This week's "What kind of idiot do you think I am? Oh, that kind" Award has got to go to the folks at a company that makes little transponders that are sewn into ski gear. It's called "Recco Avalanche Rescue System" and it is supposed to allow the rescue team to find you and dig you out more quickly using high tech gear. And I'm sure it works better than just poking around sadly in the snow with a long stick and hoping for the best.

Well, when you buy a ski jacket that contains one of these things, it comes with a big black tag hanging off it that helpfully informs you in no less than SEVEN different languages (including Japanese) that: "The Recco avalanche system does not prevent avalanches".

Doesn't act as a magical charm that prevents avalanches?! An outrage! I should take this fancy coat right back to the store! But then again, Valentine is highly unlikely to be wearing it to do hazardous off-piste skiing in avalanche-prone areas. I'm the first to admit that my kids come from a long line of complete non thrill seekers. My dull ways are well known to the readers of this blog. And JP's idea of daring is brushing his teeth for 2.5 minutes intead of the full three recommended by the American Dental Association.
So, no dangerous skiing for Val.

But it happens that these jackets are really in style among the teenagers here in France and it's the end of the annual January sales. All this in mind, I thought it wouldn't hurt to look around.
And there was a bit of guilt involved as well. I actually bought a lot of my kids' school clothes at the Emmaus thrift shop. But as there's only one in the region, sometimes I do worry that some kid at their school will recognise something that his family gave away. Don't get me wrong- I'm proud to be thrifty and planet-saving, but I know how awfully mean kids can be to each other.

So, I took Valentine on a big shopping expedition yesterday (five different places). Amazingly, we managed to find a gorgeous coat at a huge discount. Which was the only way she was ever going to get one, as these things cost 200 euros and up. Yes, that's euros, folks, not dollars!

Thanks so much to everyone for all the emails and comments wishing me a speedy recovery.
I guess all those good vibes are working their magic, as I do seem to be getting better.
Slowly.
Today I managed to clean the house a bit and even did a load of laundry. And at my house, laundry is a real hurdle- believe me. The washer is down in the cellar and the cellar can only be reached by going out of the house, walking around to the front yard and then descending the icy cement steps. As you can imagine, the laundry facilities seem kind of distant and inconvenient when it's snowing and you're loaded down with a big basket of clothes. And if you're sick , the washer may as well be located in central Nepal.

Besides the excitement of clean laundry, there's not too much going on here...
Valentine is studying for her "Brevet Blanc" next week. For those of you who don't know the intricacies of the French educational system, the Brevet is a huge exam that kids take at the end of 9th grade. It is a written exam that tests them on everything they should know to this point in their education. And it's on the basis of this that the kids are mercilessly sorted out: High scorers will go on to "Lycée", where they will study to eventually pass their "Bac" test and then go on to university.
The ones who don't do well on the Brevet will be divided into two groups: Kids that have a history of good grades, but who just didn't do well on the test will REPEAT 9th grdae and try to take the test again next year. The remainder ( kids with poor grades and bad marks on the Brevet) will either quit school, do an apprenticeship or attend some kind of professional school...

And so it is that a French youngster's future gets determined before he or she is even 15 years old. Based on ONE test.
And you thought the SAT/ACTs were scary....

Right now Valentine is reviewing her class notes for an hour every night, preparing for the practise Brevet (Brevet Blanc) that will be given at her school next week. Most of the good private schools offer this option, so that their students will be well-prepared for the real Brevet at the end of the year.

After the Brevet Blanc, it will be vacation time again.
Yes, you read that right. The French schools will be on holiday again already! It's time for the traditional two-week long ski break.
And this year, we're actually going to be skiing! Even me, if I've gotten over this rotten cold/flu...

I am feeling a little better.
Not much, but a bit.

Woe is me...

Dreadful hardly covers it. This flu I've had since Sunday feels a lot like malaria (and I know from malaria), but without the "could be fatal" aspect of that disease.


On Sunday, I felt like a zombie.
On Monday I felt like a zombie having a really bad day.
On Tuesday I felt like a zombie that had been dismembered, incinerated and then re-animated by a voodoo practitioner with a particularly sick sense of humour.


That is to say, Tuesday was kind of a low point. I'd run out of medications, so there wasn't even an aspirin in the house. And the concept of me making myself a cup of tea seemed about as unlikely and intimidating as me ascending Mt Everest wearing a bikini.
Wasn't gonna happen.


