2 things people are in total denial of

Being a pessimist
Being a micromanager

Anyone who is considered one of the above by those around them will, without a doubt, be in total denial that they are one.

Ever seen a manager admit their a micromanager - generally micromanager bosses are the ones that preach how much they hate micromanagers and often verbalize that they "difinately" are not a micromanager. It usually sounds something like this, "I don't want to micromanage you, but did you..."

Pessimist - no one will ever admit to being a pessimist. Calling them a pessimist generally means you're now looking at an angry pessimist.

for Brian...

...because he's the only other person in the world who could relate, or would even care...

My grandparents:
Mom's dad - tall, quiet, always asleep in his chair. Such a confortable chair. I remember waking up really early with him, driving down to the highschool gym. We'd walk around the basketball court, with all the other gentlemen his age. A couple of times. Then head to the restaurant in town for orange juice and honey bun, he had coffee. The honey buns always made me sick to my stomache, but I always ate them because that's what we did. He fell asleep when he took me into "town" to see Annie. Played dominos with him.

Mom's mom - petite, always cooking. I loved going to their house in that small country town. Huge yard, wondering what exactly was in the neighbors underground shelter. The big garage was off limits, but the little storage house we could sneek into - such great stuff in there, but I never wanted to dig too far - somehow afraid of what I'd find. The metal dog on top of the chain link gate. Huge lot. Huge garden - perfect rows. The best tomatoes. Picking blueberries, then she made two blueberry pies, and two carmel pies. Never even heard of a carmel pie before or after, but they were the best thing I've ever eaten. She'd make vegetable soup. We'd eat a bowl while watching Days of Our Lives, then another watching Another World, nap, more soup for dinner. Steal as many of those chocolate chip cookies in between as possible - 2 inches round and 2 inches high. I was never able to make chocolate chip cookies like those, no matter how many times I tried. The front two rooms were the fancier guest living rooms - loved the shelves of nic nacs - I now have the pink glass clam with the big glass pearl - doesn't match anything I have now, stays in a box, but it was a must have after she passed. The closet was so full of wonderful old lady things, fancy cloths, hats, shoes. The smell that was destinctively hers - just like the smell of the sewing cabinet that I now have from her - took me 2 years to actually throw her old scraps of material and buttons away - just couldn't let go of that smell - kept the petite, fancy gold magnifying glass she used to thread needles. The last words I remember hearing her say as she lay in the hospital - "this isn't living, I don't want to live like this." Arby's for lunch was the big treat when we went "into town."

Dad's dad - only met him once or twice, same name as my dad, gave me a beautiful ring that belonged to his mom - he even had my birthstone placed in it.

Dad's mom - not many memories. She put her make up on using a little mirror sitting in front of the window so that the sun was shinning on her. Beautiful woman, I thought, the face that looked great with a smile, such beautiful blue eyes. Best cranberry salad for Christmas and Thanksgiving - I made sure I got that recipe. On her hospital bed, in the last few days, the only thing she could muster the energy to say was to respond with an I love you to her daughter, who read the newspaper on her mom's legs, but at least she was there. We always thought she loved owls, always gave her owl things as presents - until one year she asked why all the owls.

Just thought about it and felt the need to write it.

Relaxation technique

Everybody gets stressed out from time to time...what's important is that you have a way to calm yourself down...a way to relieve that stress.

I thought I'd pass along my technique - just incase anybody out there was looking for a change, or if theirs just wasn't working so well for them...

Picture the cause of your stress (the person) standing in front of you. They could either just be standing there, standing there yelling at you (of course all you see is their mouth moving, you don't actually hear their words), or just standing there with that smug look on your face that just pisses you off.

Now picture yourself with a nice, wooden baseball bat.

Finally, picture yourself pounding that nice baseball bat into the side of their head.

At this point you can let your imagination go wild and either:
Picture you pounding them over and over again
Picture you beating them to the ground

Whatever your little heart desires - personally, I find replaying the initial hit over and over again in my mind the most satisfying.

