Five reasons I'm screaming

Now you know I'm all about anger management.  More assertive than aggressive (with a side of passive pouting now and then).  But sometimes a girl's gotta scream.  Literally or figuratively.  Because when you push this girl a little too far, things happen.  Screams happen.  Find out why:

1. Because French doctors need to get a clue

Recent real conversation between me and the on call doc on the phone:

Me: When I spit it's green.
Le docteur: You mean when you expectorate it's green.
Me: Yeah, when I expectorate... I'm not French, I don't know all the technical words.
Le docteur: So can you cough for me now?
Me: COUGH.
Me: Well, normally it's a hacky cough.
Le docteur: That's not a very hacky cough.
Me: Yeah, well, normally it is...

After three doctors I finally got the treatment I think I need.  Did it really need to take this long?

Recommended scream: Silent scream. I'm sick, remember?

2.  Because "communication" and "work" generally don't go in the same sentence.
Unless that sentence is, "Geez, communication at work is kinda crappy."  Now, I'm not targeting my company.  Just all companies.  Cause there always comes a point when you shake your hands in the air and wonder why you wasted your breath making a suggestion.  Only to receive a "yeah, thanks, but no thanks."

Or you think you've found a way to make things a bit easier but receive a "we'll see..." which means "around, oh, say, never."

(Source)
"Yeah, if you could keep all comments and suggestions to yourself, that'd be great."

Recommended scream: Permanent sigh and head bang against cubicle wall.

3. Because my husband has a problem with his computer.  Again.
My husband is a really smart guy.  He can tell you exactly how much fertilizer you need for a thousand geraniums.  Or calculate the profit margin in his head in two seconds.  He's not bad with computers.  But I'm his go to girl when something goes wrong.  Because if there's one thing he's not, it's patient.

If I had a euro (cause it's stronger than the dollar today) for everytime he's said, "come here, my printer's not working," I'd be richer than Bill Gates and the late Steve Jobs combined.  And let's throw Ashton Kutscher in there since he portrayed Jobs in the movie.  And he's cute.

Real conversation with my husband:

Him: Come here a second (after banging his fist on desk in frustration with technology)
Me: Er, you got a problem there?
Him: Computer won't print and it's urgent (note from me: it's always urgent.)
Me: Did you try turning everything on and off again?
Him: Yeah.
Me: Did you try reinitializing the wifi?
Him: No.
Me: Let's do that.
Him: Still not working.
Me: Ok, try printing off my tablet.
Him:  Ok, it's working.
Me: And what do you say after someone helps you?
Him: Uh, merci.

Recommended scream: Audible sigh and heavy eye-rolling.

4. Because I have to repeat "get dressed/let's go/eat your toast" about a million times.

She is precious and a half.  She is smart and sweet.  She's also a slowpoke or purposefully stubborn.    Maybe some parents at this point would pop their kids.  I don't think it helps much in these cases.  Maybe I'm losing my credibility with her.  But sometimes nearly six year olds take their own sweet time and choose not to listen one bit to their well-meaning parents.  So as I stand at the sink saying for the ninth time that it's time to brush your teeth, I think I'm gonna lose it. And sometimes I do.

Recommended scream: well, you shouldn't really scream.  But it happens.  So, gritted teeth scream followed by "Mommies get frustrated sometimes" speech.

5. Because I don't even know why I bother to clean this place.
It is so typical.  I come home around 5:30 or 6 and have to think about dinner, maybe a load of laundry, playing with Juju, hearing about her day, oh, and I need some chocolate, and...WHAT is that smell?  The cat has graced us with some powerful stuff in his litterbox.  Hubby won't be home till 7:30 or 8.  So it once again falls to me to do the scooping.  Plus grains of litter on the floor, again.  My next house pet will be a robo-fish.

Recommended scream: Charley Brown-like Aaarrrrggghh and zen breathing.

There, I feel better having gotten that off my chest.  Now if I could get rid of this chest cold.  And get a maid.  And start telling people to "talk to the hand" cause the Milam ain't listening (if people even still say that).

What makes you scream?!  And what is your best way to deal with it?

House Hunters International Edition

My mom was just mentioning this show a while back.  Where people with generally ginormous budgets look for palaces in Italian fairy tale landscapes.  Or even the Amerian edition where some young couple with no kids is ready to put 300 thousand bucks on a "little" cottage starter home.  

Such is not our budget.  And if you're a follower of the Lazy Girl's life you'll know that what it's really been about for, well, years, is location, location, location!  A few years back and even just a few months back, my hubby and I just couldn't come to an agreement on where to live.  I was more of a city mouse, and he a decidedly entrenched country mouse.  If I had a dime for every argument or suppressed argument on that subject, I'd have enough money to buy two Italian palaces.