But by some miracle, a friend happened to call up. "Wow! You sound awful! Do you need anything? I'll be passing by this afternoon."
And so it was that I got some meds again, including some crazy powder from England that apparently restores zombies to a more attractively life-like state.
No, it wasn't cocaine. I don't think....
It was called "Lemsip" on the package, anyway.

So, with the help of the magic powder, I was able to venture out of my home yesterday afternoon. Of course, I still had a racking cough, runny nose, hollow eyes and a general appearance and comportment that led perfect strangers to come up to me and ask things like: "Are you all right?" "Do you need help?" "Are you sure it's not TB?" and even ""Ummm...Are you sick?", the latter delivered in an appropriately dryly humorous tone that made me laugh/cough until I turned purple.
But if I had tried to venture out the day before, people probably would have waved torches in my face and shouted "Back, foul undead fiend!", so I counted myself lucky.

Today I slept until nearly noon and anticipate heading straight back to bed as soon as this is posted.

Stay well, my friends.

It's official: my blog has gone completely "All Ski, All the Time" this week.

Here's Alexa in front of the café at the bottom of the slopes

Mallory took the chairlift today and went on the blue and red runs!

She was VERY pleased with herself!

I even recorded a short film today, but can't figure out how to post it.

Too tired, I guess. Maybe tomorrow..

Yet another astoundingly beautiful day in the French Alps!!!

I spent most of out on what I have christened the "Degu Slope". Why should bunnies have all the fun?

This morning Alexa left behind the easy slopes down below and took the chairlift up to the red and blue slopes. She's skiing like a real pro already!

And Mallory has made huge progress as well. As someone with zero "need for speed", she has never been a lover of roller coasters or any other kind of scary experience that other people think of as "fun". And she really didn't see the point of sliding extremely fast down a hill. But she's a good sport and gave it a chance.

Today, she even abandoned the Degu Slope and started taking the platter lift up. She had been very nervous of the lift, but by the end of the day, she was going on it on her own with no problems.

I had to look up the word for this type of ski lift in English. I only knew it by it's French name: "tire-fesses", which translates as (This is true. I swear.) butt-puller.

Here's a very short video filmed up at Les Haberes. It shows kids using the infamous tire-fesses and gives you a look at the place where I'm spending a lot of my time these days.

At their school back in Africa, the main sports activity for the kids was swimming.
But here in the French Alps, they SKI!

So, the twins' class headed off to their first "classe de neige" today. (That's "snow class" in English. So cute!). The teachers and kids will spend every day this week out on the slopes. Luckily, the slopes are very near by. Just a ten minute drive from the school (and our house!) and you are at a nice little ski resort well-suited to all levels.
The twins, of course, were relegated to the lowest level, as they'd never, ever been on the slopes before.

Oh the shame of it.

Through sheer willpower and the force of extreme vexation, Alexa learned to ski well enough in one day to get her into the next level up.

I got to see all this firsthand, as I was (of course) one of the "helper moms".
As I am strictly a cross-country skier, I couldn't help much with the ski lessons. But I went up to help serve lunch and then stayed out on the bunny slope helping the twins' very pregnant teacher manage the beginner's group. The village school board had said they couldn't afford to pay an actual instructor for the smallest group. Good thinking there.

At least it was a GORGEOUS day and we ended up having lots of fun. Except for the poor teacher, who looked absolutely exhausted by the end...

Tonight my house is filled to the roofline with junior-high schoolers and I'm being deafened by the incessant giggling, the monkey-like howling, and the constant rustle and crunch of bagfulls of potato-chips being emptied and devoured.

There's only six of them, but it's a hoarde, believe me.

Today is Severin's belated 13th birthday party. He didn't have a celebration in December because all his friends were going away on holiday. So, we put it off until today.

They're all nice kids- don't get me wrong. The excitement of the Wii and the sugar from the soft-drinks just has everyone a little over-stimulated. (And yes, the boy to the left of Severin is in his class and is his age. )

As is so often the case, poor JP is missing out on all the fun. I drove him to the airport in Geneva this morning and he's gone off to Burkina.

He won't be back for a month. So, there's no help for me as I try to get dinner for nine on the table tonight.

