No Teeth, Can't Sit Up

Photos showing lack of sitting-up-ness and lack of teeth, fondness for yogurt: New favorite toy: the doll from the Island of Misfit Toys from Rudolph, courtesy of one of my many sisters in a fit of impulsive purchasing.

Maxence

Today we had 4 of Estelle's friends over to introduce everyone to "Saint Patrick's Day". One of her friends is Maxence. We love Maxence because she has the blue eyes that Estelle doesn't, because she has funny funny hair sometimes, and because she always smiles and lets Estelle steal her toys and give her kisses.
Maxence is 4 weeks younger than Estelle but she is bigger, go figure. Maxence and her Mom and Dad have to move back to Paris, and they leave on Friday. This makes both Estelle and me very very sad.

The List

I've been thinking a lot about shortening lately. 6 years ago, people used to say "What do you miss eating the most?" It was the question everybody asked me. I used to get on the plane twice a year and make my list on the napkin of all the things I had to remember to eat while I was home. Bagels and Ben & Jerry's were always at the top. Hot dogs, root beer, creullers (though recently I seem to have rectified that), mexican, crunchy peanut butter, Kraft Mac & Cheese. Then there were strange family things that no one else in the world eats, like salmon pea wiggle, my sisters' wierd holiday salads, and chipped beef and gravy. Essentially, the best American has to offer.
Now, the things I always try to cram into my suitcase are different. Bags of chocolate chips, cranberry sauce, canned pumpkin, crushed pineapple, holiday-themed M & M's, and Crisco.
Cooking and baking in France should be, by all rights, a piece of cake. This is the land of gastronomy after all. But when all your tried and true family recipes call for things you can never find, it leaves you wistful. Between changing everything from cups and ounces into grams and milliliters, and farenheit into celcius, sometimes, all you want to see is a can of Crisco to make things feel familiar.
I've posted inquiries about it on the local anglophone site. People say "just use margarine". It just doesn't cut it.

Fotos worth Forwarding

Sometimes, other people's kids are just as cute as mine:
My friend Karen has been trying to adopt a baby for a long time. Finally, it worked out! Here are her and her husband Mitch with their new son, Tyler! An incredible moment for them and something they have longed for, and worked very very hard for, with a lot of obstacles and challenges along the way. Welcome Tyler, and congratulations to the proud parents!




And below is a foto I meant to post up here but couldn't find it when I needed to - better late than never: here are my favorite 3 Vermont children (ages 5 and under!), from their very original Valentine's day message to their French cousin:

Seaside

The benefits of living by the Mediterranean: Friday afternoons on the beach in balmy weather.

Addictions

Some people are alcoholics, or can't kick the smoking habit. I've developed a new crutch: Bugnes.
Here is a photo of bugnes:
They may look innocent, but they're not. Today is Thursday and since Saturday I have entered 4 different bakeries on 4 different days to buy myself 100 grams of bugnes, and then I eat the whole bag, all by myself. It is sheer bliss. These donut-like delights are covered either in granulated sugar or confectionary sugar. Each bakery makes them differently. I'm slowly making my way thru the "quartier" trying them all. All my life I have been a SUCKER for donuts. I love donuts, and cruellers from a bakery in VT especially. These bugnes bear an alarming resemblance to a Koffee Kup Kruller. I think they are a lenten-time specialty. Thomas thinks they are around all year but I don't think so. I suppose for the sake of my health I should hope I'm right and not Thomas, who is shocked at my sudden inability to stop myself. But, what with breastfeeding's apparent effect on my ever-dropping scale display, I am cutting myself some slack for the first time in a long while and frankly am borderline fanatic. If you have one, you eat the whole bag. That's the way it goes.
Here are photos of Estelle after nursing and you can see the effect of the bugnes on my milk production - look at the glee!

Updates

The update on Estelle is no teeth, lots of drool, lots of trying to yank herself around on the arches of her play gym (see photo), lots of compliments on her OshKosh outfit, courtesy of my friend Jane.
The update on the Thong is: a few days ago I opened my mailbox and there were 7 clothespins, of 2 different styles and 4 different colors, all mine, apparently left for me by French Grammie as they too have apparently fallen onto her terrace. None of the other people in my apartment "column" seem to have the same clothespins as me, as must have been observed by French Grammie, via what I can only imagine must be her personal binoculars, or she is bionic French Grammie.
The unidentified thongs have been washed and are in a bag until I get the courage to deliver them to the teenager girl ("Les Ados") 2 floors below me. My own's whereabouts remains a mystery.

Carnival!

Estelle, getting ready to go to Carnival in her Ben & Jerry's shirt.
At Carnival, in the sun, with Estelle's buddy Maxence and her mom Melanie.

Raining Cats and Thongs: Part Deux

Lord, why me?