Flash forward to January 2013 when hubby and I compromised. A place south of our current city that would cut out traffic for him and only add about ten minutes for me.  Still close to my work and work opportunities in the future.  I was stunned he was now considering this area.  Literally five minutes from two of my friends and fifteen minutes from another.  I was holding my breath waiting for him to change his mind.

And we started a furious few weeks of home-touring looking for one that struck our fancy and that we could both agree on.  It's actually pretty tiring to spend evenings and Saturdays visiting homes, trekking from one part of the city to another.  Most of our visits also took place during the two-week period when we had snow on the ground and bitter temperatures.  A few uninhabited houses we visited were absolutely freezing inside.

It was kind of fun seeing how other people live and decorate.  We learned a few things along the way.  Take a look at the hall of fame/shame...

Classy closets make a difference.

That 70s show bathroom... wow, that hurts my eyes.

Groovy wallpaper is NOT where it's at.

Some people out their DO have taste.  But their houses are generally pricier.

But none of these houses made it on our short-list (aside from the closet place, briefly).  We came to realize the perfect house didn't exist.  But that the pretty good one we'd visited kept coming back in our minds.  And so last Monday we made an offer on one we BOTH (gasp) agreed on.  I won't show you it yet because we haven't signed for it and must get the official green light from the bank. 

I will tell you it's white brick with a blue door, something we had both actually put on our cute house wishlist.  Keep your fingers crossed, guys, and maybe a picture will be coming soon...

Let me be frank

Author's Note: I'd published this Thursday night but Blogger had problems and removed posts published after a certain time of day Wednesday. Along with some comments, too! Sorry, Jennet and Deirdre. I did publish your comments on Abba-Mania but they disappeared. Also Crystal who had already commented on this post before it got wiped. Here's what I could piece back together from my post, as some of it was saved in draft form.

The French are known for being frank. Well, actually, no offense, but they're known for being rude. I'm starting to wonder if it's really just that they are brutally honest. And they think it's probably for your own good. Constructive criticism gone a bit too far. I'm sure I've told you already that Google in the Silicon Valley likes hiring Frenchies because they're not afraid to give their opinion and shake up things a bit. While this may be great in a creative environment like Google, it's not always welcome in my living room.

Picture it: last week after I'd prepared turkey burritos and plain cous cous that got way too sticky (I've got starchy food issues, sometimes. Maybe I should see a specialist.). While I was munching down on my tex-mex, saying, in Crystal style, love me some mild spicy food, I casually asked Remi what he thought of the meal. Not exceptional, he answered. I'm sure he could tell by the frown/raised eyebrow/evil stare down that his answer wasn't going down well. So he explained that he's not too fond of Mexican food.

Fair enough. But where I come from (smiley, friendly US of A), we would have said things differently. Like, well, it's not bad, but a bit spicy for me. Call it sugar-coating, if you like. But I, for one, like sugar. It helps the medicine go down (sing it with me, Mary Poppins fans: medicine go dooooown).

And it got me to thinking that perhaps his response was perfectly fine for a French marriage where each is used to this kind of honest exchange. Where talking about and criticizing food is a national passion (French food recently got UNESCO World Heritage Status). But in a mixed marriage like mine, it opens up worlds of misunderstandings and hurt feelings (on my side at least). I tried to tell him that, in a non-confrontational way, but it really bummed me out last week. I'm not trying to make this a husband-bashing post, (if I'd written it last week you could have felt the anger spittle on your side of the screen). But I'm wondering how many other cultural differences like this we'll keep discovering. And maybe others in mixed relationships like myself have some advice on how to deal with these things. We might discover world peace along the way. Who knows how many international conflicts could have been avoided if we'd just known that the smirk from the opponent was NOT an invitation to warfare.

Like Rodney King said back in the day, can't we all just get along?

Location (location, location!)

I think new couples should ask each other right off the bat where they want to live in the future. On the dancefloor if need be. "Hey, do you come here often? And would you prefer a flat in the city or a country house?" Because, people, it is a Big Issue. When you're still in the hazy golden phase of your relationship you think you could live anywhere and, as long as your beloved were there, everything would be fine and dandy. You're not thinking clearly. You're not thinking about is it in a good school district? Or will the roads be accessible if it snows? Or is there a bakery in the town?