Ah, there now, don't you feel better?
(of course this only works when you IMAGINE it - we'd never want you to actually do this)

5 Reasons why it's difficult for Americans to live in France

I've been thinking about it the last few (difficult French) days...here's my list of why I believe it's hard for Americans to adjust to living in the French Riviera...and with French people...

1. Personal Space - this is probably a problem with other countries, but I can only speak to France. Americans tend to be slightly put off when someone stands so close that you can feel (and smell) their nasty breath on your neck. While I'm thinking about it - man - is there NOTHING worse than walking through someone's nasty exhaled breath?? You know what I mean, when someone has just exhaled as you walk by, and as you inhale you get their nasty stuff. Coffee breath is the worst! And I don't need your help (looking over my shoulder) as I dig through my wallet for money to pay the cashier.

2. Common Courteosy -

• Like putting the change in my welcoming hand (see earlier blog) instead of setting it on the counter just under my hand.
• Not parking in the driving lane on a two lane street because it's convenient for you - or at least put on your signal, or give some general warning that you're parking.
• Not stopping in the middle of a residential road - getting out of your car to do the double kiss with the person standing in front of their house while there are two cars behind you. If you must, at least make the conversation short - under a minute would be nice.
• Stopping your personal conversation about lunch to help me (the customer) when I walk up to your counter.
• Not hitting me three times with your shopping cart while we're standing in line - it WON'T make the line go faster.
• Control your children - it's not cute when they run up and down grocery store iles yelling "ma ma, ma ma" in that high pitched tone they have. Nor do I care to have them join me at my table for lunch. And if they keep darting in the road like Texas squirrels they're probably going to get hurt - it never works out good for the squirrels...
• Staring - good lord, these people will stare at your for the longest time...way beyond the just glancing point. (On a side note, must find some way to remove that "American" stamp that is apparently permanently placed on my forehead)

3. Time/Productivity/Efficiency - because of how crowded the stores are, and the hours they are open (as minimum as possible) your productivity/efficiency level drops significantly. It now takes me a week to get the things done I could have done in one afternoon, after work, in the states. "Running in" to stores here is c'est impossible (as the LOVE to say).

4. Convenience - Americans are spoiled, you can pretty much get whatever you want whenever you want it. Not in France. I'm seriously not joking when I say that stores are open as little as possible. And stores randomly close if they decide to go on vacation. You have to re-train yourself to get to the stores at their convenience not yours. Because of tourist season and vacations July and August are as random as possible for store hours. We constantly get to a store and find it's randomly closed for two weeks.

5. The attitude - I'm sure it's a cultural difference (they don't easily let people in to their inner circle), combined with the fact that it's such a touristy area (if you're not from here they assume your a tourist - until about your 3rd month here). Well, you can see my earlier blog from this week - it's no excuse for how rude these people are.

I've been through my "Living and Working in France" training when I first moved here - they left these 5 points out. I've spoken with several Americans who live here and these 5 points keep coming up when we discuss the struggles in living here.

Those Manly French Men

Never let it be said that French men are not manly...

Are the French as rude as people say?

Yes.
But in their defense...wait...no...I've got nothin'

Potty training the French

**Not for the faint of heart**
OK, I haven't actually seen one of them pee in their pants. Maybe it's more about teaching them bladder control.

These people will pee AND poop anywhere, anytime. They seem to have a complete inability to "hold it" - good lord, didn't they learn that as a child?? Didn't we all?? Apparently not, I saw a mom walk her son toward the enterance of a large WalMart like store here. Stop, take him back outside, over to the left (still in direct view) to the flower pot and let him pee on the flower. Had she gone to the same location in the store there is the men's room.

I would love to say that I'm joking, but it's just a thing here...other transplants here have pointed it out too.

It's not uncommon at all to see someone pulled over on the side of the road peeing. Man or woman. They don't even try to be discreet about it - you know, in the states, people would at least go a few feet back in the bushes. Not here - first bush will do, small plant, weed growing out of the sidewalk - whatever. Crowded place - doesn't matter.

The worst part is the pooping. Seriously. I have seen people get out of their car, napkin in hand and head to the closest bush. Then they walk back zipping up their pants or straightening their shirts. I walk my dogs on the great trails around us - we are constantly coming across wads of used toilet paper. It's simply amazing - how is that acceptable or ok? I've finally found a "poop free" trail - there are several I won't go near because I've seen too many wads of used toilet paper.