So, devoted readers may recall a post in late October regarding a series of silly events, involving the elderly (I assume) woman above me's underwear landing on my clothesline, and then my own favorite black thong falling into the abyss never to be seen again due to my not being courageous enough to be able to go reclaim it from the people whose terrace it fell on.

And now, readers, the Sequel: Yesterday, on my way to the market, I ran into a woman whom I know to live in our bldg. She is one of many "old ladies" who live in the bldg, most of whom are widows, and have been here a long long time. Bear in mind the bldg was built in 1868 and was originally a seminary. I have never known her name nor what floor she lives on. Thomas and I know very few of their names nor exactly which apt/floor they live on. It's a big bldg. Just between he and I we have nicknames for them so we know who we are talking about. There is, for instance, the "95-Year-Old", no hidden agenda why we call her that. She told me once she is 95. There's "French Grammie", because one of them has spooky resemblances to my grandmother who passed away 18 years ago. Then the one we hate, "Barracuda". Her name is Berretta but she is so evil we changed it. Barracuda's Sister - one of them is her sister, we don't really know which one. "Underwear", who lives above me but I don't really know which one it is, so she has a name but no face to go with it. The list goes on and on.

So yesterday there is French Grammie on the street smiling at me with her crinkly hazel eye and her hairnet, and she stops and admires Estelle, like all the building's old ladies do (except Barracuda, who chastises me for clanging about in the elevator with the stroller - she pretends Estelle doesn't exist). French Grammie is so nice, she remembers Estelle's name and always reminds me that it means "star". We chat about the weather and then out of the blue she says "By the way, I want to ask you, are you missing a black thong?"

Allow me to say I was unprepared for this. It was an alarmingly uncomfortable situation on many levels, not the least of which was the fact it was like my grandmother was asking me (in front of my daughter) if I had misplaced my thong. I'm quite sure my grandmother was in heaven before thongs were invented. But French Grammie was just as relaxed and casual as can be, as if she had found my glasses case. Needless to say I know now which apt French Grammie lives in - it's the one 3 floors down that has a backside terrace which my thong landed on.

I flounder, I pretend to not understand - just stalling until I decide how to respond. She is just as friendly and patient as can be, repeating several times where she lives in relation to me (how does she know where I live?). Finally I say "yes, it is possible i suppose." I don't say "in fact yes, it is Post number 78 on my blog, dated October 26". She says "You've got the English last name on the mailboxes, right? I'll just leave them in there for you." Them? Did she say it or them? The difference in French is quite slight, and when you are standing on the street in shock, having just been sort of arrested by your French grandmother, your foreign language listening skills are none too sharp.

We part ways. I turn the corner with the stroller and cringe and wince over and over behind my sunglasses. I bite my lower lip. Estelle looks up at me with a suspicious air.

It was a busy day, and I had a lesson at lunchtime. I forgot all about the mail. Thomas comes home and walks in with the mail and TWO black thongs, just loose, not in a bag or anything. He holds them up "uh, mon amour, il y a quelquechose que tu veux me dire, là? eh?". This, for a husband, is a hilarious situation. Oh for the love of pete, the thong thing! I had totally blocked it out.

Now wait for it, readers, because NEITHER OF THESE THONGS is my black thong. NOW I truly do not know what to do. Where is my thong? Whose thongs are these? The mystery gets deeper. To be continued, (once I figure out what to do).

"Get Out of My Bathtub!"

I don't know about the rest of the world, but in Vermont in the 70's, the above line was what one shouted on a swingset if anybody on another swing randomly began to swing in tandem with you. The ultimate social rebuff from one 7 year old to another.
Somehow this leads to the feeling of a 17 year-old-girl who walks into Prom Night, theme "Against All Odds", only to see some other random girl, or perhaps your bitter rival, wearing the same dress as you which you bought thinking it was so original and brought out the blue in your eyes.
Or, when you are 7 months old, and you go to your monthly Moms-Who-Were-Pregnant-Together-During-the-Nice-Heat-Wave-and-Still-Lived-to-tell-the-Tale group, there, already encroached in a prime spot on the blanket dance floor, is some other 7 month old wearing YOUR dress.
The outrage. Your neurotic American mother frets quietly to herself, but how can it be, she thinks? Her very trendy gay friends who live near Cannes bought this outfit for you when you were born, how can it be that this other baby Pauline, who clearly you could take down if you had to, is wearing YOUR dress?
All the other mothers think it is cute, but, you know that eyebrow twitch on your own borderline-OCD-Mom's face - she regrets the choice. So many outfits in your closet, and she picks THIS one.
You are relieved to see your frenzied Mom release a smug smile when the Italian boy's mom notes that YOUR tights have "Petite Amour" written on your butt, and Pauline's butt is just, well, whatever.
Get out of my bathtub, Pauline.