I know I've talked about it before. And bugged my friends about it. And my mom. And my husband, too, of course. But it's still an issue. That thorny question of where we will live. One day when we have sufficient incomes to buy, that is. We're already compromising now living in between our jobs. And renting. But Remi's always made it clear that he hates the city. And even a small city such as where we currently live is the object of his hate. His dream is the smallest of small towns. But said small town is far from job opportunities for me, far from shops, hospitals. I honestly have a hard time seeing myself living there. And that's where the problem begins.

I suggest the word "compromise" again. As in, somewhere between our current town and his place of business. Which would likely mean more driving for me, that's true, but not as much as if we lived in said small village. But we don't seem to be speaking the same language, be it in French or English. We're hitting a brick wall and it's not that of our hypothetical new home.

Where you live does matter. As an expat I'm already uprooted in every sense of the word. I guess I'm a bit picky about where I want to plant myself again. But I have a right to say that this place pleases me and this one doesn't. And sure, when I watch a documentary about poor Philipinos living under bridges and in cemeteries, I'm ashamed I ever complain about not having a garden or wanting a real bedside table. But does that mean I should never give my opinion at all? Accept anything knowing I probably won't be emotionally happy there? I'm not trying to be down on my husband here. Nor air my dirty laundry. I'm just trying to work out what I want and where I want to be. So, bloggers, advice is welcome.

What are the "musts" on your living place list?

Romance isn't dead

I've never been very big on Valentine's Day. This could be from my many years of being single. Or that I totally resent how the stores bombard us with red and pink hearts and cheaply printed cards. Or that roses jump up in price so outrageously just in time for this Hallmark holiday. Now that I am in a relationship I do try to honor the day by making Remi a meal and perhaps buying him chocolate. Before Baby (BB) we sometimes went out to a restaurant. And though I do get a bit miffed if my husband fails to do at least a small gesture for the day, I'd definitely fall into the camp of those who say Valentine's Day should be celebrated every day by the way you treat each other. As a sometimes nagging (or as I prefer to think of it: tell-it-like-it-is) wife, I probably am not living up to that idea either!

It's always struck me as odd that in France Valentine's Day is strictly for couples. You don't hear about schoolkids exchanging cards with all their little classmates or eating those insipid Sweet Heart candies. In the US you can send your mom a Valentine's Day card (heads up, mom, I didn't, but you know I love you bunches) or your sister or child, etc. Leave it to the French with their romantic reputation (true or not, I'll let you decide) to make V Day a purely romantic love day.

Perhaps I'm becoming more cynical with age and my swoony teenage years are growing dim in my memory. However I can still remember daydreaming as a teen of waltzing with some tall dark stranger or the bittersweet agony of Romeo and Juliet's final act. I suppose these things do still move me now, but I've gone a bit too practical.

Or have I? Lately I've been catching up (or should I say finally discovering) the warm and charming now cancelled TV show Pushing Daisies. Unfortunately we get it in French here but just a few scenes from the pilot that Remi found had me captivated. It's the story of a man who can wake the dead but must touch them again after one minute or something else will die in that person's place. It's complicated to explain, but anway, the show is deliciously quirky and the romance between the pie shop owner and his childhood sweetheart he brought back to life is well, swoony. Here's the trailer to give you a quick recap. It's filmed in a very Amélie type way, over-the-top imagery and luscious colors. Love the occasional singing numbers which don't make you feel too embarassed.

So here's to remembering the sweet, delicate moments in life, be they with your family or your other half. Who said romance had to be about skimpy lingerie and expensive meals. Maybe it's what you want it to be: appreciating the beauty of a foggy day or indulging in a decadent caramel chocolate with your eyes closed. And singing your heart out to cheesy love songs because it's good for you. Click on the link to hear one of the best!

You know the feeling...

...when one of those oldie but goodies comes on the radio? You turn it up a bit too loud. You start driving a bit too fast, not intentionally, but because your foot is tapping to the beat. You start singing along even if you don't have tinted windows and you don't care if you look like a fool to the drivers around you. Because you are in the moment. And it doesn't get any better than this.

I'm guessing you've all got a song or two that are on your "must turn up loud" lists (and I'd love to know which ones). For me lately it's that Chaka Khan song, I feel for you. Yeah, I know, you whippersnappers born after 1980 are groaning about now. But you just wait. One day a song from your childhood will come on and kids (and by this I mean those only ten years younger than you) will scoff. Let them scoff all they want. One man's musical trash is my musical get down and boogey treasure.

My husband and I are basically from the same generation (he's four years younger), but I've found that the cultural differences can create some chasms in our musical tastes. Some sappy French 80s song will attract his attention while I'm trying not to make too many snide comments. But for him it recalls fond memories driving around with his dad when he was 10 or so.

