When my mother showed us a photo of him, he looked like a guinea pig. He was black and white with a pink nose. He was too young to leave his mother so we had to wait to meet our new Shetland sheepdog. The day finally arrived when he was big enough to be separated from his mother.
He was such a tiny little pup and he had breath that smelled like hot black tar. He was our first family dog. His tummy was still bare of fur and speckled with black and pink freckles. We had a little cardboard box for him to sleep in. My mother complained he would never learn to walk if I kept carrying him everywhere. But, he was so cute; I couldn’t let him out of my arms. One night over dinner, we debated over a long list of names for him.
“How about Domino since he’s black and white?” I offered.
“How about Sweetie Pie?” chimed in my sister whose pets had names like Cutie Pie or Hymie and Dimie.
My mother did not look impressed with any of our creations.
“How about Mud Pie?” piped up my father.
“Ugh,” my mother said with a scowl.
“How about Toby?” I said, one of my friend’s dogs had this name and I liked it.
“How about Bandit?” said my father.
“Yes!” we all seemed to say in unison.
“Very good,” exclaimed my mother.
“And his middle name can be Toby!” I added.
No one seemed to care about his middle name, so no one disagreed. And there it was, our new puppy “Bandit Toby Meriweather”
Thanks to me, he quickly learned to sit, “give me your paw,” lie down, roll over, and some other tricks that were less appreciated like climbing onto the kitchen table. He learned all these tricks in one or two days.
Taking him on walks was awful. He would pull on the leash mercilessly and pee on every plant, bush, strand of grass and pole. One of the most annoying habits was his herding. He was a Shetland sheepdog. Herding was in his blood. We let him roam free in our neighborhood as we lived across from a lake and far away from busy streets.
Bandit tried to herd anyone and anything. A jogger would be in view and soon Bandit would be running dangerously close circles around the poor soul, barking at his heels. Some joggers threw rocks at him. In the morning, he would chase our school bus as far as he could go but at some point, the bus was just too fast for him to keep up. My face would flame up red with embarrassment while Bandit barked and chased us. The children watched him out their bus windows laughing.
He also herded the horses that frequently passed by our house as there was an equestrian center in our neighborhood. He scared them terribly and would then eat their manure. This was another disgusting habit of his. He’d run up to us, panting his horse poop breath in our faces.
“Oh, Bandit!” we’d cry and then announce, “Mom, Bandit ate horse manure again!”
“Disgusting”, my mother would say to him and sometimes she’d brush his teeth.
As my sister and I reached puberty, we’d cry in horror as we’d walk into the house after school and discover ripped up maxi-pads strewn all over the living room floor. Bandit was known to rummage through the garbage bins when he was alone.
“Oh, Bandit! Disgusting!” we’d say as we hurriedly collected all the bits of bloody cotton before anyone came home. Bandit was capable of eating practically anything without any complex whatsoever.
One afternoon after the school bus dropped me off, I realized I did not have my house key and no one was at home. I figured my mother would be home in an hour or so and I could wait outside in the backyard. We had an apple tree that my father had planted several years ago. I was starving and our little tree had several tiny apples. I picked an apple and began to eat it. It was very starchy and not tasty. Then I felt the urge to go Number Two.
I promise, I tried to hold it. But, it was becoming an urgent situation. I began to desperately scan our yard to see if there was some private place. I glanced at the space underneath our deck several times, contemplating my pooping place. Holding it in became unbearable so I crouched under the deck and tried to dig a hole into the earth with a stick. I squatted and relieved myself and then carefully buried my scat.
I didn’t tell anyone about this as I was easily embarrassed and flushed merely from hearing the word “fart.”
That evening before going to bed, we were all hanging out in my parent’s bedroom. Bandit used to play outside every night until one of us called him inside for bedtime. When it was time for him to come in, one of us would open the door and yell as loudly as possible, “Baaaandiiiiiit! Cookie!” He’d come running to the door.
That evening, my mother let him into the house and he jumped onto the bed joining us and panting.
“Oh, Bandit!” cried my mother, “You ate horse manure again.
“Gross!” my sister said catching a whiff.
As Bandit happily breathed in my direction, I realized it was not horse manure. I knew what it was and I was mortified.
“Gross,” I said feeling my face change several shades of pink. I managed to leave the room. “Good night," I called over my shoulder. Let them think Bandit ate horse manure, I told myself. I quickly retreated to my bedroom, my heart racing. Never had I been so embarrassed in my life.
The next day before I went to school, I walked to the back yard, back to my secret place. There was an empty hole in the dirt under the deck. My deepest fear had been confirmed. I never told a soul. I couldn’t bare the humiliation. Until now, Bandit’s breath was a secret.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
A Jewish Christmas Story
It’s that time of year again. The Christmas decorations have come out. Each year it gets easier for me as someone who did not grow up celebrating Christmas. I cringe a little less when people say, “Merry Christmas.” I still remember my sister and myself asking if we could have a tree and my mother always responding, “As long as we are Jewish, we will not have a Christmas tree.”
I still remember sitting in the empty movie theatre with my father and sister on Christmas day.
Yep, we grew up with Channukah, the celebration of lights. Fortunately, my Barbies had Christmas. They had a green paper tree and red paper stockings that I stapled together. They might have had a menorah too. Some of you already know Channukah is a minor holiday where you eat greasy food to remember the miracle of oil that lasted for eight nights instead of one. The fact that Channukah is in the winter led to gift giving as if it were a Jewish Christmas, but it is not. I’m sure if Channukah was in the spring, we would give out Channukah baskets full of chocolates and blue and yellow eggs.
I don’t know what they do in France as it is a closed community. But in the US, doing gifts makes Jewish children feel like they have something major going on during Christmas too, even if they don’t. Today, people think the Jews have been given some kind of equal rights because stores sell Channukah loot. But, the most important holidays are nowhere to be found.
Channukah has turned into something commercial just like Christmas, Easter and Halloween. Paper plates with Channukah symbols, dreidles, the whole lot. But in Israel, it is a mere lighting of the menorah and some red jelly-filled doughnuts. Being in Israel during Channukah is refreshing. You aren’t around any of the Christmas hype unless you head to Nazareth, Bethlehem or Jerusalem. You have to go looking for Christmas if you want it over there.
However, in the US and France, Christmas is a big holiday and I tend to feel left out. It's true that little by little I'm starting to feel part of it. People say, “Oh, but Christmas isn’t religious at all.” And now that I’ve experienced it, it definitely is not a religious experience.
Still, it doesn’t mean the whole world grew-up celebrating it. Everyone talks about the magic of it, and since I’m married to someone who grew-up with it, I have had to become more open-minded and less judgmental. In fact, I’ve realized I can be included if I want to be. No one is stopping me from participating. Quite the contrary, everyone around me is encouraging me to be part of the celebrations!
The truth is, I never thought I’d accept a Christmas tree into my house. A Christmas dinner with the in-laws was fine. The idea of a tree in our house was symbolic of accepting Christmas into my heart and it nauseated me.
After our first little girl was born, my husband slowly began to prep me. He’d say things like, “You know, we might have to have Christmas for our kids one day...” Sometimes he’d say, “Sunny, I don’t think we have a say in this matter.” He thought it would be mean to deprive them of it. Plus, he had grown up with Christmas in his family so it would be as if I were ignoring his upbringing if I denied this holiday in our home. That seemed unfair especially as he had embraced my Jewish roots and culture with open arms.
My sister, on the other hand, had been waiting for Christmas her entire life. As soon as she married her Christmas-celebrating beau, her tree went up. Diane was born for Christmas. She was not meant to be born into a Jewish home where you patiently wait to open one gift per day. Not for her. No. That is exactly why one unforgettable night, she did not wait patiently. One Channukah night, she was displeased with her gift. “I don’t like my gift. I want to open another one,” she said to my mother.
“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” replied my mother.
“No. I want another gift tonight, please?” Diane begged. And she kept on begging.
My mother had had enough. “Fine, Diane! Go ahead! Open your gifts. Open all of them tonight. You can’t wait? Fine! Open all of them now!”
“No, no,” she cried, tears streaming down her face, “I don’t want to.” But she did as she was told and miserably opened every last gift. Afterward, Diane retreated to her bedroom in humiliation. I felt sick for her. I went to her room and tried to cheer her up by playing her new Kool & the Gang tape and dancing for her.
“That’s not even the one I asked for,” she sulked, “I wanted the new one…”
Today, however, we both tend to agree that watching children unwrap in-numerous gifts in the blink of an eye after having spent weeks shopping and wrapping and planning, is anti-climactic. We both came to this sad conclusion the first time we witnessed Christmas with our in-laws.
I remember our conversation on the phone, “Diane, Christmas was so weird. I swear. It was like a blizzard! There was wrapping paper flying around, children making tons of noise and unwrapping gift after gift in about five minutes flat and then afterward, no one had any idea who gave them what, it was total chaos. Then, everyone came around to thank you and it was done!”
“Totally,” she agreed, “it has to be the most anti-climactic event ever. After everyone opened their gifts, I said to my husband, ‘That’s it? That’s fucking it?’ It’s totally lame.”
My first Christmas in the working world was bizarre. I worked at a landscaping office with a bunch of highly uneducated people. Yes, that sounds mean but I can back it up.
Evidence 1: The phone rings, my colleague who wears green sweat pants, is fat and pimple-faced, but claims she was once a dancer, hangs up the phone and announces, “My boyfriend was just arrested. He was a security guard for Chase and was stealing people’s credit card numbers…”
Evidence 2: At the Christmas party, my other colleague who claims to have done a world tour but merely visited Australia 20 years ago gets so drunk with her husband; they start a fight with another couple who wants their Blockbuster Video gift card during the gift exchange.
