The Helen Keller Theory

Thibault has a hard time differentiating between words with 'th' sounds and 'f' sounds. He will often pronounce 'through' as 'frough' and this bugs me to no end. He can clearly hear the distinction when I say it, but then he'll insist that he's repeating it exactly like me. Clément just rolls his eyes. One night at dinner, we were discussing ways to die (again) and he must've said something about me tickling him to death. Only he said, I would tickle him to deaf. I thought that was an interesting concept. To be tickled to deaf. Can you imagine being a kid, and your uncle starts getting crazy with the tickle monster character, and you think, "If he keeps this up, I'm going to pee my pants!" but instead you just stop hearing?

A few honest words

Thibault called Clément a douchebag this morning. I had a mild cardiac arrest, then emphatically asserted, "We do NOT say douchebag. Definitely not. That's a pretty bad one." Clément insisted I define douchebag. Everytime Clément said douchebag, my heart raced a little faster. "Quit saying it! I'll tell you what it means in 9 years." And when I asked Thibault where he heard that word, he told me he heard me say it. I almost slapped his face. I know I haven't said this word in front of them. I've let a few things slip here and there, but never a 'douchebag.' I felt like the dad in those old commercials about marijuana. Dad confronts teenage son about the pot he found in his backpack. Teenage son said he learned it from Dad. Dad looks shocked and ashamed. But I'm not Dad because I really didn't say it!

I'm positive this is another word he learned in the halls at school. It's frightening to me that 12 year old kids go around calling each other douchebags. The problem is that Thibault's vocabulary is stunted as it is, so instead of learning creative adjectives to describe his friends, he's being lazy and resorting to words such as douchebag. I think this is what bothers me most. My mother used to suggest medical terms to verbally abuse the kids that picked on us at school. So when someone said, "You're stupid!" we could retort, "Oh yeah? Well why don't you go duffocate in your backyard!" In which case, the other person would usually walk away confused about what it was I actually suggested they do in their backyard. I am a big proponent of a well placed 'douchebag' but if that's the only word you can conjure up to verbally assault someone, then we have some work to do.

Have you seen my baseball?

Unless I have my iPod in my ears, I am liable to suffer from intense anxiety. I didn't receive my iPod until about 8 months ago and because of that I am attributing my prior severe distaste for France and all things French to not having a coping mechanism for my anxiety. It used to be that if I had to face an uncomfortable situation, I'd consume an inordinate amount of coffee. What a relief to my wallet (and my heart) that now I can stick my earbuds in and focus on the Kevin and Bean Podcast while I have to do all the things that make my skin crawl (like interact with people).

Last year, I intensely dreaded Fridays because this was the day I had to do the grocery shopping. I'd think about it all week and then subsequently bitch about it all weekend. I had to buy a LOT of groceries, which in Paris is uncommon. People will generally do a little grocery shopping every day, buying only what they need for that evening. Standing in line with a cart full of shit, I'd literally start sweating. I could feel people getting frustrated with me. Sometimes I'd even hear a comment about how many groceries I had, usually because the aged dude behind me only had a few things and was pissed he had to wait. The problem was there were 5 people behind me who collectively had less than what I had in my cart, but I wasn't going to wait all goddamn day to buy groceries because these assholes can't figure out the caisse express. Shopping on a late morning weekday meant I was surrounded by old people who apparently had schedules to keep. The kicker was that I could literally run through a cart full of stuff, load my caddie and pay within the time it takes old people to buy their broccoli and cranberry juice. It's always the same situation: After scanning said groceries, the cashier announces the amount owed. The frail patron looks startled, "What? €7.45? Oh, yes! Of course. Now where did I put that wallet? Not here... Here? No... Oh right, in my left pocket. How much? €7.45? That's not how much it was yesterday, but if you say so. I'll slowly count out my coins here..." Meanwhile, I'm eyeing my groceries and mentally calculating how quickly I can load them into the caddy and get the fuck outta Dodge.

This year is a bit different. I put in my iPod and take my time grocery shopping. I'm comparing yogurt flavors; Do I wanna try the mango? I dunno... how many calories? Not too bad. Okay, I'll try it... Whereas last year I'd bolt through the aisles, madly throwing in products and dodging lost old ladies in the candy aisle. When I get to the cashier, I can clearly see the dude behind me has ONE bottle of water and I can clearly hear him through my earbuds complaining about having to wait, but I can pretend that I can't tell he's pissed, and this makes my heart swell. I still efficiently load my caddy and pay with cash, but I no longer eat my way through a bag of Madeleines when I get home because I've just had to get through a stressful situation.

