Funny Family

Every member of my family is funny - and when there's 11 kids, there's a lot of competition to outdo the other ones. But some people in the family, even those that have married in, are just funnier than others. Today I got an email from a family-member-who-will-remain-anonymous-but-there-is-only-one-who-has-enough-technology-savvy-to-create-these-images saying the following: "Please show these 2 photos to Estelle and see which one she recognizes as her mother:" I have been laughing about this all morning.

Other Favorite Pastimes

The last post neglected a few additional things that Estelle also enjoys doing:
namely, playing with a little bottle of water, cruising around in her walker, and having her photo taken:

A Day in the Life

Today included our Romanian cleaning girl coming to watch Estelle for an hour while I rode my bike like the wind along the sea to get my teeth cleaned (yeah!) at one of the good dentists in town, ironically in the bldg on Victor Hugo where I lived almost 4 years. When the other dentist in the office popped in to ask my guy a question, I was happy to be unrecognizable with my mouth wide open and several instruments prodding into it, since said dentist colleague is the same guy who backed into my bike 3 years ago and busted up my luggage rack. He paid for it - once i provided him with the bill to prove the cost. Needless to say, HE'S not my dentist!
Then, smile gleaming, I was Breaking Away-style back to our apt over on the Port. All is well, Romanian girl had it all under control, Estelle sleeping peacefully for her morning snooze. 30 mins later we were out the door to meet Madame Pontier, who is about to become Estelle's occasional "nounou" - woman who takes care of children in her home. She is a 8 minute walk away and I was put on to her by the pediatric nurses who saved my life and Estelle's back in what I now refer to as "The Dark Period" in July. Madame Pontier turned out to be lovely and her own middle-school aged childen were lovely as well. We like her and she likes us. She will be the lucky winner of Estelle for 3 hours three mornings per week. She cares for 2 other little kids too but they are quite a bit older than E.
Two private lessons of my own teaching English later, and our day was finished. In the middle of all this, Estelle had time to do some of her favorite things - chewing on a baguette, rolling around on the floor, and taking a bath in her new bathring. See Exhibits A-D below:

Who needs Teething Biscuits?

Real Vermonters don't milk goats, and real French babies cut their teeth on a baguette.

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