Evidence 3: My boss was addicted to Percocet and often thought I was giving him the bird when I would rub my eye. He also referred to his business friend as “Spanky,” “Spankster” and sometimes “The Spank.”
Evidence 4: My manager, who not only was obese with a walrus mustache, but he was also a recovering alcoholic and a Born Again Christian who, when I bluntly asked him, “Do you think I’m going to hell?” he responded, “I don’t think you have to…”
But, that is a story for a different time. Back to Christmas, in our office one morning, one of our illegal Mexican workers dragged in a huge Christmas tree. My ugly colleague, the one who was the “world traveler” with grey stringy hair, a female version of Snape, brought out a big box of decorations. “I have something fun for you, Sunny,” she said with a sly smile. “You can decorate the tree!”
“Oh, no!” I thought. The only time I had decorated a tree was when I was ten years old. My friend’s mother scolded me for putting too much tinsel on the tree.
At the office, I started hanging random ornaments here and there until Snape snipped, “Hey! You have to put the lights up first. Don’t you know anything?”
“No,” I replied annoyed, “I’ve never done a Christmas tree before,” I wanted to add a lot of other stuff but didn’t.
After she composed herself from the horrid shock of a human who had never decorated a tree, I pulled out a string of M&M Christmas lights, talk about cheesy. I struggled to get them around the tree. The needles were prickling me everywhere. I felt punished and appalled it had been my duty to do this. Plus, it felt completely unnatural.
Needless to say, decorating the office tree did give me a crash course in Christmas trees. A couple years later when my sister put up her first Christmas tree, I had a few pointers and she exclaimed, “Wow, you’re helping me with my Christmas tree, sisi! And you think I’m such a Christian. Look at you!”
Yes, that was the moment I realized society had had their way with me. Many years later, after having lived in France, I finally accepted the idea to buy a small tree. I first had to discuss this with my sister over the phone, “I think we’re going to get a tree, Diane!”
“Oh, you’ll like it. They’re a lot of fun.”
“I don’t know. It’ll be weird having a tree like that in our home.”
“It’s not a big deal, I promise. Just get a little one, you’ll like it.”
My husband and I got dressed and strolled out of the apartment with our little girl. We went to a big store that had tons of artificial trees and ornaments. Where to begin? My husband was set on a small white tree with fiber optics built into the branches. Now what about the ornaments? There were so many kinds: traditional, hand-sewn, modern, glass, cute, colorful, what was our style? Do you mix and match styles? Do you stick to a certain color or theme? All these ideas were stirring in my head.
“Hurry up! God! Just pick a couple. Who cares? They’re fucking Christmas ornaments. They’re just ornaments!” cried my impatient husband.
Well, sadly, I had zero input and I had become so excited about this first tree I was going to create. My husband grabbed a couple different sizes of red, silver and black balls and two long red things, I forget what they’re called, and we left. Garlands?
When we got home, we started to set-up our tree. “No, no! Not yet! Don’t you know anything, little Jew?” he teased as he took off the garlands and put them back around the tree his way.
“How the hell should I know, god!” I retorted.
In the end, I was in charge of tying strings to all the ornaments. Later that day I called Diane. ”We have a tree. It’s super pretty!”
“See! I told you. They’re fun, you see?”
“Yeah. I thought it would be a big deal but it’s fine!” I said. And since then we do it every year.
The other day, my little girls and I put up the tree while my husband was at work, our first solo job ever and it looked good. When he got home, I said, “Did you see? We put the Christmas tree up. Go look!”
“Oh, cool!,” he said, “Great!”
Then, that evening being the first night of Channukah, we made potato latkes, lit the menorah, sang songs and ate chocolate. Our little tradition. We have blended the best of both worlds. And that’s A Jewish Christmas Story, fa la la la la, cha cha cha cha. (Yiddish “ha“ sound, don’t cha know?)
I still remember sitting in the empty movie theatre with my father and sister on Christmas day.
Yep, we grew up with Channukah, the celebration of lights. Fortunately, my Barbies had Christmas. They had a green paper tree and red paper stockings that I stapled together. They might have had a menorah too. Some of you already know Channukah is a minor holiday where you eat greasy food to remember the miracle of oil that lasted for eight nights instead of one. The fact that Channukah is in the winter led to gift giving as if it were a Jewish Christmas, but it is not. I’m sure if Channukah was in the spring, we would give out Channukah baskets full of chocolates and blue and yellow eggs.
I don’t know what they do in France as it is a closed community. But in the US, doing gifts makes Jewish children feel like they have something major going on during Christmas too, even if they don’t. Today, people think the Jews have been given some kind of equal rights because stores sell Channukah loot. But, the most important holidays are nowhere to be found.
Channukah has turned into something commercial just like Christmas, Easter and Halloween. Paper plates with Channukah symbols, dreidles, the whole lot. But in Israel, it is a mere lighting of the menorah and some red jelly-filled doughnuts. Being in Israel during Channukah is refreshing. You aren’t around any of the Christmas hype unless you head to Nazareth, Bethlehem or Jerusalem. You have to go looking for Christmas if you want it over there.
However, in the US and France, Christmas is a big holiday and I tend to feel left out. It's true that little by little I'm starting to feel part of it. People say, “Oh, but Christmas isn’t religious at all.” And now that I’ve experienced it, it definitely is not a religious experience.
Still, it doesn’t mean the whole world grew-up celebrating it. Everyone talks about the magic of it, and since I’m married to someone who grew-up with it, I have had to become more open-minded and less judgmental. In fact, I’ve realized I can be included if I want to be. No one is stopping me from participating. Quite the contrary, everyone around me is encouraging me to be part of the celebrations!
The truth is, I never thought I’d accept a Christmas tree into my house. A Christmas dinner with the in-laws was fine. The idea of a tree in our house was symbolic of accepting Christmas into my heart and it nauseated me.
After our first little girl was born, my husband slowly began to prep me. He’d say things like, “You know, we might have to have Christmas for our kids one day...” Sometimes he’d say, “Sunny, I don’t think we have a say in this matter.” He thought it would be mean to deprive them of it. Plus, he had grown up with Christmas in his family so it would be as if I were ignoring his upbringing if I denied this holiday in our home. That seemed unfair especially as he had embraced my Jewish roots and culture with open arms.
My sister, on the other hand, had been waiting for Christmas her entire life. As soon as she married her Christmas-celebrating beau, her tree went up. Diane was born for Christmas. She was not meant to be born into a Jewish home where you patiently wait to open one gift per day. Not for her. No. That is exactly why one unforgettable night, she did not wait patiently. One Channukah night, she was displeased with her gift. “I don’t like my gift. I want to open another one,” she said to my mother.
“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” replied my mother.
“No. I want another gift tonight, please?” Diane begged. And she kept on begging.
My mother had had enough. “Fine, Diane! Go ahead! Open your gifts. Open all of them tonight. You can’t wait? Fine! Open all of them now!”
“No, no,” she cried, tears streaming down her face, “I don’t want to.” But she did as she was told and miserably opened every last gift. Afterward, Diane retreated to her bedroom in humiliation. I felt sick for her. I went to her room and tried to cheer her up by playing her new Kool & the Gang tape and dancing for her.
“That’s not even the one I asked for,” she sulked, “I wanted the new one…”
Today, however, we both tend to agree that watching children unwrap in-numerous gifts in the blink of an eye after having spent weeks shopping and wrapping and planning, is anti-climactic. We both came to this sad conclusion the first time we witnessed Christmas with our in-laws.
I remember our conversation on the phone, “Diane, Christmas was so weird. I swear. It was like a blizzard! There was wrapping paper flying around, children making tons of noise and unwrapping gift after gift in about five minutes flat and then afterward, no one had any idea who gave them what, it was total chaos. Then, everyone came around to thank you and it was done!”
“Totally,” she agreed, “it has to be the most anti-climactic event ever. After everyone opened their gifts, I said to my husband, ‘That’s it? That’s fucking it?’ It’s totally lame.”
My first Christmas in the working world was bizarre. I worked at a landscaping office with a bunch of highly uneducated people. Yes, that sounds mean but I can back it up.
Evidence 1: The phone rings, my colleague who wears green sweat pants, is fat and pimple-faced, but claims she was once a dancer, hangs up the phone and announces, “My boyfriend was just arrested. He was a security guard for Chase and was stealing people’s credit card numbers…”
Evidence 2: At the Christmas party, my other colleague who claims to have done a world tour but merely visited Australia 20 years ago gets so drunk with her husband; they start a fight with another couple who wants their Blockbuster Video gift card during the gift exchange.
Evidence 3: My boss was addicted to Percocet and often thought I was giving him the bird when I would rub my eye. He also referred to his business friend as “Spanky,” “Spankster” and sometimes “The Spank.”
Evidence 4: My manager, who not only was obese with a walrus mustache, but he was also a recovering alcoholic and a Born Again Christian who, when I bluntly asked him, “Do you think I’m going to hell?” he responded, “I don’t think you have to…”
But, that is a story for a different time. Back to Christmas, in our office one morning, one of our illegal Mexican workers dragged in a huge Christmas tree. My ugly colleague, the one who was the “world traveler” with grey stringy hair, a female version of Snape, brought out a big box of decorations. “I have something fun for you, Sunny,” she said with a sly smile. “You can decorate the tree!”
“Oh, no!” I thought. The only time I had decorated a tree was when I was ten years old. My friend’s mother scolded me for putting too much tinsel on the tree.