My family will soon possess the world's only talking Chilean Degu. I'm thinking it will mean big money. Yes, judging from the financial success of other talking rodents (ever hear of Mickey Mouse?) we'll soon be raking in major cash.
Not that Mallory's pet has uttered his first word yet, but that day is not far off if love, attention and hard work can make such a thing happen.
I actually don't think teaching him to talk is her goal, though. She just loves him and wants him to be happy. She does all the things her care manual says she should do for him: dust baths, a varied, sugar-free diet, reguar changes of toys and furnishings in his cage, etc . But besides this, Leon is also treated to other, far more exotic amusements. Mallory puts on shows for his entertainment using her magnet board. Or sometimes finger puppets.
She also reads him stories daily, often holding up the book so he can admire the pictures or maybe even try to read along, if he fancies.
So, between her beloved Leon, her cats and the back to school hassles, Mallory is very busy so far this year, as we all are.

The New Years Eve party turned out to be amazing. Severin spent the first half of the evening sitting silently at the table, looking semi-autistic. But then the music started and he was unstoppable. He put on an unbelievable, crazy, hilarious dancing and lip-synching extravaganza that had everyone in the room laughing. My MIL was astounded. "I didn't know Severin could DO that!" she exclaimed.

The next day, we spent the afternoon at a friend's house and then I had to be back at the hall by 5pm to help clean up. There was so much food left that we heated everything up and had a second meal that night. but we'd packed up the sound system, so Severin didn't get a chance to dance again for us...

Then on Friday morning, my MIL left, headed back up north to her home in the Lorraine region. And I drove the kids into Geneva.
Yes, I ventured into the big city with the car! I'm so proud of me!
Actually, it was very easy. Most people were still away on holiday, so downtown Geneva was practically deserted. I easily found a parking spot and took the kids to a special one-time showing of Twilight in English.
Valentine was VERY keen to go, as were the twins, and I thought it would be a fun final outing to end the holiday. Severin was somewhat less keen, but very motivated by the idea of the promised dinner at McDonalds before the show.
So, we got to Geneva at about 7pm. The show wasn't until 9pm, but as I wasn't sure where the theatre was located, I decided that we'd go find it, double check the showtime and then go eat dinner. And it was incredibly lucky that we did. The electronic board showing the films and numbers of seats still available revealed that there were NINE seats left for Twilight!
EEEK!
I quickly bought five tickets and the board flashed down to zero. We 'd got the LAST tickets! Maybe you anti-Twilighters would say it would have been no loss...but it would have been pretty bad to have the whole goal of our mission snatched out right from beneath our noses. It's the principal of the thing...
Tickets safely tucked away, we ate a quick dinner and were back in line at 8pm, at Valentine's insistance. We were second in line, just behind two teenaged girls. And then then more showed up, and more and still more....By 8:30, the lobby was jammed. It was mostly teen girls on their own, but there were a few parents and even a few grandparents with grandchildren in tow. We were lucky that Valentine had insisted that we be at the front of the line. That meant we managed to get excellent seats. Latecomers ended up sitting on the stairs.

Maybe it wasn't a great film; but it was a great audience to see it with. There was lots of cheering, clapping and respectful silence when appropriate. It really elevates the level of the film when you see it with people that want SO badly to be pleased by it.

I enjoyed it. Really.

What I am NOT liking is the book I am reading right now. Never Let Me Go is supposed to be a remarkable novel by a brilliant writer. And I suppose it is.
It's very restrained and subtle and Remains of the Day-ish. But it also has a really, really horrible twist to it.
In short, I feel like I'm eating a big bowl of oatmeal with shards of glass in it.

I've GOT to find something else to read...

The last blog entry of 2008! I'd be tempted to make it long and meaningful, but I only have about five minutes in which to write it. So, I'm settling for short and superficial.

Time is short because I've spent most of my day out running errands in an ice storm (great idea , I know) and cleaning the house. And now I have to go jump in the car again and drive UP the mountain (which is NOT the way to be going in bad weather) to go help get ready for tonight's New Years Eve party.

Yes, we got invited to a party and yes, we are actually going. JP and I are neither of us much for partying, but figured that if we ever want to start really fitting in, it would be best not to reject kindly meant invitations. Even if the event involved is a bit (or maybe huge) pain in the neck.

Tonight's event is a sort of do-it-yourself party. A small number of local families have gotten together, rented a community party hall and planned a huge, French-style meal. I wasn't in on the planning stage, but had to go along last night to do the shopping. The five of us stormed through a local supermarket, piling carts with oysters, smoked salmon, shrimp, paté, terrine, and other goodies, not to mention wine, wine and more wine.