Sure, my husband LOVES to be able to whip it out anywhere and take care of business...blame it on me being a conservative American.

Grocery store games

The French do this funny thing at the grocery store...they bag thier own groceries :), just joking they do that but that's not the funny part...that's actually a good thing and more people in America should do it (there's my green comment for today)

Anyway - the cashier will sit there (seemingly) patiently while you unload every item in your grocery cart BEFORE they will begin scanning anything. Then, as you move your cart to the other side and begin preparing yourself to bag your groceries, the cashier will proceed to scan your items at lightening quick speed and (literally) toss them down to you. So you end up down there overloaded because you can't bag as quick as she scans and tosses.

Then she waits (seemingly) patiently, with the undeniable look of "dear god, why can't you keep up, what's taking you so long to just bag your groceries, are you ready to pay NOW?" If you're lucky, the next customer in line will join her in these looks - always fun.

I see this all the time - their hurried scanning & tossing pace puts the customer in some sort of rush too. I think the clerks get some sick satisfaction of creating this situation.

So, I slowly bag my items, then take my time paying. Two can play at that game missy!

My husband's next wife...

There's a wonderful English speaking website here with a frequently used forum. Somehow a forum topic got started about ladies meeting for "dinner and gossip" - what the hell, I don't know too many people here - why not jump in.

So, we met last night for dinner in a local old village here (very busy touristy area.)

I pulled into the parking lot, which was very busy, so I did one of those drive around until you see someone walking to their car - then wait. The guy let his wife in the car, made eye contact with me (which I took as recognition that I was waiting for the space) - then he proceeded to walk to the back of his car and pee. Long pee. Zipped up, looked back at me, waved, jumped in the drivers seat and vacated the spot. Lovely.

There were four of us who met for dinner. The petite French lady. The Canadian. And the American - my husband's next wife.

Sparky is an avid, obsessive cyclist. He's where the term "caged squirrel" comes from. If he doesn't get to release his energy via jogging, working out or, oh yeah, cycling - his energy closely resembles what a neurotic, hyper paranoid, caged squirrel might look like.

So as I' m talking to these ladies, it comes out that the American LOVES jogging and cycling long distances, up hill (freak). See, I am ok with jogging (short distances on flat roads), and really like mountain biking (downhill.) I'm getting much better, but my husband races Expert level (one down from Professional) so there is no way I can keep up with him. I imagine I'm at the cycling level he was at when he was 12.

She's a really fun American, I'm sure I'll see her more, along with the other ladies. We have a good chance of being great friends...but I'm afraid she'll never be able to meet Sparky. No way I'm handing him off to another lady.

Jake's eyes

So here's my puppy Jake, or Jacques as his French vet calles him...

Look at those eyes.

This dog has been with me for 11 years - I love him more than anything in this world (except, of course for my husband-my other dog comes in a really close second, but Jacques has been with me longer. We have history.)

But look at those eyes. Do you ever look at your dog and think there is no way I could ever love that dog as much as he loves me. He is a momma's boy. All he wants in this world is to be with me at all times. I love those eyes.

Pictures

I can't upload pictures on this blog...am I the only one (idiot) with this problem? I really wanted to put a picture of my dog here, then type a really cute little story about him that I've been thinking about all day...but I can't upload pictures to my blog.

Now it's just going to be anti-climatic, I'm finally going to whine to my husband until he (happily) "helps" me figure it out, and you're gonna be like, "woo-hoo, that's what all this whinning was about."

Wait, I have an idea...

...damn pop up blockers...let's try this again...

eh, forget it...I'm going to go watch Desperate Housewives on iTunes and eat my dinner. I'll try again tomorrow (and wow you with my dog thoughts)...

Resist the urge...

So I'm sitting in traffic on a side road waiting to turn right onto the highway. There are 2 lanes of traffic going my direction - and we're just sitting still, slowly inching our way up. I look in my drivers side mirror and see a moped coming up the dotted line between the two rows of cars entirely too fast (not that I'm suprised - anywhere you see a moped it's driving entirely too fast - see earlier blog from Mon, Aug 7th "French Driving-a reoccuring topic.")