At the office, I started hanging random ornaments here and there until Snape snipped, “Hey! You have to put the lights up first. Don’t you know anything?”
“No,” I replied annoyed, “I’ve never done a Christmas tree before,” I wanted to add a lot of other stuff but didn’t.
After she composed herself from the horrid shock of a human who had never decorated a tree, I pulled out a string of M&M Christmas lights, talk about cheesy. I struggled to get them around the tree. The needles were prickling me everywhere. I felt punished and appalled it had been my duty to do this. Plus, it felt completely unnatural.
Needless to say, decorating the office tree did give me a crash course in Christmas trees. A couple years later when my sister put up her first Christmas tree, I had a few pointers and she exclaimed, “Wow, you’re helping me with my Christmas tree, sisi! And you think I’m such a Christian. Look at you!”
Yes, that was the moment I realized society had had their way with me. Many years later, after having lived in France, I finally accepted the idea to buy a small tree. I first had to discuss this with my sister over the phone, “I think we’re going to get a tree, Diane!”
“Oh, you’ll like it. They’re a lot of fun.”
“I don’t know. It’ll be weird having a tree like that in our home.”
“It’s not a big deal, I promise. Just get a little one, you’ll like it.”
My husband and I got dressed and strolled out of the apartment with our little girl. We went to a big store that had tons of artificial trees and ornaments. Where to begin? My husband was set on a small white tree with fiber optics built into the branches. Now what about the ornaments? There were so many kinds: traditional, hand-sewn, modern, glass, cute, colorful, what was our style? Do you mix and match styles? Do you stick to a certain color or theme? All these ideas were stirring in my head.
“Hurry up! God! Just pick a couple. Who cares? They’re fucking Christmas ornaments. They’re just ornaments!” cried my impatient husband.
Well, sadly, I had zero input and I had become so excited about this first tree I was going to create. My husband grabbed a couple different sizes of red, silver and black balls and two long red things, I forget what they’re called, and we left. Garlands?
When we got home, we started to set-up our tree. “No, no! Not yet! Don’t you know anything, little Jew?” he teased as he took off the garlands and put them back around the tree his way.
“How the hell should I know, god!” I retorted.
In the end, I was in charge of tying strings to all the ornaments. Later that day I called Diane. ”We have a tree. It’s super pretty!”
“See! I told you. They’re fun, you see?”
“Yeah. I thought it would be a big deal but it’s fine!” I said. And since then we do it every year.
The other day, my little girls and I put up the tree while my husband was at work, our first solo job ever and it looked good. When he got home, I said, “Did you see? We put the Christmas tree up. Go look!”
“Oh, cool!,” he said, “Great!”
Then, that evening being the first night of Channukah, we made potato latkes, lit the menorah, sang songs and ate chocolate. Our little tradition. We have blended the best of both worlds. And that’s A Jewish Christmas Story, fa la la la la, cha cha cha cha. (Yiddish “ha“ sound, don’t cha know?)
Friday, October 8, 2010
Letters from Pantyhose Man
Remember Pantyhose Man? (If not, it is in my March archives)
He was one of my Toulouse yoga students who came to class wearing pantyhose and sexy negligées. He also had shaved private parts he indiscreetly showed us in gracious positions like lotus and down dog.
He wants to do yoga with me again. Yes, it’s true. He sent me an email the other day. Here is what he said:
Bonjour Sunnylife,
J’espère que tu vas bien; je veux reprendre les cours de yoga; dis-moi si tu es d'accord, et à quelles conditions. Je ne sais pas si tu te
souviens de moi, je pratiquais en collants et nuisette. Bonne soirée, à bientôt. Cordialement, Didier.
Translation:
Hello, Sunnylife.
I hope you are doing well. I want to take yoga classes again; tell me if you are okay with this and under what conditions. I don’t know if you remember me, I practiced in pantyhose and negligées.
Good evening and see you soon.
Cordially,
Didier
Here was what I wrote back:
Hello, Didier.
Thank you for your interest in yoga. Yes, I remember you and your pantyhose.
Unfortunately, I am no longer in Toulouse so if you want to continue yoga, you will need to find another yoga studio.
Good luck.
Cordially,
Amie
Should I have written more...less? Should I have ignored his email? Should I have tried to get to the bottom of it all? I mean, I am in Marseille now, so I'm "safe" in a way.
Should I be happy he liked my yoga class and wants to come again and is willing to change (in more ways then one)? Or was he merely trying to provoke a response for his prior behavior? Was he seeking closure since we never addressed the issue?
By letting him know I remembered him and his pantyhose but not sharing an opinion, I clearly did not enter any game he had in mind, if in fact he was looking for some reaction. Am I the only person who never reacted? Have others kicked him out straight away and told him to never come back? Or, was my yoga class the first place he attempted this? And if it was his first time bearing his naked bits to a full class, is he still confused why it never solicited any remarks? Is he re-questioning how to get attention? I just do not know.
What do you make of all this?
He was one of my Toulouse yoga students who came to class wearing pantyhose and sexy negligées. He also had shaved private parts he indiscreetly showed us in gracious positions like lotus and down dog.
He wants to do yoga with me again. Yes, it’s true. He sent me an email the other day. Here is what he said:
Bonjour Sunnylife,
J’espère que tu vas bien; je veux reprendre les cours de yoga; dis-moi si tu es d'accord, et à quelles conditions. Je ne sais pas si tu te
souviens de moi, je pratiquais en collants et nuisette. Bonne soirée, à bientôt. Cordialement, Didier.
Translation:
Hello, Sunnylife.
I hope you are doing well. I want to take yoga classes again; tell me if you are okay with this and under what conditions. I don’t know if you remember me, I practiced in pantyhose and negligées.
Good evening and see you soon.
Cordially,
Didier
Here was what I wrote back:
Hello, Didier.
Thank you for your interest in yoga. Yes, I remember you and your pantyhose.
Unfortunately, I am no longer in Toulouse so if you want to continue yoga, you will need to find another yoga studio.
Good luck.
Cordially,
Amie
Should I have written more...less? Should I have ignored his email? Should I have tried to get to the bottom of it all? I mean, I am in Marseille now, so I'm "safe" in a way.
Should I be happy he liked my yoga class and wants to come again and is willing to change (in more ways then one)? Or was he merely trying to provoke a response for his prior behavior? Was he seeking closure since we never addressed the issue?
By letting him know I remembered him and his pantyhose but not sharing an opinion, I clearly did not enter any game he had in mind, if in fact he was looking for some reaction. Am I the only person who never reacted? Have others kicked him out straight away and told him to never come back? Or, was my yoga class the first place he attempted this? And if it was his first time bearing his naked bits to a full class, is he still confused why it never solicited any remarks? Is he re-questioning how to get attention? I just do not know.
What do you make of all this?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Talking 'Bout My Generation
When did the word “balls” go out of fashion? I liked it. Lately there is too much use of the word "nut sack" which is getting really annoying; nut sack is used over and over in every film. Is it supposed to be funny or shocking or did people just get tired of the word balls?
Now I am readjusting to nut sack, not nuts, nut sack, in case you forgot the nuts are enclosed in a sack. God forbid you know that underneath all that skin, the testes are in fact separated and hanging by a thread on either side of the penis. So, has that word changed too?
Actually, I think today it’s more commonly referred to as the penis shaft. Penis alone will no longer suffice. Don’t forget the shaft. What is a penis if not a shaft? Are there actually two parts? The penis and the shaft? Does that mean there can be a shaft-less penis? What does that look like, a clit? Okay, sorry to be going in this direction but, I am sadly a by-product of this generation.
Maybe it has nothing to do with reality, but from all the blockbuster movies I’ve been illegally downloading lately, I have come to think our generation is just fucking pathetic.
And, by the way, if you have been watching all these movies too, the word “fuck” is very common. Maybe it always has been when it comes to movies, at least since the 80’s, right? Is there a specific person to whom we can pay tribute for helping us get to the everyday usage of fuck?
I think it goes way back to comics like Eddie Murphy and that one dude who burned half his face off from free-basing, Richard Pryer. And let’s not forget Robin Williams. However, contrary to today, when they used the word “fuck” it was shocking. People actually held their breath and smiled nervously. These comics were navigating in unknown territories. They were taking a risk. But today, I feel like you can say it anywhere at any time.
At the Drive In at McDonald’s, “Yes, I’d like a Big Mac, a small fries, and a fucking Coke, please.”
“That’ll be 7.50, ma’am. Please pull up to the fucking window.”
I just feel our generation's humor is lacking novelty and innovation in so many ways. Is there anyone out there who can come save us comically?
And speaking of… what makes you part of a certain generation? As long as we are alive, are we not a little bit of every generation? I don’t get it. Is my generation solely composed of people my age and classified by what people my age like today, by what brings us nostalgia? Is my generation limited to MC Hammer and Beavis and Butthead or can I also consider today’s Top 40 part of my life? It is something to ponder but let’s continue on with the fascinating topic of what makes a blockbuster comedy today.
Any comedy you see nowadays will at one point focus a scene on a man’s ass. This has been going on since Austin Powers and then Borat. Ah, Borat. I know it was a hilarious movie and that guy sure knows how to push the envelope (is that the right expression), but let’s be honest! Is a 10-minute scene dedicated to deep face-in-ass shoving really that funny? After two minutes I was ready to move on, weren’t you? My husband did seem to enjoy it. He sat shaking and laughing, holding his sides for the entire scene.
Needless to say, it’s part of today’s comedy recipe: two men and an ass. If it’s a romantic comedy, that’s a different story which I’ll get to later.