This afternoon, the five of us are supposed to meet down at the hall to start cooking and to prepare the tables. Then we rush back home, get dressed up, gather up our families and go back up to the hall. Once there, some people will be eating and dancing while other people will be serving food and fussing around in the kitchen.

As you may have guessed, I am an "other people".

And then tomorrow morning, we "other people" have to be back at the hall to clean up everything.

The fact that the party is for families is nice. I wouldn't care to be leaving the kids and the MIL at home.

But still, it is an awful lot of work. And once again, it's women using their "vacation" time to provide hours of unpaid labour that will go unrecognised by everyone...

Bitter? Moi? Mais non...

Have a nice New Year's Eve.

I'll see you in 2009.

Was the light fixture from Hell worth all the trouble?

Well, JP and I ended up liking it very much. But then maybe that's just due to some Stockholm Syndrome-type reaction. You know- bonding with and showing loyalty to the source of your terror and misery......
But here it is.

My MIL says it's gorgeous. "Like something in the Chateau de Versailles" and that's a direct quote. She doesn't know the top bits are plastic, though. Not much plastic in Louis XIV trappings and accoutrements, I'm thinking. Just a guess.

The Lamp not actually in it's permanent spot. We needed a light in this hallway, so JP popped it in, despite the fact that it's a bit over-dramatic for a small upstairs corridor full of books. Eventually, it will hang in the central stairwell, which is over two stories high. Should look good there.

Oh. It's snowing. Again!

My faithful reader friends, I think we've known each other long enough that I can share some of my most deeply-held spiritual beliefs with you: There IS a Hell. I am probably going there. And it is VERY much like Ikea.
It is not air conditioned and it is populated by demons, so in these respects it is unlike the popular chain of furniture stores.
But I'm pretty sure that the major punishment doled out in Hell is Satan himself handing you a huge carton full of plywood and mutated-looking hardware with a command to make an attractive and functional armoire.
And when the armoire is done, he gives you a desk to assemble.
And when that is finished, he gives you THIS:

and says "Make an elaborate light fixture. Now. Or else it's the Lake of Eternal Fire for you, young lady."

And when you ask for instructions, he hands you a tiny ripped bit of paper with a miniscule diagram on it. Like this: Oh wait, this isn't Hell. This isn't Satan's do-it-yourself project. It's my husband's. I hasten to add that other than his penchant for Ikea-style torture, my spouse bears no resemblance to the Prince of Darkness whatsoever. Not that I didn't call him Bad Names when I saw the pile of metal rods, glass plates, plastic disks and mysterious bits of wire that were supposed to be made into something suitable for hanging in our home.

Just before we left Ouagadougou, JP insisted on taking me to visit some light fixture "shops" near the palace of the Moro Naaba. The quotation marks denote the fact that the "shops' were three metal-roofed shacks about eight feet square. Each one contained hundreds of lights and lamps and also, it seemed, hundreds of employees. There was no room to move in these places, they were so full of people fulfilling no discernable function.

Why were we here? JP had taken it into his head that we HAD to buy some lights to take back to France for our admittedly spartan house. I didn't really see WHY we needed to buy over-priced lamps made by Chinese prisoners and imported to Africa, but he insisted. So, we chose one, an elaborate three-level confection of crystal drops, engraved glass panels and blown-glass rods.

We told the multitudinous personnel that we would be travelling with the item, so they proposed to give us one still in its box. Only a little assembly required and voila! Instant sino-african elegance chez vous. What a good idea!

Of course, the idea looked far less good six months later when we finally got the box from our moving continer and opened it up. We dumped the contents on the dining room table and were confronted with hundreds of bits of metal, glass and wire. The "crystal" drops turned out to be plastic. And the "instructions" turned out to be a three inch square of torn paper with a mysterious diagram on it.

It looked hopeless.

It WAS hopeless.

But guess what? We DID it!

Check this space tomorrow for photos.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Crazed degus nipping at your hands...