But a car ride with Remi can also be a real exercise in patience because he's a pathological channel turner (same with the TV). I don't even have enough time to say, "Wait, that's a great Sting song," and he's turning it, and turning it again. The worst is when he'll have been listening 20 seconds, enough for me to get into a song, then abruptly turn. His internal song-o-meter must have told him it wasn't worthy.

Luckily we can agree on a few bands or artists, like most songs by Muse, Rhianna, Lady Gaga, and, oops, not too many more. His taste tends more towards all things dancey and slightly techno. I can dig some of those types of music, but also appreciate folksy rock and stuff he considers country, like the Eagles (help me out here, foks, they aren't country, right?, which I do like sometimes too, by the way).

Then there are those funny moments when I'll hear some strange French remake of The House of New Orleans. And a debate ensues about which country wrote it first. I'm inclined to think that would be my country, but not always.

Here's a game if you've got some time to waste: Listen to these French songs and name the American song. Answers at the end of the post.

1.

2.

3.

So, did you get those? 1. Black is black, apparently by a Spanish band. 2. Do wah diddy diddy. Written by a British group. 3. My Way. And this one was actually written by the French artist first.

And yes I'm a little ashamed at how much time I spent on this post, but it sure was fun!

Couples therapy, one episode at a time

Last week during a discussion (read: argument) with Remi, he said I was acting like Lynette. One of the “desperate” housewives played by Felicity Huffman who is always jumping to conclusions and is sometimes overly suspicious. Having anticipated this, I quickly retorted that if he remembered last week’s episode, Tom, Lynette’s husband, apologized for not realizing how his actions might be hurting his wife.

I know it’s just a show and maybe not even the best-written of all time. But, it does highlight some husband-wife relations that just about anyone can identify with (ok, maybe not the part about your pharmacist poisoning your husband or your husband being an ex-con). It’s just fiction and in the space of 40 odd minutes, the larger-than-life couples are able to resolve their problems with witty banter. But sometimes it makes us feel like we’re not that far off the mark from other couples with their silly problems. I think of it as free therapy.

For a while I’ve been wondering which of the wives I resemble the most. And in fact, like most women, I’m probably a mix. Uptight with perfectionist tendencies: Bree Van de Kamp. Though my house and cooking will never be as exquisite as hers, I often have Martha Stewart aspirations and certainly am too strict with myself sometimes. Protective of her family and yes, a tad suspicious, that’s the Lynette in me. But I’m probably most like Susan in that I often say the wrong things, am clutzy and am overly worried about pleasing other people. I’m perhaps the least like Gabrielle, but at times I can be sassy and straight-talking. I probably should be more often.

So for any other DH fans out there, which wife are you?

Men: Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em

Dear male readers, don’t be scared off by my title. I just thought it was time to let off a little steam about the joys and well, non-joys, of life with someone with a Y chromosome. It’s been a post I’ve had in my head for a while, but I was inspirited to flesh it out more since I discovered this blog thanks to my friend Caroline. I think the title says it all, www.myhusbandisannoying.com Even if you’re not married, I think anyone can appreciate the absurdity of it all. I especially love how her husband seems to be the twin of Ben Stiller.

But back to my own moanings. Beyond those little things like leaving the toilet in a mighty fine state right after I’ve cleaned it or keeping empty cookie bags in the cupboard (do they think they will magically be refilled?), there are just some male characteristics that I alternately admire and find annoying:

1. That logic thing: Like when I spent way too much time trying to remove those plastic things from Juliette’s crib, and Remi just looked at them and saw they needed to be unscrewed. Or when I was afraid I’d messed up my computer by pushing in the start button too much, Remi simply slapped his hand on the CPU to make it pop out. I guess he inherited the MacGyver gene.

2. The ability to sleep through nuclear war: and more specifically babies crying or cats meowing for food at 4 a.m. As my friend Ilona said, perhaps we women are just more tuned to our environment and anticipating what might happen. We’re on alert mode. So the men don’t have to be…

3. Letting go of worry: Whereas I can spend a sleepless night worrying about a new possible life-threatening runny nose that baby has developed, Remi is able to put it in perspective. When I mentioned to the pediatrician that I worried so much and my husband so little, he said that’s what dads were for.

4. That heightened sense of confidence: that secure knowledge that they WILL find the right way even if they have to drive an extra hour. That the ten locals we pass by don’t have the right information to get us there anyway. Or the confidence that there is definitely something more interesting on the other channels, especially during commercial breaks.

So you see, I wasn’t too tough on you guys. It’s all in good fun. I know we women have our own annoying habits. Like always being right about everything. How you can live with that day in and day out, I’ll never know…