking. If Rob is out, Roundtable Pizza


It's like I'm an adult or something!

Speaking of food, whoever wrote that book about French women and why they stay so slim is a nitwit. Since I haven't read the book, I feel perfectly comfortable criticizing its premise, which I think goes something like this: French women walk everywhere, eat small portions and only three bites of dessert. The implication of course, is that if we American women could only control our gluttony and hop out of our gaz-guzzling SUVs once in a while perhaps we, too, could weigh 98 pounds and still look great in jeans (French women look great in jeans). Bastard. I'm here, ladies, to share the rest of the story, the dark underbelly (so to speak) of the French female diet.

Based on my careful observation (which has, I'm sorry to say, required countless hours in cafes in order to gather sufficient data for a statistically valid analysis), French women begin the day with two cups of espresso and two cigarettes. Can you say appetite suppressant?! While I'm convinced that they would dearly love to gobble down two or three croissants, they'd have to pull one of their kids out of private school to afford it.

Lunch is usually a small salad, more espresso and another three or four cigarettes (the hour and a half they get for lunch allows the extra huff and puff). Again, the portion control is about money and an appetite reduced by excessive caffeine and nicotine consumption. Think about it; have you ever seen an overweight junkie?

Stay tuned for my shocking expose of the wardrobe myth.