Che bella goirnata!

Despite Estelle's having pink eye AGAIN, we carry on. Last night I started on my new year's resolution - to learn Italian. So far, so good. A background in Latin makes things surprisingly easier in Italian.
But let's get to the real story of the day: This guy:
Faithful readers may remember a post from way back, June I believe, when our "chaudiere" a.k.a. The Beast, went on the fritz. Well, here we are, a year after we officially took possession of this apt and thus time for the annual inspection of The beast. The appt was for 8:30 this morning. At 8:02 the buzzer rang. It was Mr. Beast-Inspector. Times like that are when I'm grateful we are 5 floors up, thus enabling me 2 minutes to get out of my pajamas and put on clothes before he gets to the door.
In he walks, kind of like Gene Kelley, broad shouldered, thin waisted, jeans pressed. He immediately begins to sing softly as he starts to dismantle The Beast. I smile. He sings a little bit louder and smiles and looks directly at me and Estelle occasionally whilst doing his work. This man, let me tell you, could sing. It was like Mario Lanza/Nat King Cole/Louis Prima was in my apartment. He sang so beautifully, all these old French love songs, some in Italian. He was so pleased to have an audience. Estelle, thru her pink-eye haze of the early morning, was enraptured. All his songs were either about walking around in Paris in love, or in Venice in love, or they all focused on the name of some girl. I just hugged my tea mug and enjoyed every second, watching him deftly whip The Beast into shape, hopping back and forth to his tool kit, occasionnally pausing to wave a wrench softly in the air as he hit a high note.
I said i hope their were people in his life who appreciated his talent - he said he was "alone on the Riviera" as his family was in Paris, but yes of course he had his "fans". When I said "why are you here if your family is all in Paris?" He answered with a song about the sun, the beach, and the blue of the sea. When it was all finished, I asked him the name of one of the songs he had sung, a long one, which I had loved. I said "you know, the one where you kept saying 'signore"?" He could not figure out which song I meant. He knows so many songs, has such a repetoire, that he couldn't even remember what he had just sung. He left and we shook hands. I shut the door behind him. I turned to Estelle and began my own warbled version of some song i made up. 5 seconds later my doorbell rang. It was him, Roné. "Was it this one?" he asked, and thus on my doorstep burst out into a song which was lovely, but not the one i wanted to know about. I smiled "nope". He shook his head "That's gonna bug me all morning." and off he went.
The old widow who lives across the elevator from us popped her head out the door "My goodness, who was that singing, was that your husband? My goodness. That makes me think of....." and I kid you not, her voice just trailed off and she stood in her houserobe, her hand on her heart. I said "no, it was the man who came to check our heater-thing." She sighed and closed her door.
It reminded me that he had said "When I retire, I am going to become a singer in nursing homes. I think I can bring joy into people's lives. Music can change your whole day."
Damn straight.

Joyeuse Anniversaire Papie

Doesn't look 61, does he? He even got a pancake with "61" on it. I almost made him 16 before I figured out what sense to make the dang numbers before flipping it over. Happy Birthday!

Yaourt!!!!!

The pediatrician, after giving E her 7-month inspection, proclaimed her ready for what all the French live for: Yogurt.
Here she is, after greedily ingesting "Ma Premier Danone" (this is literally the name of the Baby Dannon yogurts in France, all the rage for what your baby should have as their introduction to the blessed French "dessert"). I tasted it and it tastes like fake apricot chemicals. So much for that. I'll be brewing up something on my own I can see. Papa Thomas will be thrilled to eat the other 11 pots of Ma Premier Danone sitting in the fridge.

Amour, Amour

Happy Valentine's Day, from Estelle, and a few of her friends, including those retro throwbacks, Dressy Bessy, Dapper Dan, and the sad little doll for the Island of Misfit Toys.

Ah, Nice

2 unrelated photos, pretty much sum up my existence at the moment--The port of Nice, where we live:
..and Estelle

Sleeper Sofa

Check out the new L-shape thing that got hauled up 5 flights of stairs by two swarthy Niçois men. Complete with a pull-out bed, for all you hankering to come visit. And for other faithful readers, please note it is Estelle, and not I, wearing legwarmers nowadays!

Mommie Dearest

Who needs a pacifier when your own mother cuts your thumb open while clipping your nails at 8:45 a.m. and then spends the rest of the day trying to keep you from bleeding all over everything you touch, thereby swaddling your thumb in endless Bandaids, thus creating the optimal built-in pacifier? Only one of the two people involved in this story was crying throughout, and it wasn't the one bleeding. Oh the Guilt!!!!!

Back to Reality

So, I started back at the gym this week. Saturday and tonight. My usual class, "Body Attack".
The photos pretty much sum things up.

Rubber Duckie, UR the One!