I imagine the folks at Casino (the supermarket) look at me like I'm Warren from There's Something About Mary. I DO NOT go in there without my iPod and when I do, I'm yelling about plums and smacking myself silly. Next stop down crazy lane: being able to call the number of toothpicks that have just fallen on the floor.

The C Words

For me there's never been any ambiguity about what is acceptable for breakfast. Cereal, muffins or fruit: yes. Cakes, cookies, or raw sugar: no. However, it is not uncommon for me to see these things on the breakfast table here in France. In fact, while I was in the south, there wasn't even a breakfast table involved sometimes. "Baptiste! Do you want a strawberry cake or cake bread (brioche) with jam?" And then I'd bring it over to him after he'd finished a bottle of milk with 2 giant ladle fulls of Nesquick. This is what I was advised by the parents to offer for breakfast and this is what granny had the cupboards stocked with. For snack, a sampling of the cookie/cake aisle was offered, although the twins are required to begin snack with applesauce, then move on to chocolate cookies, raspberry candy and cakes shaped like bears. When I was a kid, my snacks were always fruit. On a good day, fruit with peanut butter: apples or celery with pb and raisins. If my mom had offered me cakes and cookies for snack, I probably would have avoided it. I'd be suspicious they'd be soaked in some kind of household cleaner or I'd have to mow the lawn for the next 2 years in return. I'm baffled. Why are American kids so fat yet I can clearly see the ribs of any random sampling of French kids?

Contract Killer

I finish 'work' around 8:15pm every night, with the exception of Mondays. I really got fucked on Mondays. Thibault decided he wanted to join a pansy-ass Tennis-Soccer Club. This meeting of effeminate French men gather every Monday night from 7-8:30, which means Thibault returns around 8:45, and then it is my responsibility to serve him his dinner. I'm still unclear as to why this has become my obligation but I'm too much of a pushover to broach the subject. And considering I've got less than 2 months left, I don't think now is the appropriate time to bitch about my schedule.

Anyway, I've constantly got to coax Thibault to eat quickly. Usually by 9:15 I'm not only getting tired but irritable because Thibault is infringing on my Celebrity Rehab watching time. Tonight, was no exception. He appears to deliberately be eating slowly, so I tell him that tomorrow, when we arrive from school before he can have his free time before homework, I mandate that he come and sit with me at the table and watch me eat lunch. He will literally just have to sit there while I eat what appears to be a small portion of food, but will stretch out over 45 minutes. He was appalled.

His reply, "Well I'll do it for 5 bucks."
"No Thibault, you don't get 5 bucks because I don't get 5 bucks. But you do get less time to do whatever it is that you enjoy."
"You do so get 5 bucks. You get paid to make me dinner."

I am getting so sick of this 12 year old reminding me of how little I get paid to listen to his smart-ass comments. This actually happens often. And if dad hadn't been in the kitchen, I would have laid it out: "Actually douchebag, my 'shift' ended an hour ago so if you don't shovel that steak hâché into your gullet, I'm going to do it for you... while I'm holding your nose."

I really wish the parents hadn't told their kids how many peanuts I get paid. It's gotten better this year, but last year whenever I suggested they do something for themselves (take out the trash or come with me to buy a baguette), they'd always remind me that I'm getting paid to do that. I'm considering showing them my contract to prove that no where does it stipulate that I buy bread, haul trash, or accept verbal bullshit from the children.

Last year I thought it'd be fun to stay a third year and see Thibault through the tumultuous teen years. Now I can't wait to get the fuck out. The mood swings, the snotty comments, the endless declarations regarding stuff he knows nothing about is enough to make a girl seek prescription pain meds, which is my advice to the next au pair: Bring an open prescription of xanax.

Soul cookies

I wish I didn't live my life in perpetual obligation. It comes down to my low self-esteem. My self-esteem can be compared to a bowl of pre-baked cookie dough; after the cookies have been put in the oven and the overweight twelve year-old got a hold of it. You can see at one point there was a lot, but now there's just some wet flour stuck to the sides.