The other night I saw Get Him to the Greek. If you have seen it, you’ll agree it had all the major components of a modern day comedy: the word “fuck”, the word “nut sack”, an ass scene and a bonus for you, an intelligent scene where the British Rock Star asks his girlfriend to put her vagina on the phone. (And let’s not forget the one thing that will transcend time, the gratuitous tit scene, if there aren’t tits, it’s not a good adult comedy)
Is this what our generation has come down to or has it always been this way?
Another film I saw was a romantic comedy called “The Back-up Plan” with Jennifer Lopez. I realize I am not choosing the artsy intellectual films but still, millions are going into this mierda?
Please tell me you were disturbed several times to see J.Lo stoop so low? Disturbing scene one: J.Lo’s character is pregnant and eating a bucket of chicken in bed like a slob. Then she climbs on top of her boyfriend while chewing some chicken and she kisses him. He pushes her off and she happily goes back to her binging. Am I the only one out there who wanted to yak during that scene? Why did they make her do that?
Disturbing scene two is when she has an orgasm without the guy even touching her because she's pregnant, hyper-sensitive and horny. Why couldn’t she have been sexy as she climaxed? Her facial expression looked like some Italian bonehead getting kneed in the balls (correction: nut sack).
But what could ever compare to the disturbing scene of Meryl Streep wearing Keds and doing a choreographed dance scene in Mama Mia? (Hugh Grant dancing while presumably alone in Love Actually?)
Ohhh, oh, ooh!! Where are all the intelligent people like Sam Kennison and his infamous scream? What happened to Porky’s, a simple penis poking through a hole in a wall? Or Weird Science where Chet is reduced to a green, bubbly pile of shit?
Wait a minute. Have comedies always been dumb? Are we just slowly increasing our obscenity level? Before it was a pie in the face, now it’s an ass in the face? And, I have not gone into some of the thrillers I have seen with such graphic and disturbing violence that I’m left feeling tortured for days. Is it all about pushing the limits? Is that what we thrive on now?
Push it, push it real good. Maybe I’m just getting old. Maybe I’m just a prude? Then again, maybe we’re just talkin’‘bout my generation.
Now I am readjusting to nut sack, not nuts, nut sack, in case you forgot the nuts are enclosed in a sack. God forbid you know that underneath all that skin, the testes are in fact separated and hanging by a thread on either side of the penis. So, has that word changed too?
Actually, I think today it’s more commonly referred to as the penis shaft. Penis alone will no longer suffice. Don’t forget the shaft. What is a penis if not a shaft? Are there actually two parts? The penis and the shaft? Does that mean there can be a shaft-less penis? What does that look like, a clit? Okay, sorry to be going in this direction but, I am sadly a by-product of this generation.
Maybe it has nothing to do with reality, but from all the blockbuster movies I’ve been illegally downloading lately, I have come to think our generation is just fucking pathetic.
And, by the way, if you have been watching all these movies too, the word “fuck” is very common. Maybe it always has been when it comes to movies, at least since the 80’s, right? Is there a specific person to whom we can pay tribute for helping us get to the everyday usage of fuck?
I think it goes way back to comics like Eddie Murphy and that one dude who burned half his face off from free-basing, Richard Pryer. And let’s not forget Robin Williams. However, contrary to today, when they used the word “fuck” it was shocking. People actually held their breath and smiled nervously. These comics were navigating in unknown territories. They were taking a risk. But today, I feel like you can say it anywhere at any time.
At the Drive In at McDonald’s, “Yes, I’d like a Big Mac, a small fries, and a fucking Coke, please.”
“That’ll be 7.50, ma’am. Please pull up to the fucking window.”
I just feel our generation's humor is lacking novelty and innovation in so many ways. Is there anyone out there who can come save us comically?
And speaking of… what makes you part of a certain generation? As long as we are alive, are we not a little bit of every generation? I don’t get it. Is my generation solely composed of people my age and classified by what people my age like today, by what brings us nostalgia? Is my generation limited to MC Hammer and Beavis and Butthead or can I also consider today’s Top 40 part of my life? It is something to ponder but let’s continue on with the fascinating topic of what makes a blockbuster comedy today.
Any comedy you see nowadays will at one point focus a scene on a man’s ass. This has been going on since Austin Powers and then Borat. Ah, Borat. I know it was a hilarious movie and that guy sure knows how to push the envelope (is that the right expression), but let’s be honest! Is a 10-minute scene dedicated to deep face-in-ass shoving really that funny? After two minutes I was ready to move on, weren’t you? My husband did seem to enjoy it. He sat shaking and laughing, holding his sides for the entire scene.
Needless to say, it’s part of today’s comedy recipe: two men and an ass. If it’s a romantic comedy, that’s a different story which I’ll get to later.
The other night I saw Get Him to the Greek. If you have seen it, you’ll agree it had all the major components of a modern day comedy: the word “fuck”, the word “nut sack”, an ass scene and a bonus for you, an intelligent scene where the British Rock Star asks his girlfriend to put her vagina on the phone. (And let’s not forget the one thing that will transcend time, the gratuitous tit scene, if there aren’t tits, it’s not a good adult comedy)
Is this what our generation has come down to or has it always been this way?
Another film I saw was a romantic comedy called “The Back-up Plan” with Jennifer Lopez. I realize I am not choosing the artsy intellectual films but still, millions are going into this mierda?
Please tell me you were disturbed several times to see J.Lo stoop so low? Disturbing scene one: J.Lo’s character is pregnant and eating a bucket of chicken in bed like a slob. Then she climbs on top of her boyfriend while chewing some chicken and she kisses him. He pushes her off and she happily goes back to her binging. Am I the only one out there who wanted to yak during that scene? Why did they make her do that?
Disturbing scene two is when she has an orgasm without the guy even touching her because she's pregnant, hyper-sensitive and horny. Why couldn’t she have been sexy as she climaxed? Her facial expression looked like some Italian bonehead getting kneed in the balls (correction: nut sack).
But what could ever compare to the disturbing scene of Meryl Streep wearing Keds and doing a choreographed dance scene in Mama Mia? (Hugh Grant dancing while presumably alone in Love Actually?)
Ohhh, oh, ooh!! Where are all the intelligent people like Sam Kennison and his infamous scream? What happened to Porky’s, a simple penis poking through a hole in a wall? Or Weird Science where Chet is reduced to a green, bubbly pile of shit?
Wait a minute. Have comedies always been dumb? Are we just slowly increasing our obscenity level? Before it was a pie in the face, now it’s an ass in the face? And, I have not gone into some of the thrillers I have seen with such graphic and disturbing violence that I’m left feeling tortured for days. Is it all about pushing the limits? Is that what we thrive on now?
Push it, push it real good. Maybe I’m just getting old. Maybe I’m just a prude? Then again, maybe we’re just talkin’‘bout my generation.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Please, Mister Postman!
Part of living in a new place is learning how to communicate properly. Every town has their own way of doing things. When we lived in Toulouse, it was important to be overly polite when you were in a store, restaurant, or dealing with someone fixing things in your house, almost to the point of self-deprecation. When I lived in Israel, I realized being polite, waiting my turn in line or waiting to get on the bus, was not going to get me anywhere. If I didn’t assert myself, I was going to be trampled by the herd. I would describe Marseille as somewhere in-between Israel and Toulouse.
I have realized you need to be assertive, but you cannot lose your cool too much. And I’ve come to believe you can pretty much say whatever you want as long as you don’t raise your voice and you say it with a witty smile. “What you said is extremely offensive. I am not okay with that, you fucking asshole.” (Well, maybe you have to leave the last part out.)
Either way, practice makes perfect and I’m still practicing. The first step is to stop hesitating, just say something, anything! When someone says something insulting, instead of withdrawing from shock or trying to better the situation by kissing up to the person, the Toulouse way, I now say something back calmly but assertively. This doesn’t mean it gets me anywhere. But, maybe once I refine my technique more, I’ll get results that shine.
Enter Mr.Postman…I was expecting a package and it was pertinent to be at home between certain hours so I could sign for it. The delivery man had tried to deliver the day earlier and since I had been out with the girls, he was obligated to come again. At around 10am, I received a phone call, “Is this Madame Hossam at 22 boulevard Aigle,” asked a man.
“Yes,” I responded, “that’s correct.”
“Madame Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Let me just confirm. This is Madame Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio at 22 boulevard Aigle.”
“Yes, that’s correct. Are you here?”
“No, I’m on my way. I just want to make sure this is the correct address.”
“Okay. When are you coming?”
“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
“Okay,” I said. I went outside and taped one of my business cards to the mailbox as supposedly, they wouldn’t deliver if there wasn’t a name on my door. A woman from the delivering company had explained this to me earlier.
Twenty minutes past and my phone rang again. The man, once again, confirmed all the information and I too confirmed he was at the right place. I went to open the door for him and there he stood, somewhat annoyed it seemed, holding my package.
“Are you Mrs.Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio,” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied wondering why this was becoming such a big deal.
“Well, I tried to deliver this package yesterday and a lady answered and said this wasn’t Shanti Yoga Studio and this wasn’t the right address.”
“We weren’t here yesterday, sir. So, there is no way someone could have spoken with you.”
“Madame, I came here yesterday and a woman answered and said I had the wrong address. I asked her if this was 22 boulevard Aigle, Shanti Yoga Studio and she told me there was no one living here named Mrs.Hossam and there was no Shanti Yoga.”
“But, no one was here yesterday,” I repeated, “So, unless there was a ghost…” I said light-heartedly.
He began to get frustrated and would not make eye contact with me. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead, “Oh, I guess I am crazy then,” he responded sarcastically shaking his head.