This shower gift from last winter in Vermont, which has sat on the shelf in the bathroom, is having its moment in the spotlight over the past few weeks. This duck has become the love of my daughter's life, she becomes almost uncontrollable in the bathtub when it is presented to her. It's all about the chew factor.
For 2 weeks I've been singing the first verse to the song as it was all I could remember. I finally went on line and got all the lyrics. What a great tune! Estelle seemed almost relieved tonight to hear the rest of the song.

"Come Again?"

This expression is what I was internally screaming to myself last Wednesday sitting in a notary's office on the Port of Nice.

Allow me to explain.

I needed a letter notarized for one of my many "business endeavors" in the States. Funnily enough, I went to a notary. And here's where things get a little "Slumber Party".

I walk in. A receptionist greets me. I tell her I have a letter I need notarized (I said "notarizé", since the French word for notary is "notaire", I figured I was ok). I got the blank stare and the up-ended eyebrows. I tried again.
"um, you know, like stamped? you know, the notary stamps it, to make it legal? Certified?" I start throwing out any and all verbs I can come up with. More tense eyebrows. Then she looks at Estelle, like the baby's gonna know the word.
She says "let me go and ask someone."

Boding unwell for me, I think. She disappears. I stand in the reception area, Estelle strapped to my chest in the carrying scarf, staring at an enormous wall mural painted behind the reception desk, all of the Port of Nice, very colorful and detailed and interesting. She comes back. "Please, you can wait in the waiting room over there." I say "Actually I'm really enjoying looking at your mural." She leaves, but then turns and walks back thru to another doorway. She ducks into a hallway. She comes back and hands me a greeting card with the wall mural printed on it. I am impressed. Boding well for me, I think. She smiles. She leaves again.

2 minutes later she returns with another woman. "Please follow me." I step into another office. She's a 30-some-odd woman. "Now, what exactly do you need?" I repeat exactly what it is I need, letter by letter. "Humm......" I say, finding myself funny "Um, this IS a notary office, right? You like, you know, NOTARIZE things here?" The girl is almost upended by this question and says "okay, so all you need the notary to do is stamp you letter and look at your passport to certify it is you?" Now we are getting somewhere, I think. So I have to make an appointment to see the notary. For the next day. I ask "What will the charge be?" She says "um, I don't know, but not much. Maybe he will do it for free." "Great" I say.

Back I come the next day, armed with all my documentation, and Estelle in my scarf. I am shown the waiting room. Two different women come in and seperately ask me EXACTLY what it is that I want. I tell them I have a letter which is going to America and I need it certified that I wrote it, and that I am me. Puzzled, they leave. They come back. They start photocopying everything I have. Twice. They scrutinize dates. They ask to read the letter. I hand it over. They leave. They stop midstride. They come back. "But this letter is in English." "Yes." We all have a moment in the waiting room, broken only by the sound of Estelle slurping on her fingers. Slurp. Slurp. Estelle looks at the women, then at me. Slurp.

They leave. 2 minutes later, a man walks by. Everyone is scared of him, I can tell. He is very authoritative, and he walks like an American - no time to waste. One woman say "Master, she's right in the waiting room." The other woman nervously trails him, tripping on her too tall boots. "Master, here are the copies of her documents." To what do my wondering ears should appear, but a man with women calling him master? It's 9:45 am, and I'm having one of those surreal moments in France, with no one to share it with.

He says "Madam, if you'll come this way." And off we go, into his office which resembles a vault, covered with massive canvases of modern art, huge high ceilings, leather chairs litterred about. I'm thinking about the woman at my old office in DC who used to pull her notary stamp out of her bottom draw where she kept her coffee filters. Something is awry.

I am asked to explain, once again, what it is that I need, and why. I do. He looks over the passport, then presses a stamp across my letter, and then rolls a massive blotter right out of some Masterpiece Theater episode over the ink. I thank him. I have been in the office 2 minutes. He curls him fingers from each hand in an interlock over his desk. "You've been told of our fee structure?" I say "Well, yes, as a matter of fact I asked yesterday and your clerk told me she thought maybe it was free." A shadow crossed his face, and without a flinch he said "Madam, that is not the case. This is a legal service, thus you are to be charged the minimum fee for any basic legal service, which is 60 euros."

This is where my bi-lingual brain has to count outloud in my head, like I'm in some acid-trip version of The Electric Company. I can see the figures floating around in the air in front of my face. Estelle gurgles. Did he just say 60 Euros? Like, Come Again? "Oh." I say. What can I do? The deed is done, I need the document.

60 euros is like, well, about 75 dollars. Which explains why he has so much modern art, and women running about calling his Master. Apparently, life is good if you are a French notary. No coffee filters in your drawer, no sir. At least I got a free greeting card out of it. Dang.