In this particular instance, I'm bitching about borrowing books from friends. When friends recommend books to me, it's bittersweet. I love reading a great book, especially if it's been referred to me by a friend. I hate reading a shitty book that a friend liked. I have no problem declaring my distaste for the book to my friend, however, I feel like i have to read through the entire piece of crap if I want my opinion to be valid. What if the best part of the book is in the last 5 pages and I miss out on it because I'm being snooty about my literature. I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

My sister bought me the Twilight series for Christmas a couple of years ago. For the month of January 2009, I powered through all four books, page by shitty page. I really wanted to like the books because I wanted my sister and I to connect on this. I imagined our mid-20's sleepover; discussing plot points and inventive vocabulary. Unfortunately, the author didn't own a thesaurus and was stuck with only one repetitive word to describe the main character; beautiful. I wanted to carve my eyes out with a melon baller. It still infuriates me today that those books are best sellers, but this is the state of our country. The world thinks Americans are idiots and we have proven them right, once again.

I've become laden with guilt. I love my sister dearly, but I felt terrible for not only NOT liking Twilight but loathing it. But because I have literally read every single page of the series; from Bella giving off her differentiating stink to carrying her vampire baby and then prostituting it out to the werewolves, I am absolute in my mal-opinion of the books. However, it is my obligation to my sister and not myself, that I put myself through that abuse. If I had any self-respect, I would have stopped reading after the first few pages. And after reading the series, the bowl is nearly clean.

Lesions of Awna

My eczema returns every spring in full force, this year not withstanding. I went to the doctor to renew my prescription a few days ago, which led to my memory of getting it for the first time when I was a kid. Now, it's limited to my hands but as a kid I had it on my face. One day I went to school with a band-aid on my cheek to keep me from scratching it. During recess, I was on one of the swings and some kid ponied up next to me and declared, "If you don't let me have this swing, I'm going to make it so you need a band-aid on your other cheek too." I don't remember what I did next, but I assume I let him have the swing because I don't recall wearing two band-aids on my face that day.

And because I wasn't sure how to spell eczema, I looked it up in the dictionary where it is defined as this: an inflammatory condition of the skin characterized by redness, itching, and oozing vesicular lesions which become scaly, crusted, or hardened. Well now I just sound like a freak. I have never described my rash as oozing vesicular lesions, but I guess essentially that's what they are. I wish I had known that when I was a kid. 20 years later, I have the perfect comeback: "If you take one more step toward my swing, I swear I'll smear my lesions all over your face, asshole."

A caring soul

I'm back from hell. I returned to Paris on Saturday. The moment I stepped off the train and inhaled second-hand smoke, I felt relieved to be home. Fredèrique bear-hugged me and congratulated me on surviving. I vowed to never return. It was as if I'd lived through a hiking expedition to the top of Everest, and returned physically unscathed (although emotionally fucked).

Here's the deal: I've had a lot of contact with the twins during the 2 years I've lived here. Our apartment is literally above theirs, so they visit a couple of times a week and I constantly see them in the grocery store with their nanny or walking around the neighborhood. Over Christmas vacation, I'd even babysat a couple of times for a few hours. Perhaps this explains why I was given no warning as to the emotional, mental and sometimes physical beatings I would take over the course of the 10 days I spent in the south of France.

My days consisted of chasing after Baptiste while yelling, "You come here!" and trying to coax the twins away from playing near the pool (while fighting the urge to kick them in and walk away). Initially, I wondered if my accent was so bad they didn't know what I was saying or were they just NOT listening. Turns out it was the latter. The mantra was "Obéis Awna." Everyone told them they most 'obey' me and yet I can't recall a single time that happened. Even the housekeeper said this to them, but these small devil replica's had no desire to obey anyone, except perhaps their creator below.

By day 10 I was running on empty. Over the course of a week and a half, I'd managed to have about 2 hours (collectively) to myself. As our stay ended, I had become quite a bitch. I was yelling at my kids for anything that annoyed me. In fairness to myself, they do a shit ton of things that are insanely annoying but I've become so accustomed to them that I tend not to notice. The entire train ride home, I had my iPod in my ears and was closed for any requests. Thibault asked for water; get it yourself. Clément asked if I could help him carry his soccer ball; absolutely not. I could count in German how often they'd helped me during our vacation, I was in no mood to be a caring and compassionate nanny.