I hesitated before responding. “Sir,” I said and waited for him to look at me, “Either you are crazy or I am crazy.”
He was sticking to his story and I was sticking to mine. “Look, Madame, I’m telling you a lady answered this door yesterday and said I had the wrong address. This is 22 boulevard Aigle, right?”
“Yes,” I became exasperated and pointed to the big 22 just on the wall beside the man.
“Well, I came yesterday,” and he repeated his same story again. We weren’t getting anywhere. Then he added, “This business card wasn’t here yesterday, no name was here yesterday.”
“That is correct,“ I said, “I put the card up today for you. However, yesterday no one was home and therefore unless someone lives here of whom I am unaware, it is impossible that you spoke to someone.”
He shook his head, had me sign for the box and left. I tried to come up with some possible explanations.
The first one which is the most far-fetched is that a woman (or a man who can impersonate a woman’s voice) has a key to our house, even though we just changed our locks a month ago, and she saw me and the girls leave. She slipped into our garden and being the prankster she is, she answered our door and told the delivery man he had the wrong place! Then, she calmly locked the door behind her and chuckled to herself as she walked down the street, “Ha ha ha, that was funny!”
Or, my husband, who already works eight days a week, decided to drive 40 minutes from his work to our house while the girls and I were out. And let me add that if this happened, he also would have had to look into his crystal ball to see when the coast was clear. Assuming he did this, we can also assume he was giving some lady a quickie when the bell rang. He turns to his mistress and says, “Hurry! Answer the door and tell them they have the wrong house.” Then, the two of them manage to get out before we get home, the two of them chuckling, “That was a good one! The wrong house! Ha ha ha.”
I must admit there was a moment when I thought to myself, “What if my husband was home with some lady? But, would he be so dumb as to let her answer the door?”
Another simple explanation is he was simply trying to save face. The day before, he went to the wrong address, rang the wrong bell, and spoke to the wrong person without knowing it. He then went back to his company and told them a woman had in fact been home and she said it was the wrong address.
Well, considering the company did in fact call and confirm with me that it was the correct address but I had not been home when my package was delivered, he was forced to try and deliver again the next day to the exact same address and, you guessed it, he felt embarrassed.
This time, however, he went to the right address and realized, “Hey, this isn’t where I went yesterday. Shit!” So, he decided to stick to his original story to save face lest his boss ask how he managed to deliver the package to an address that was supposedly “wrong.”
I also think he called from work and that is why he was over-zealous confirming my name and address one hundred times…people were listening. He wanted his boss and colleagues to know he was not an idiot. He had not gone to the wrong house. See how careful he was confirming everything with the customer?
He realized it would be much better for him to stick to his story so he even reenacted it with me, pretending he had come to my house the day before. We had our bogus interaction that served his purpose because when he returned to work, he was able to report to his boss, “Yeah, it turns out that lady is insane. She told me it was the wrong address yesterday and today said it was the right one, can you believe that?”
Please, Mister Postman!
I have realized you need to be assertive, but you cannot lose your cool too much. And I’ve come to believe you can pretty much say whatever you want as long as you don’t raise your voice and you say it with a witty smile. “What you said is extremely offensive. I am not okay with that, you fucking asshole.” (Well, maybe you have to leave the last part out.)
Either way, practice makes perfect and I’m still practicing. The first step is to stop hesitating, just say something, anything! When someone says something insulting, instead of withdrawing from shock or trying to better the situation by kissing up to the person, the Toulouse way, I now say something back calmly but assertively. This doesn’t mean it gets me anywhere. But, maybe once I refine my technique more, I’ll get results that shine.
Enter Mr.Postman…I was expecting a package and it was pertinent to be at home between certain hours so I could sign for it. The delivery man had tried to deliver the day earlier and since I had been out with the girls, he was obligated to come again. At around 10am, I received a phone call, “Is this Madame Hossam at 22 boulevard Aigle,” asked a man.
“Yes,” I responded, “that’s correct.”
“Madame Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Let me just confirm. This is Madame Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio at 22 boulevard Aigle.”
“Yes, that’s correct. Are you here?”
“No, I’m on my way. I just want to make sure this is the correct address.”
“Okay. When are you coming?”
“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”
“Okay,” I said. I went outside and taped one of my business cards to the mailbox as supposedly, they wouldn’t deliver if there wasn’t a name on my door. A woman from the delivering company had explained this to me earlier.
Twenty minutes past and my phone rang again. The man, once again, confirmed all the information and I too confirmed he was at the right place. I went to open the door for him and there he stood, somewhat annoyed it seemed, holding my package.
“Are you Mrs.Hossam with Shanti Yoga Studio,” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied wondering why this was becoming such a big deal.
“Well, I tried to deliver this package yesterday and a lady answered and said this wasn’t Shanti Yoga Studio and this wasn’t the right address.”
“We weren’t here yesterday, sir. So, there is no way someone could have spoken with you.”
“Madame, I came here yesterday and a woman answered and said I had the wrong address. I asked her if this was 22 boulevard Aigle, Shanti Yoga Studio and she told me there was no one living here named Mrs.Hossam and there was no Shanti Yoga.”
“But, no one was here yesterday,” I repeated, “So, unless there was a ghost…” I said light-heartedly.
He began to get frustrated and would not make eye contact with me. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead, “Oh, I guess I am crazy then,” he responded sarcastically shaking his head.
I hesitated before responding. “Sir,” I said and waited for him to look at me, “Either you are crazy or I am crazy.”
He was sticking to his story and I was sticking to mine. “Look, Madame, I’m telling you a lady answered this door yesterday and said I had the wrong address. This is 22 boulevard Aigle, right?”
“Yes,” I became exasperated and pointed to the big 22 just on the wall beside the man.
“Well, I came yesterday,” and he repeated his same story again. We weren’t getting anywhere. Then he added, “This business card wasn’t here yesterday, no name was here yesterday.”
“That is correct,“ I said, “I put the card up today for you. However, yesterday no one was home and therefore unless someone lives here of whom I am unaware, it is impossible that you spoke to someone.”
He shook his head, had me sign for the box and left. I tried to come up with some possible explanations.
The first one which is the most far-fetched is that a woman (or a man who can impersonate a woman’s voice) has a key to our house, even though we just changed our locks a month ago, and she saw me and the girls leave. She slipped into our garden and being the prankster she is, she answered our door and told the delivery man he had the wrong place! Then, she calmly locked the door behind her and chuckled to herself as she walked down the street, “Ha ha ha, that was funny!”
Or, my husband, who already works eight days a week, decided to drive 40 minutes from his work to our house while the girls and I were out. And let me add that if this happened, he also would have had to look into his crystal ball to see when the coast was clear. Assuming he did this, we can also assume he was giving some lady a quickie when the bell rang. He turns to his mistress and says, “Hurry! Answer the door and tell them they have the wrong house.” Then, the two of them manage to get out before we get home, the two of them chuckling, “That was a good one! The wrong house! Ha ha ha.”
I must admit there was a moment when I thought to myself, “What if my husband was home with some lady? But, would he be so dumb as to let her answer the door?”
Another simple explanation is he was simply trying to save face. The day before, he went to the wrong address, rang the wrong bell, and spoke to the wrong person without knowing it. He then went back to his company and told them a woman had in fact been home and she said it was the wrong address.
Well, considering the company did in fact call and confirm with me that it was the correct address but I had not been home when my package was delivered, he was forced to try and deliver again the next day to the exact same address and, you guessed it, he felt embarrassed.
This time, however, he went to the right address and realized, “Hey, this isn’t where I went yesterday. Shit!” So, he decided to stick to his original story to save face lest his boss ask how he managed to deliver the package to an address that was supposedly “wrong.”
I also think he called from work and that is why he was over-zealous confirming my name and address one hundred times…people were listening. He wanted his boss and colleagues to know he was not an idiot. He had not gone to the wrong house. See how careful he was confirming everything with the customer?
He realized it would be much better for him to stick to his story so he even reenacted it with me, pretending he had come to my house the day before. We had our bogus interaction that served his purpose because when he returned to work, he was able to report to his boss, “Yeah, it turns out that lady is insane. She told me it was the wrong address yesterday and today said it was the right one, can you believe that?”
Please, Mister Postman!
Friday, August 6, 2010
All Aboard!
All aboaaaaaaard!
Last week, we took the train from Marseille to Toulouse. My husband drove us to the train station and we waited for our train to arrive on its platform. The girls and I were off on a four hour train ride to visit friends. We were so excited. As soon as the train came into view, Claire and Eva began jumping up and down. "Here’s the train!," cried Eva.
"He’s the twain," repeated Claire.
It came to a halt and passengers began flowing out, happy to have arrived. My husband helped all of us climb up the painstakingly steep stairs with our luggage. We began searching for our seats. My friend, Odile, told me to reserve our seats near the children’s compartment, a little open space where children can sit and play. She seemed to have had a very good experience when she visited us with her little boy. So, when I reserved our seats, I made sure we were next to the children’s play area.
We arrived at a little compartment which was already crammed with people, next to the play area as promised. The compartment fit 6 people, a row of three seats facing a row of three other seats. The row in front of us was clad with two lanky teenagers, both barefoot and a tall older man who looked like a less attractive version of Sean Connery, but just as serious.
We had two of the three seats facing these people, the third seat already filled by a very tall woman. Southern French people are typically small but somehow this compartment was crammed with abnormally tall people. Everyone was seated knees pressed against knees in an awkward manner as there was not enough leg room. Luckily, my girls and I managed to fit the three of us into the two seats since Claire is under 4 years old and thus not considered a passenger.