Is it wrong that I have an incredible urge to open my car door just as he's approaching?

Must resist the urge, must resist the urge...must...resist...the...urge.

Kinky underwear

OK, so I signed up for the AdSense thing that is offered with this blog - they post a little ad on my blog page and if you click on it I get paid - so click, click, click, click, click away please!!

Anyway - the day I added the AdSense link was the same day I posted the "Dear god..." blog. Apparently AdSense picked up on the underwear thing and gave me the kinky.com ad link.

If you do click on the link - thank you - but I apologize. My friend clicked on it just to see what it was - there are men in horrible little speedo bikinis - which is just what I hate the most...and by the way, if you click on the "thongs" that's GOT to be a girls butt...

OK, so AdSense is linked to key words in my blog...dear god, maybe I should remove the kinky word before I get some other obscene links...hmmm, what else would it pick up on to give me nicer ads - flowers, watches, jewelery, diamonds, t-shirts, shoes, anything but speedo underwear.

My mom...

...she's a funny, undiagnosed chemically imbalanced woman...yet somehow a hypochondriac also. She'll let a doctor prescribe every other drug in the world except the ones she really needs to control that chemical imbalance thing she's got going on.

No joke, one day I was in Texas at her house - she called me in from the other room to see a commercial on tv, proclaiming "I have that, I need that!" The commercial was for restless leg syndrome and a lovely pill you can take to resolve the issue. The drug companies must know my mom by reputation and need a new boat/car/house/small island/insert-other-luxury-item-here, why else would they put drug ads on tv now.

Anyway - I just got an email from her. "Your dad got the package you mailed him and says thanks for the stuff - he loves the hat." History - since we're in France, we drove up and watched the Tour de France come through (because my husband is an avid, obsessive, cyclist.) Prior to the riders coming through there are all these lovely sponsors that tour through and throw samples/goodies/trinkets-n-trash at you. We had so many of these goodies that we decided to divide them up and send them to our families back home, along with a cute little note with pictures. I sent one to my in-laws, my brother, my dad, and my mom (they're divorced.) Knowing my mom well enough, and knowing the contents of the package, I read clearly between the lines of her simple little sentence above. What she politely (?) left out was the "WHERE'S MINE!! You love you dad more than me don't you!! After all I do for you and all the sacrafices I've made WHY DO YOU HATE ME SO MUCH!"

What I love about...

OK, I'm not gonna lie, it's been a rough move for us - two Americans who are admittedly spoiled by the abundant conveniences in the US - not that we're not open to new ways, but...

France is a funny place, with quirky ways - but there are a few downright great things here:

• Boulangeries (Bakeries) on every corner (though they aren't open Sundays...and sometimes in the middle of the day, or any random day of the week they decide to be closed)
• Pizza - it's the best, they have these little trucks on the side of the road where you can stop and buy a 5Euro pizza. Paper thin, but the best.
• Accessibility to skiing - 1 1/2 away.
• Accessibility to Europe - everything seems to be a 5 hr car ride away - Barcelona, Venice, Tuscany, Switzerland...
• The breathtaking view from my terrace...Sparky picked a great house for us...

Things I have a love/hate relationship with:

• The weather - end of June, July were just sweltering hot - with ac only in the car. But Aug it's been wonderful-like May and the beginning of June. 85 during the day, just chilly enough in the morning. Wonderful. Winter is another story, my beautiful house was built as a summer home - they didn't care how it would (or wouldn't) hold heat in the winter.
• Driving - it's chaotic, but there's something rebellious about maneuvering in it.

Customer Service?

It becomes blatantly obvious that the French and Americans have very different definitions of "customer service"

Simply one example:
Yesterday I went to a little sandwich counter to pick up lunch. I pointed, she mumbled something in French as she turned away from me, then rang me up. 5,70Euro - I pull a 10 out of my wallet and place it politely in her extended hand. She gets the change, but instead of placing in back politely in my extended, open, readily accessible hand she places it on the counter literally 2 inches to the left and below that friendly hand.