What a scene it was. Mallory was in transports of pure joy over her Christmas gift- a Chilean Degu. She was SO happy and proud that she just HAD to show it to her Grandmere. But Grandmere is 80 years old, so instead of having her go upstairs to see Leon the Degu, she put him in a little plastic transport box and brought him down to the living room.
And he just looked SO cute that she couldn't resist opening the lid of the carrier, just a bit. And little Leon just couldn't resist sitting up and poking his head over the top. And when he saw the wide open spaces, he decided to make a break for it. He LEAPED out of the cage and scrambled across the floor like a mad thing.
Chaos ensued.
The kids grabbed the two cats (great rat-hunters both), pushed them out the door and slammed it. No one had any idea of where the degu had gone, except Alexa who SWORE she'd seen him scuttle under the Christmas tree. So, we poked and shook the tree till every needle was off it.
No degu.
We looked everywhere.
Mallory wept.
In my mind, I concocted Plan B: I'd let the cats in. I figured that I could probably get the degu away from them before they actually managed to decapitate him. (Decapitating rats was sort of our cats' hobby back in Africa)

But before I could clear the room and implement my risky scheme, Mallory spotted Leon behind the couch!! Valentine stationed herself at one end with a blanket, I was at the other end with a towel. I had the other kids blocking the archway that leads to the reading room.
I was sure we'd get him...but he scrambled under the couch, then right over Severin's legs and behind a bookcase.
We pulled the bookcase away and almost had him, but he scrambled right over Severin again and headed back towards the couch.
At this point, Severin had really had enough of being jumped on by a "rat".

In the end, it was Alexa that captured Leon. She's very agile, that child. And for some reason, he didn't bite her. He sure bit me when I picked him up to stuff him back into his box. I think he somehow sensed my Plan B and was punishing me for even thinking such a horrible thing...

So, that was our Christmas Day excitement. I hope that yours is more calm than mine and features fewer (as in ZERO) small, biting, scrambling, escaped rodents...

How on EARTH could I have written a post about Christmas in France and NOT mention the "Bûche de Noël"?! I think it's against the law here to have a holiday meal without one of these special yule log shaped cakes.

At this time of year, every bakery and supermaket in the country is jam-packed full of the tasty treats. And everyone buys one to enjoy on Christmas Day.

Except me. Yup. As you all probably know from reading my blog, it would be against everything I stand for to do things the easy and logical way.

It is, in fact, the very essence of BurkinaMom-ness, to bake a very thin sponge cake in a jelly roll pan, roll up the hot cake in a sugar-covered tea towel, let it cool, carefully unroll the fragile cake, spread on a cream filling, roll it all up again, cover it with cocoa buttercream frosting, and then disguise it all as a gaudily decorated piece of firewood.

It's all very fiddly, but a fun way to kill a few hours, if you enjoy cooking. Here's the recipe I used, if you want to give it a go.

There are many recipes for this cake out there on the internet, so be careful if you don't use mine and go looking around on your own. One of them I read even specified that besides a jelly roll pan and a mixer, you would also need to have on hand "an oiled broom handle suspended between 2 chair backs and newspapers on the floor" ???!! I didn't even have the courage to go to page two and find out what the heck the oiled broom handle was for.

Frankly, it was kind of scary.

The recipe I recommend is a fairly easy one and requires no chairs, lengths of wood or floor protection.

So, my cake is ready, as are the mashed potatoes. Valentine peeled about 12lbs yesterday and certainly deserves the very nice gifts she will be getting tomorrow morning.

My mother in law will be here soon. JP and the twins drove up to Lorraine yesterday to pick her up. They'll be here tonight in time for a French-style Christmas supper of smoked salmon, boudin, oysters and other fancy but easy to prepare foods.

Then we'll head off the the church at about 9pm. Valentine is in the Christmas pageant, so we have to get there a bit early. She plays the part of a busy mother trying to finish her Christmas preparations. Guess it's one of those new-fangled, hyper-realistic, non-traditional Christmas shows....

Enjoy your Christmas Eve, friends.

Christmas is almost here and I'm sure many of you out there would like to know how we prepare for the holidays here in France.

You don't?

Well, too bad. It's today's scheduled Blog Topic here at "Burkinamom in France".

So, with no further ado, here it is: Noël in France

First of all, you decorate the exterior of your home or apartment balcony with twinkling lights. This is a relatively new thing. When I lived in France 10 years ago, Christmas lights were hard to find and very, very expensive. Now they are ubiquitous and only very expensive. I don't know why they cost so much more here than in most of the world. They are exactly the same plastic ropes of lights that you buy at the Walmart back in the USA, but here they are quite pricey. (This is true of most things here and the fact certainly deserves its own post one day)..