In comparison to the others, we took up little space. The girls legs not long enough to dangle meant the soles of their shoes were pressing against the knees of the passengers across from them. The tall teenage girl and her brother (I presumed it was her brother), were busy texting each other feverishly.
Incredible crying and shouting was coming from the children’s play area. A mother tried to calm her child with no effect. A father tried to calm his child with no results. Everyone in our compartment glanced around nervously. My husband finished putting our luggage on the rack and looked around assessing our sad and intimate seating arrangement, “Why didn’t you choose first class?” He asked as if it was utterly impossible to understand what had gone through my head when I chose second class.
“I wanted to be near the play area,” I explained and then added after some screaming quieted down a bit, “I hope the whole ride isn’t going to be this loud.”
“I’ll see if I can upgrade you to first class. I’m going to go look for one of the train conductors.” He left and the girls and I sat quietly in our seats listening to the screaming children.
“Calm down, calm down,” we heard the mother say to her son behind the thin wall that divided our compartment and the play area.
“Noooooooo!,” the little boy wailed and begun grunting hysterically.
We all glanced at one another with tight nervous smiles. The two teenagers kept texting. I felt relieved at least my girls were, for the time being, acting very well-behaved.
My husband ducked his head back in, “Everything’s taken,” he reported, “but you can upgrade your tickets for your way back, okay? Do that.”
“Okay,” I sighed and said again, “I hope the whole ride isn’t going to be this loud.”
He gave us all kisses and was gone. The train closed all its doors and was slowly off. My girls sat quietly for a while and then Eva got up and said, “I want to go over there and play,” she pointed in the direction of the play area.
“Me too,” said Claire.
I unzipped our big stuffed bag that contained snacks and games and everything else children might need to stay entertained and quiet. I handed her some markers and two coloring books. Eva and Claire happily left our crammed space and joined the screaming children.
I heard Eva ask the mommy, “Why does he have a pacifier?”
“Because he has a pacifier,” the mother replied.
Several minutes later, the little boy poked his head into our compartment. He must have been three years old, dark brown hair sticking up in a naughty way, blue pacifier tight in his mouth and a dirty white blanket in his hand. He dashed off and then mashed his face against a glass partition between the play area and the corridor and screamed out on the top of his lungs.
“Come sit down,” said his mother calmly and unruffled.
He began to bang his head on the glass.
“Calm down, calm down,” said the mother, not raising her voice at all. We could hear him running amok. I listened dutifully, deciding whether it was a safe enough zone to let my children play somewhat unattended and in the presence of a somewhat out of control child.
I heard a man begin talking to his son, ”Here, here. You want a cookie,” and several seconds later, “Here, girls. You want a cookie.”
“Merci,” said Eva.
”Merthi,” said Claire.
Then Eva poked her head in and said with a big smile, “The man over there, he gave us cookies. That’s really nice.”
I dug around our bag and pulled out a bag of pretzels. “Here. Go share these.”
“Okay,” Eva said taking the bag. I heard her say to the man, “Do you want some pretzels?”
“Thank you, sweetie,” said the man and then abruptly, he cried out, “Merlin, sit down! No! No! No! Sit down now or you’ll get a spanking,” then seconds afterward, we all heard, “Smack!” following a little boy crying on the top of his lungs.
“I warned you,” said his father. “I warned you. I told you to sit down. I told you to sit down. Now are you going to listen to Daddy? Are you going to listen?” He went on and on in a booming voice while his son cried.
I glanced around and all of us in the crammed compartment made quick eye contact with raised eyebrows as if assessing the man behind the wall.
About an hour or so passed with the two little boys crying and wailing. The train approached a city called Toulon where it stopped and the woman and her little boy with much ado, got off. I literally had my arm in the air ready to do that ridiculous pumping movement that accompanies the winning, “Yes!” but decided it would’ve been too immature.
I decided to go join the father and his little boy now that the play area was calmer and less crowded. “Hello,” I said inspecting the area. The area was carpeted and littered with crumbs from who knows how many different cakes, cookies, croissants, sandwiches over who knows how many hours, day, weeks, years?
The little boy had wooden blocks and toy planes all over the place. The square area was lined with long narrow yellow cushions that created a border and a place for small children to sit. I sat down against the glass that divided the play area from the corridor. The man had has back against one of the walls, his legs stretched out in front of him. He was in has late thirties, muscular build with kind blue eyes.
“Hello. Yes, yes, sit down. Join us. Much better now, the little boy left. That little boy! The mother refused to discipline him.”
“Yes. It was pretty bad,” I agreed. His little boy was playing with his blocks, a little blond boy with pudgy cheeks who looked around three years old. The man started talking to me, asking questions. “So, you are English? I heard you speaking English to your children.”
I explained I was American and he told me he spoke English because of his work in Toulouse. Our conversations were in French but every so often, he’d throw out an English word like, “Tanks,” (thanks). He started proffering other goodies to the children, cakes and things. He had a huge insulated bag with him. The little boy started tugging on his daddy’s shirt and whining.
“Oh, he must be tired,” I said.
“I’m tired,” said Eva.
“Me too. I tie-wed,” announced Claire.
Eva and Claire both tried to lie down on the narrow cushions, wobbling a little, like cats on a sofa arm that is too small.
“Do you want to lie down,” the man asked his little boy.
The little boy shook his head viciously and then hit his father. His father looked at his son shocked. “Don’t hit Daddy,” he held his hand up high preparing to wack his son, “don’t hit daddy,” he warned again. His little boy hit him again. The man’s hand came down, “Wack, wack, wack!” followed by his son wailing. The girls, both sucking their thumbs stared, wide-eyed at the father.
“Do you girls want to go sit down again”, I offered as an escape route back to our compartment that seemed better and better as time passed.
“No”, they both answered and tried to close their eyes.
The little boy tried to lie down next to the girls and then decided he didn’t want to lie down and he began to play with Claire’s feet.
“No, stop,” whined Claire.
“Stop!” cried the father and then more softly with affection said, “Come lie down on papa, come lie down.” The boy reluctantly left Claire’s feet, climbed onto his daddy and lie his head on his daddy’s chest for 5 seconds. Then he decided to start playing with his blocks.
Two older children entered the play area, a girl and her brother. The girl must have been 9 years old or so, her brother maybe 7. They sat down. The boy picked up a toy plane and began fiddling with it. The girl started doing activities from a little purple magazine. Eva became curious and sat up to watch her. Of course, Claire had to sit up too and soon began playing with the little boy. He began throwing his blocks.
“Stop! Stop!” cried the father.
One block hit Claire hard in the forehead and made a sound. Claire froze still, stunned for a second and then she let out a big wail, her eyes filling and brimming over with tears. ‘Ow-wow wow, ow-wow wow,” she cried over and over.
“Come here,” I opened my arms and she came over to me. I hugged her tightly and while this was happening, the father smacked his son again who was also wailing. It was loud in the play compartment. “Let me see your head, Claire,” she moved her head away from my chest and looked at me. A big blue welt was forming on her forehead.
The man looked over at Claire and said, “Oh! That’s going to leave a bruise,” then he turned to his son and boomed out, “See what you did! You hurt Claire! Look at her head! See what you did!"
The boy stared at Claire and cried loudly. The father continued reprimanding his son. “I’m sorry,” he said to me and then added, “Boys. Boys are like that. They throw things. All boys are like that. I don’t know why.” The man did look like he was sorry. I felt sad Claire had been a victim to a little boy and his natural throwing tendency. The two new children who had joined us stared open-mouthed at the man without blinking once.
An older woman poked her head in looking upset. “Is everything okay,” she asked the two older children. The girl shook her head up and down. The mother gave one stiff look around, holding her glance longer than necessary at the man and then left.
“Do you have any paper,” the man asked the girl. She shook her head.
”I do,” I piped in and pulled out some paper from my big bag.
“Oh, great,” he took the paper and said, “Look kids! Look what I’m going to do!” He held the children’s attention closely. He gave me an endearing look. Then, he began his magic show.
The man told some story about a sailor. He made a boat and then turned it wittily into a shirt. He made a plane and some other objects. The children were spell-bound. All eyes were on the man. He spoke non-stop in his booming voice. Whenever the children were quiet, he’d start to sing in his heavy French accent, “It’s oh, so quiet. Shhhhh. Shhhhh. It’s oh, so quiet. Shhhh Shhhhhh”, filling in every precious quiet space with noise.
“Look what I can do!” he beamed after his magic show was over. He began doing complicated hand balances, with his knees on his elbows.
“Bakasana,” I cried out, a yoga move also known as the crow. The children watched in awe. The older girl tried to do it too and managed pretty well. She was excited.
“Look! Look, now!” said the Cat in the Hat as he balanced on his hands and wrapped his legs around his arms to bring his feet together.
“Bhujapidasana!” I cried out, proud I knew the Sanskrit yoga name. “You’re doing yoga.”
“ Really? Oh, I didn’t know that. I used to put my feet behind my head but now I’m too old,” he said.
Then he stood up and lifted his shirt up to show a slightly unfit stomach. “Watch! Watch!”, everyone became silent. He rolled his stomach like a belly dancer with perfect control, one big wave moving from the top to the bottom.
Claire stood up and lifted her dress, her tiny little body and big tight tummy poking out. “Look,” she said and she did almost the same thing with astonishing precision.
“Wow,” he said and looked at me surprised, “she has good control!”
“Yes, she does,” I answered proudly and then wondered what the passengers, who could only hear us, must be imagining.