I don't get it - she had her palm out expecting money placed in it - is it so much to ask that I receive the same courtesy to my palm? What's worse, she then looked at me in the eye and turned and walked away.

And it's not like she was just being snooty - I write because this is not the first time this has happened. The exact senario has replayed and replayed itself over and over, counter to counter, store to store.

Well you wanna play that way girly, it's 2 inches to the left and below your extended hand from now on...how you like them apples...ha ha


Another fine example:
Corsica Hotel - the lady at the registration desk got mad at me because I had dogs in my room. I don't understand, I said, I called ahead and specifically stated I'd have dogs and asked if it was ok, and you were the one who checked me in and saw me walk by with my dogs 5 minutes later. Yes, but when you checked in to your room you did not specifically say you had dogs.
But dogs are allowed in this hotel, right? Right.
Then why are you upset again?
Because you did not tell me on check in that you had dogs.
Hua?

Dear god...

So I do some part time work for an international not-for-profit organization while I'm living in France. I work with one of the board members - specifically out of his house. Nice, casual environment - it was much nicer when there were other interns working here this summer (others to talk to.)

Anyway, I just got here and he had apparently planned on going to the pool, then, just before I arrived, remembered that he had a phone conf call to take. So he's now walking around in a polo shirt and his speedo. He's pushing 70. This guy has lived in France waaaayyy too long.

Dogs, guilt, n-stuff

Dogs don't get it do they...poor things...
Everytime I have to take my dog to the vet he's like "Woo-hoo me and mommy time, I get to go with her and the other dog doesn't!!" He's so excited...then I open the door to the vet's office and he immediately gets it. Every time. So sweet.

I have a friend who is Jewish and proudly proclaims that no mom can dish out guilt like his jewish mom. I'm willing to place a bet that my mom could go head to head with her in a cage match and hold her own - and go through more boxes of tissues in the process.

Speaking of my mom, her birthday is coming up. Hmmm, what to get her- should I go out and buy her something totally useless, that she absolutely doesn't need/want and wouldn't use, completely out of her taste that doesn't match a thing in her house, but something that I think she should like - you know, use the same thought process to buy her something that she'd use to buy me a gift?

So, I work out (almost) every day - what the hell is that small patch of jiggly shit just above my elbow??

Why don’t people cross in cross walks, that’s what they’re there for, so why do people insist on crossing at any random part of the street…ok so I do it occasionally, but still, don’t people know it’s dangerous to not cross at a crosswalk?

Random Thoughts

Eeewwww - I don't want to see any man in one of those little speedos, let alone a rather large, 75 year old man. If you can't see the top of your speedo, we can't either...take the hint.

Good lord women, they're called bras - use them. (And a side note here, you don't have to be so proud of yourself for finally wearing one that you feel the need to show everyone.)

Why is it that all men who stand to pee are in total denial that they splash?

Here's my dogs daily schedule in a nutshell - wake up, walk, eat, sleep for 8 hours in the house, walk, hope for a dinner treat, sleep through the night. They're at home most of the day - sleeping. So why is it that when I walk in the door the dog goes over to the water bowl, which has been full all day, and drinks like she just got out of the desert? She sounds like I've starved her for water - good lord girl, it's been there all day, just get your lazy doggie butt off that comfy cushion and walk over and get a drink...

French driving – a reoccurring topic

I think one of the first things a person must notice when they live or visit France must be the insane driving.

A Brit I met said it best, “the nicest French person you know will turn into a raving loon when put behind the wheel of a car.”

And the motorcyclist and moped drivers are the worst of the bunch. They’re on crack, cocaine, speed…any of the above…all of the above. I’m now convinced that it must be a requirement to be on drugs to get your license. You must have to prove it somehow…imagine how that driving test goes.

“Well you did great Pierre, you successfully swerved in and out of bumper to bumper traffic while doing 100 km per hour, and smoking your cigarette. You ran one car off the road back on that sharp corner and, impressingly enough, managed to prove that that old lady could indeed run across the road even though she had a walker. Now just pee in this cup to prove what we all know is true and we’ll get that license off the photocopier right away.”