You put up your lights as best you can. In some cases, this is not very well. I think this is because while in the USA or Canada you probably helped your dad put up the lights when you were a kid, here there is no inter-generational knowledge to be passed on. It's all new. A particularly inept display on one home in our village prompted Alexa to remark "I think they made their blind grandma put up the lights." Cruel, but apt.

Besides the lights, you MUST have your plastic Santa dangling on a rope from a window. Other bloggers living in France have also posted bemused ramblings puzzling over WHY these decorations are so popular. For some reason, hanging from a balcony or window on nearly every dwelling is a plastic Santa "climbing" a rope, presumably to get in and leave gifts. At least, that's probably the concept. In reality, the things tend to look kind of sad or scary. The sad ones seem like they are desperately scared of falling (Help meeeee!!! they seem to be silently screaming, kind of putting a damper on any festive holiday feelings.) . The scary, leering ones look like they are breaking into your home to sexually molest your cat.

So, now your creepy Santa is hanging out the window. You are ready to get your Christmas tree! And if you live in the French Alps, what better way to get a tree than to hike up into the hills above your home and chop one down? So, that's just what we did. JP and a couple of our kids bundled up and set off through the knee-deep snow to find the perfect tree.

Which they did.

Perfect for re-enacting touching scenes from A Charlie Brown Christmas, that is.

The branches were few and sparse and the whole thing was more of an S-shape, rather than the traditional triangular pine configuration that most people favor in a Christmas tree.

So, the wise person goes out and buys a nice tree (Go to Botanic. They have good ones. Very reasonably priced). After it's decorated , you then put up your Nativity scene. This goes under or at least very near to the tree. If you don't have a wooden stable for your figures, you can easily buy "rock paper"- a sort of textured thick brownish paper that can easily be crumpled up to create a nice looking cave for the Holy Family and their well-wishers. (helpful hint: use tape to anchor everything down and prevent tragic paper "earthquakes".) Don't forget to put baby Jesus aside in a safe place. He can't go in his manger until Christmas Day.(Another helpful hint: DON'T forget where you put Baby Jesus. This is awkward and disappointing for all involved)

Of course, you need to have some gifts to go under the tree. But here in France, people tend not to go overboard. As things are so expensive here, folks just don't have the same buying power and disposable income as they do in the USA.

But one thing they do spend a fortune on is the FOOD. It is the focus of both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day celebrations. Yes, the toy aisles are crowded, but not nearly as mobbed as the seafood counter where people line up to buy their smoked salmon, caviar, oysters, coquilles saint jacques and other necessities.

Not that this means that the typical French person kills themselves cooking up a storm on Christmas. Many people buy ready-made most of the dishes they will serve! This is quite a sensible approach, if somewhat expensive.

The supermarket advertisements in France right now are full of offers of "Christmas menus". In general, they offer a per-head price for a pre-prepared, three or four course holiday meal.

I have one flyer right here in front of me, so I can give you some specific examples. I find them facinating. It's so NOT what you eat on Christmas back in Nebraska (or Burkina):

Delicious Menu: Foie Gras (duck), Shrimp casserole, broccolli mousse, duck with chestnut and hazelnut sauce, potato puffs.

14.50 euros per person

Exquisite Menu: foie Gras, seafood cassrole with mushrooms, fish with hollandaise sauce, pasta and julienne vegetables, veal medallions with autumn sauce, bordeaux wine.

18.90 euros per person

Supreme Menu: Appetiser trio (salmon and seafood), Foie gras with apple and quince chutney, fish and scallops in vegetable sauce, Capon in suterne sauce with polenta and truffles, champagne

25,90 euros per person.

And these are just the menus offered by our local, completely non-elegant supermarket!

So, the house is decorated, the tree is up, the fridge is full of food and everyone is in a festive mood. Except for the cats. They look worried...

This is a picture I took of JP, Severin and Mallory in our back yard last weekend.
More snow has fallen since.
Lots more.

I nearly constantly can be heard singing "Winter Wonderland" and "Let It snow" in an effort to convince myself that snow is really nice.
It's sort of working, but the kids are perhaps a bit tired of hearing the same two songs over and over again....

And yes it is a big change from Africa.
Thank you for asking.

And I thought I'd never have a good word to say for soon-to-be-NOT President George Bush.

But here's one: Nimble!

Did you SEE how he dodged out of the way of the flying Iraqi shoes? He's pretty darn spry!

I guess that's why he's called a lame "duck" president...