The little boy started acting up again, followed by some spankings, some loud wailing, and yet another booming lecture. One minute, the man was warm and kind, the next minute, he’d morph into the wicked father of a scary fairy tale.
A teenage boy poked his head into our play compartment and said, “Could you try and be a little quieter?” The man looked appalled. At first he was so shocked, he sat speechless. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and said with a smile, “Kids. What can we do?” He was totally unaware that he was louder than all the children combined. He had no idea the teenage boy was most likely asking him to be quieter, not the children.
Several apple sauces, candies, and cakes later, the train arrived in Toulouse. We packed up our bags, leaving more crumbs than we had initially encountered, crumbs for the next lucky passengers. “Bye,” we all waved to each other. And we slowly climbed down the stairs onto the platform. As I wheeled our luggage and walked through the train station holding my girls’ hands tightly, all I kept thinking was, “Wow. That will make a great story for my blog.”
Last week, we took the train from Marseille to Toulouse. My husband drove us to the train station and we waited for our train to arrive on its platform. The girls and I were off on a four hour train ride to visit friends. We were so excited. As soon as the train came into view, Claire and Eva began jumping up and down. "Here’s the train!," cried Eva.
"He’s the twain," repeated Claire.
It came to a halt and passengers began flowing out, happy to have arrived. My husband helped all of us climb up the painstakingly steep stairs with our luggage. We began searching for our seats. My friend, Odile, told me to reserve our seats near the children’s compartment, a little open space where children can sit and play. She seemed to have had a very good experience when she visited us with her little boy. So, when I reserved our seats, I made sure we were next to the children’s play area.
We arrived at a little compartment which was already crammed with people, next to the play area as promised. The compartment fit 6 people, a row of three seats facing a row of three other seats. The row in front of us was clad with two lanky teenagers, both barefoot and a tall older man who looked like a less attractive version of Sean Connery, but just as serious.
We had two of the three seats facing these people, the third seat already filled by a very tall woman. Southern French people are typically small but somehow this compartment was crammed with abnormally tall people. Everyone was seated knees pressed against knees in an awkward manner as there was not enough leg room. Luckily, my girls and I managed to fit the three of us into the two seats since Claire is under 4 years old and thus not considered a passenger.
In comparison to the others, we took up little space. The girls legs not long enough to dangle meant the soles of their shoes were pressing against the knees of the passengers across from them. The tall teenage girl and her brother (I presumed it was her brother), were busy texting each other feverishly.
Incredible crying and shouting was coming from the children’s play area. A mother tried to calm her child with no effect. A father tried to calm his child with no results. Everyone in our compartment glanced around nervously. My husband finished putting our luggage on the rack and looked around assessing our sad and intimate seating arrangement, “Why didn’t you choose first class?” He asked as if it was utterly impossible to understand what had gone through my head when I chose second class.
“I wanted to be near the play area,” I explained and then added after some screaming quieted down a bit, “I hope the whole ride isn’t going to be this loud.”
“I’ll see if I can upgrade you to first class. I’m going to go look for one of the train conductors.” He left and the girls and I sat quietly in our seats listening to the screaming children.
“Calm down, calm down,” we heard the mother say to her son behind the thin wall that divided our compartment and the play area.
“Noooooooo!,” the little boy wailed and begun grunting hysterically.
We all glanced at one another with tight nervous smiles. The two teenagers kept texting. I felt relieved at least my girls were, for the time being, acting very well-behaved.
My husband ducked his head back in, “Everything’s taken,” he reported, “but you can upgrade your tickets for your way back, okay? Do that.”
“Okay,” I sighed and said again, “I hope the whole ride isn’t going to be this loud.”
He gave us all kisses and was gone. The train closed all its doors and was slowly off. My girls sat quietly for a while and then Eva got up and said, “I want to go over there and play,” she pointed in the direction of the play area.
“Me too,” said Claire.
I unzipped our big stuffed bag that contained snacks and games and everything else children might need to stay entertained and quiet. I handed her some markers and two coloring books. Eva and Claire happily left our crammed space and joined the screaming children.
I heard Eva ask the mommy, “Why does he have a pacifier?”
“Because he has a pacifier,” the mother replied.
Several minutes later, the little boy poked his head into our compartment. He must have been three years old, dark brown hair sticking up in a naughty way, blue pacifier tight in his mouth and a dirty white blanket in his hand. He dashed off and then mashed his face against a glass partition between the play area and the corridor and screamed out on the top of his lungs.
“Come sit down,” said his mother calmly and unruffled.
He began to bang his head on the glass.
“Calm down, calm down,” said the mother, not raising her voice at all. We could hear him running amok. I listened dutifully, deciding whether it was a safe enough zone to let my children play somewhat unattended and in the presence of a somewhat out of control child.
I heard a man begin talking to his son, ”Here, here. You want a cookie,” and several seconds later, “Here, girls. You want a cookie.”
“Merci,” said Eva.
”Merthi,” said Claire.
Then Eva poked her head in and said with a big smile, “The man over there, he gave us cookies. That’s really nice.”
I dug around our bag and pulled out a bag of pretzels. “Here. Go share these.”
“Okay,” Eva said taking the bag. I heard her say to the man, “Do you want some pretzels?”
“Thank you, sweetie,” said the man and then abruptly, he cried out, “Merlin, sit down! No! No! No! Sit down now or you’ll get a spanking,” then seconds afterward, we all heard, “Smack!” following a little boy crying on the top of his lungs.
“I warned you,” said his father. “I warned you. I told you to sit down. I told you to sit down. Now are you going to listen to Daddy? Are you going to listen?” He went on and on in a booming voice while his son cried.
I glanced around and all of us in the crammed compartment made quick eye contact with raised eyebrows as if assessing the man behind the wall.
About an hour or so passed with the two little boys crying and wailing. The train approached a city called Toulon where it stopped and the woman and her little boy with much ado, got off. I literally had my arm in the air ready to do that ridiculous pumping movement that accompanies the winning, “Yes!” but decided it would’ve been too immature.
I decided to go join the father and his little boy now that the play area was calmer and less crowded. “Hello,” I said inspecting the area. The area was carpeted and littered with crumbs from who knows how many different cakes, cookies, croissants, sandwiches over who knows how many hours, day, weeks, years?
The little boy had wooden blocks and toy planes all over the place. The square area was lined with long narrow yellow cushions that created a border and a place for small children to sit. I sat down against the glass that divided the play area from the corridor. The man had has back against one of the walls, his legs stretched out in front of him. He was in has late thirties, muscular build with kind blue eyes.
“Hello. Yes, yes, sit down. Join us. Much better now, the little boy left. That little boy! The mother refused to discipline him.”
“Yes. It was pretty bad,” I agreed. His little boy was playing with his blocks, a little blond boy with pudgy cheeks who looked around three years old. The man started talking to me, asking questions. “So, you are English? I heard you speaking English to your children.”
I explained I was American and he told me he spoke English because of his work in Toulouse. Our conversations were in French but every so often, he’d throw out an English word like, “Tanks,” (thanks). He started proffering other goodies to the children, cakes and things. He had a huge insulated bag with him. The little boy started tugging on his daddy’s shirt and whining.
“Oh, he must be tired,” I said.
“I’m tired,” said Eva.
“Me too. I tie-wed,” announced Claire.
Eva and Claire both tried to lie down on the narrow cushions, wobbling a little, like cats on a sofa arm that is too small.
“Do you want to lie down,” the man asked his little boy.
The little boy shook his head viciously and then hit his father. His father looked at his son shocked. “Don’t hit Daddy,” he held his hand up high preparing to wack his son, “don’t hit daddy,” he warned again. His little boy hit him again. The man’s hand came down, “Wack, wack, wack!” followed by his son wailing. The girls, both sucking their thumbs stared, wide-eyed at the father.
“Do you girls want to go sit down again”, I offered as an escape route back to our compartment that seemed better and better as time passed.
“No”, they both answered and tried to close their eyes.
The little boy tried to lie down next to the girls and then decided he didn’t want to lie down and he began to play with Claire’s feet.
“No, stop,” whined Claire.
“Stop!” cried the father and then more softly with affection said, “Come lie down on papa, come lie down.” The boy reluctantly left Claire’s feet, climbed onto his daddy and lie his head on his daddy’s chest for 5 seconds. Then he decided to start playing with his blocks.
Two older children entered the play area, a girl and her brother. The girl must have been 9 years old or so, her brother maybe 7. They sat down. The boy picked up a toy plane and began fiddling with it. The girl started doing activities from a little purple magazine. Eva became curious and sat up to watch her. Of course, Claire had to sit up too and soon began playing with the little boy. He began throwing his blocks.
“Stop! Stop!” cried the father.
One block hit Claire hard in the forehead and made a sound. Claire froze still, stunned for a second and then she let out a big wail, her eyes filling and brimming over with tears. ‘Ow-wow wow, ow-wow wow,” she cried over and over.
“Come here,” I opened my arms and she came over to me. I hugged her tightly and while this was happening, the father smacked his son again who was also wailing. It was loud in the play compartment. “Let me see your head, Claire,” she moved her head away from my chest and looked at me. A big blue welt was forming on her forehead.
The man looked over at Claire and said, “Oh! That’s going to leave a bruise,” then he turned to his son and boomed out, “See what you did! You hurt Claire! Look at her head! See what you did!"
The boy stared at Claire and cried loudly. The father continued reprimanding his son. “I’m sorry,” he said to me and then added, “Boys. Boys are like that. They throw things. All boys are like that. I don’t know why.” The man did look like he was sorry. I felt sad Claire had been a victim to a little boy and his natural throwing tendency. The two new children who had joined us stared open-mouthed at the man without blinking once.