You'd think a bank has money...

Oh, the little things. You know when you've been somewhere for a while, there are just things that you know and you assume everyone else knows. Like a door knob, when someone new comes to your house you don't think to show them how your door knob works, because you assume they have something similar and know how to use it.

These little things seem to be intensified when you're in a new country. Sure, I've been through my "living in France" assimilation, but that just gets you familiar with the country in general. All these little "door knob" things come up later.

Here's a few I've come across since we've been here:
If you're in a house, it probably has a boiler (heater) and those run off of gas. And you have to have those refilled by a company who will deliver it to you. Which means you have to watch the level of gas in your boiler. This would be a REALLY good thing to know especially if you move into your house in, say, November when the temp outside is 50 during the day and 30 at night.
(And a special thanks here to the management company who let us move into the house with only 1 week worth of boiler gas)

Everything is closed from 12-3. Everything. Don't even try to get anything done during that time. Siesta, they call it in the Spanish countries. Sounds so cool, until you really need to get to the store...

Everything is closed Sunday. Everything. Don't even try to get anything done during that day.

Don't assume that because stores have their "siesta" period that they will be open later. They still close at 6.

While I'm on a roll, don't assume that the person at the counter under the "customer service" sign gives a damn to do anything other than talk (about you) to her coworker.

Bathrooms - oooohhh, that will take a blog all to itself.

Driving - yeah, again, that's another blog all to itself someday.

In the US you can walk into any branch of your bank and get whatever you need really. Not here. If you have a question on your account, or need to do a wire transfer (which are incredibly common here) you have to go to your assigned branch and speak to your account manager. Just because they're all the same bank doesn't mean they have access to your account.

Not all banks have money. If you can figure out the secret code to get into the bank doors (seriously not as easy as it sounds), you have to make sure it's a bank branch that will actually have what you need - say money for instance. I walked into my "assigned" bank branch wanting to change dollars into Euros. No, can't do that here. Ok, no problem, then can you take my 100Euro bill and give me smaller bills? No, we don't carry cash in this bank. Of course not, what was I thinking. Go to the post office I'm told. Sure, why didn't I think of that.

Somehow I'm sure there will be more...

Nice Boobs

French women, especially in the South of France, do not wear many cloths. They love their underwear, and more than cheese, olives, or completely ignoring you at the "customer service" counter, I believe they love to show you their underwear.

Yesterday I had a very nice French woman that I know go with me to a phone store to help me resolve a problem I was having - I took her because she speaks French and English and I only speak English...

She is a very tall, thin, blonde, French women...with the face of a horse. She was wearing a black wrap dress that was literally cut down to her abs. She's tall enough that I come face to face with her boobs when she stands next to me.

I don't know if I described the dress well enough - her boobs had issues staying in. For some reason today she decided to wear a black bra that matched the dress (vs. the typical pink, blue or orange flowery bra French women like to wear)

So as she lead the way to the back of the phone store it was hilarious to see the crowded store stare at her boobs - women/men - they didn't even try to hide it. Hard not to - they were conveniently at eye level.

I can't blame them - the lady has great boobs - at least their not like the saggy, dark brown ones you see at the beach.

The inaugural post

Wow, the inaugural post. So much pressure, what do I say, will they like me...do I care, or do I just want a place to talk...

My husband, Sparky, and I moved to the French Riviera last November. (No, my husband's name isn't really Sparky...that's his secret identity for the purposes of this blog) We previously lived in Dallas, Texas. His company graciously moved us here for a 2 year assingment. Living in the South of France, who could say no to that...

France is...well...an interesting place, with incredibly interesting people. I went from working full time to being at stay at home mom to the dogs (- no really, dogs, that's not a pet name for my children)...

Over the last 9 months I've kept little notes on the quirky ways of the French (dear God are they quirky.) My husband has told me all along that I should create a blog and write those notes there instead of my journal...fine...you win...(thank you hunny)

So here we go...as random little things pop into my head I intend to share those with you. I hope you find the totally random ways of the French people as entertaining as I do.