We've had a houseguest this weekend. He's a Burkinabé aquaintance of JP and he's in France for the first time. He might never come back, either. He seems very creeped out by the snow and cold. (Well, I guess we are too, but we'll have to learn to put up with it...)

Besides getting lights on the house, putting the Christmas tree up and doing the hostess thing, I also found time this weekend to go to a concert.
That's right.
I actually did something that kept me up past 10pm. What a concept!
It was the Christmas concert of the local "School of Rock". We knew lots of kids in the bands, so I took Valentine and Severin and we made an evening of it. Dinner was served as the various groups performed Beatles' songs, mostly. It was the theme of the evening.
But some bands did opt for other material. One group of teens did some ACDC. The singer had a good voice, but lacked presence and conviction. "Highway to Hell" sounded more like "Highway to a Tea Party in a Quiet Suburb".

But it was a very entertaining evening and a fun way to spend time with my older kids.

Yesterday when I climbed into the car to begin the day's long list of errands, I turned on the radio. It was tuned to Radio 74, the only station anywhere near here broadcasting in English. Not that I can't stand to listen to the French stations. In fact, Radio 74 is deeply annoying on many levels. They have some extremely conservative religious programming that makes my brain hurt. Also, the announcer (the only one they have) is a bit of a right-wing conspiracy nut. He finally bugged me enough to write in when he jumped on the "Obama was born in Kenya" bandwagon full of sour grapes. Enough already!

But somehow, even all this is not enough to drive me away completely. Sometimes hearing a bit of English is soothing. And they play nice Christmas music in December. And for a while there was even the very entertaining Doctor Laura Show. They yanked it back off the air pretty quickly, though. I think she wasn't conservative enough to suit the station.



Anyway, there I was, listening to some nice Christmas carols, when suddenly there was a publicity spot for language courses- apparently from the "brutal truth" school of advertising. While some ads try to flatter us (Because you're worth it) or blatantly appeal to patriotism (Keep America Rolling!), here was a shameless ploy to take advantage of insecurity, alienation and unhappiness.

A severe British schoolteacher voice asked impatiently: "Tired of being a monolingual simpleton?"

I have to admit, it kind of grabs one's attention. And I imagine if one actually is an anglophone monolingual (let's not say simpleton, shall we?) person living in France or Switzerland and feeling a bit isolated, the ad is even more riveting. It's the kind of ad that comes after the weak, going for the throats of the caribou at the back of the herd -the spindly ones with low self-esteem and few language skills.

This fun and easy advertising concept is easily applied to other businesses, of course:
"Sick of being an unattractive eyesore?" (plastic surgery)
"Had enough of being an uneducated cretin?" (higher education)
"Fed up with being an illiterate moron?" (bookstores)
"Entirely ashamed of being a tiresome, manipulative wanker?" (psychological help for people involved in the advertising business...)

I am shrinking.

That's what I thought, anyway. After spending years as a tall person, I suddenly felt like a freakish dwarf.

Maybe I'm not getting enough calcium, I thought. Maybe my back is hunched over like the St. Louis Gateway Arch!

So, this morning I measured myself to be sure. I stood in the hallway, against the torn wallpaper (that's scheduled to be re-done soon) and had Valentine make a big black mark on the wall.

Holding the tape measure up to it, I could easily read "5 feet 7 inches".

So, I hadn't shrunk, which was good to know.

How could I feel so short when I'm vastly taller than the typical French female? The average French woman is just over 5 feet 3 inches tall and 137.6 pounds. I'm a Clydesdale grazing in a herd of minature ponies.

Then I had an idea. I called Severin away from his breakfast cereal. "I'm going to measure you guys. Stand here!" I ordered.

He looked down and patted my head tolerantly as he went by. I made a mark for him and then one for Valentine. When JP saw what we were doing, he came over and had me make a mark for him too.

At this point, the source of my self-image problem became crystal clear: Valentine (age 15) is 5 feet 9 inches!! Severin (age 12) is 5 feet 11 inches !!!??? My husband is 6' 2".

And at the rate the twins are growing, they'll be taller than I am within a few years as well.

The only family members shorter than me will be the cats!

When I went online just before blogging, I looked at various sites that will give a prediction of your child's eventual adult height. I tried this one, which seemed like it would be more accurate because it not only asks for the child's current height and weight, but also takes into account the height of the parents.

It announced that Severin will likely be around 6 feet 5 inches by age 21.

So, it looks like I'm going to go from feeling a "bit short" to feeling microscopic...