An older woman poked her head in looking upset. “Is everything okay,” she asked the two older children. The girl shook her head up and down. The mother gave one stiff look around, holding her glance longer than necessary at the man and then left.
“Do you have any paper,” the man asked the girl. She shook her head.
”I do,” I piped in and pulled out some paper from my big bag.
“Oh, great,” he took the paper and said, “Look kids! Look what I’m going to do!” He held the children’s attention closely. He gave me an endearing look. Then, he began his magic show.
The man told some story about a sailor. He made a boat and then turned it wittily into a shirt. He made a plane and some other objects. The children were spell-bound. All eyes were on the man. He spoke non-stop in his booming voice. Whenever the children were quiet, he’d start to sing in his heavy French accent, “It’s oh, so quiet. Shhhhh. Shhhhh. It’s oh, so quiet. Shhhh Shhhhhh”, filling in every precious quiet space with noise.
“Look what I can do!” he beamed after his magic show was over. He began doing complicated hand balances, with his knees on his elbows.
“Bakasana,” I cried out, a yoga move also known as the crow. The children watched in awe. The older girl tried to do it too and managed pretty well. She was excited.
“Look! Look, now!” said the Cat in the Hat as he balanced on his hands and wrapped his legs around his arms to bring his feet together.
“Bhujapidasana!” I cried out, proud I knew the Sanskrit yoga name. “You’re doing yoga.”
“ Really? Oh, I didn’t know that. I used to put my feet behind my head but now I’m too old,” he said.
Then he stood up and lifted his shirt up to show a slightly unfit stomach. “Watch! Watch!”, everyone became silent. He rolled his stomach like a belly dancer with perfect control, one big wave moving from the top to the bottom.
Claire stood up and lifted her dress, her tiny little body and big tight tummy poking out. “Look,” she said and she did almost the same thing with astonishing precision.
“Wow,” he said and looked at me surprised, “she has good control!”
“Yes, she does,” I answered proudly and then wondered what the passengers, who could only hear us, must be imagining.
The little boy started acting up again, followed by some spankings, some loud wailing, and yet another booming lecture. One minute, the man was warm and kind, the next minute, he’d morph into the wicked father of a scary fairy tale.
A teenage boy poked his head into our play compartment and said, “Could you try and be a little quieter?” The man looked appalled. At first he was so shocked, he sat speechless. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and said with a smile, “Kids. What can we do?” He was totally unaware that he was louder than all the children combined. He had no idea the teenage boy was most likely asking him to be quieter, not the children.
Several apple sauces, candies, and cakes later, the train arrived in Toulouse. We packed up our bags, leaving more crumbs than we had initially encountered, crumbs for the next lucky passengers. “Bye,” we all waved to each other. And we slowly climbed down the stairs onto the platform. As I wheeled our luggage and walked through the train station holding my girls’ hands tightly, all I kept thinking was, “Wow. That will make a great story for my blog.”
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Wouldn't It Be Nice?
It’s July and summer is here. This is France. I just found a new babysitter who comes on time and hasn’t yet sent a text with any of the following stories, “My back went out again, the doctor came to my house and said I can’t leave today.” “I’ve had a family emergency and have to leave town, I’m sorry.” Or the last one to date,“I’m at the police station identifying a gang of boys who attacked me this morning…”
I’ve been so happy with our new girl, I did what I always do when I hire a new babysitter, I went to buy her a little agenda to put in all her important dates (paramount of course is watching my children).
Well, to my surprise, all the agendas begin in September, the “Back to School” month when everything begins. I do realize not many people look for calendars or Filofax refills in July but the fact July and August somehow are no longer represented (except back in January) made me seriously laugh about the whole summer thing here. I had to hold my tongue from saying something extremely berating to the poor sales girl who wore denim overalls and had her black hair cut very short, the bangs gelled upwards like a comic strip character.
Later that evening while I recounted my findings of the two missing months, my husband pointed out that it was normal to only stock a certain number of agendas as most people buy them in January and it makes sense to cater to the Back to School people now. I do see the logic in that but still, what about people who get a new job in July and want a whole new agenda to start afresh? Oh, I almost forgot. It's France. Who would start a new job in July?
Anyway, in addition to the many strikes we had this year, mainly all of May and June, it just seems like people are overly focused on their vacation time. Starting in May, it becomes the common question to ask an acquaintance, “Are you leaving this summer?” No matter what their job or salary, everyone has the budget to take at least two full weeks of glorious vacation. When people ask if we’re going somewhere this summer and I respond “no”, they don’t know exactly what to say next. Who the hell says, “No?” No one. Especially not the pooper scooper. He gets his 9 weeks paid holiday plus strike days.
The buses and metros have a new schedule called “The Green Hours” which lasts all summer with less frequent stops. Many stores post new hours. Instead of their intense 10-12 and then 2-7pm day, they now post 10-12 and then 4-7pm. Yes, a four hour lunch now. Because it’s summer. But, most people won’t be shopping between 12 and 4pm anyway because it’s too hot, especially here in Marseille and they will be leaving for vacation to spend money on some beach somewhere else.
As an American, I’ve adapted pretty well to the whole sweaty no air-conditioner life style. The only places you will find a/c are in the grocery store, the tram(!), your own car (but it is still an option and most people don’t have it).
Just Saturday, I went into this tiny boutique to try on some 10€ dresses. Inside her store was hotter than it was outside and after five minutes of trying on dresses that fit nicely, I had to leave. I’m sure if her store had been cold, I would’ve left with a bag full of things.
However, the only thoughts running through my head were, “Man, I’m hot. This dress looks nice, but I’ll be so hot in it. When will I ever even wear it? I’m sweating like a pig. This place is a fucking sauna …” I gathered my belongings, dramatically wiped the beads of sweat from my upper lip, and walked into the relatively cool street. “Oh my God!” I said with especially wide eyes to no one in particular as if I was recuperating from some horrible experience. I felt as if I’d escaped a torture chamber.
That afternoon, while our two children took naps, sweating heavily while their fan was running, my husband and I turned on our small mobile a/c unit and lay on the couch immobile except for our mouths. “God, the French!,” he began. “I can’t wait to be in my hot office with my sweaty, smelly engineers tomorrow. They don’t even open their windows. I think they like it stuffy and humid and smelly in there, I swear!”
I started laughing. “We’re French,” he began in a loud voice, “We love to sweat. We love to keep our windows closed when it is a hundred degrees outside…love it! We like to smell! We’re French! We enjoy being uncomfortable!” Then he switched voices to sound like the feminine cliché version of a homosexual, “Air conditioner makes me so cold. Air conditioners aren’t good for your health, you know. They’ll make you sick…” I started laughing as many French have expressed their dislike for a/c and do believe it will make you sick. “God, France can be so third world sometimes!,” he added.
Needless to say, it does bring back memories of India, a real live third world country whose banking and Internet services are way ahead of France though the comfort level is about the same, stinky and hot, sewage smells seeping up through the sidewalks. After living in France for exactly 7 years to this day, I have the following recurring fantasy every single summer…
Wouldn’t it be pure heaven to be in the US strolling in a mall right now, sipping an iced Mocha in a cold plastic cup, my arms chilly, the over-abundant scent from perfume counters and smiling people who pass by.
My other recurring fantasy every single summer…
Wouldn’t it be pure heaven to be seated in an ice cold movie theatre, dark, clean, a brand new summer flick about to begin and a big bucket of freshly popped corn in my lap, an enormous cup filled with ice and Coke resting in the cup holder…
Wouldn’t it be nice?
I’ve been so happy with our new girl, I did what I always do when I hire a new babysitter, I went to buy her a little agenda to put in all her important dates (paramount of course is watching my children).
Well, to my surprise, all the agendas begin in September, the “Back to School” month when everything begins. I do realize not many people look for calendars or Filofax refills in July but the fact July and August somehow are no longer represented (except back in January) made me seriously laugh about the whole summer thing here. I had to hold my tongue from saying something extremely berating to the poor sales girl who wore denim overalls and had her black hair cut very short, the bangs gelled upwards like a comic strip character.
Later that evening while I recounted my findings of the two missing months, my husband pointed out that it was normal to only stock a certain number of agendas as most people buy them in January and it makes sense to cater to the Back to School people now. I do see the logic in that but still, what about people who get a new job in July and want a whole new agenda to start afresh? Oh, I almost forgot. It's France. Who would start a new job in July?
Anyway, in addition to the many strikes we had this year, mainly all of May and June, it just seems like people are overly focused on their vacation time. Starting in May, it becomes the common question to ask an acquaintance, “Are you leaving this summer?” No matter what their job or salary, everyone has the budget to take at least two full weeks of glorious vacation. When people ask if we’re going somewhere this summer and I respond “no”, they don’t know exactly what to say next. Who the hell says, “No?” No one. Especially not the pooper scooper. He gets his 9 weeks paid holiday plus strike days.
The buses and metros have a new schedule called “The Green Hours” which lasts all summer with less frequent stops. Many stores post new hours. Instead of their intense 10-12 and then 2-7pm day, they now post 10-12 and then 4-7pm. Yes, a four hour lunch now. Because it’s summer. But, most people won’t be shopping between 12 and 4pm anyway because it’s too hot, especially here in Marseille and they will be leaving for vacation to spend money on some beach somewhere else.
As an American, I’ve adapted pretty well to the whole sweaty no air-conditioner life style. The only places you will find a/c are in the grocery store, the tram(!), your own car (but it is still an option and most people don’t have it).
Just Saturday, I went into this tiny boutique to try on some 10€ dresses. Inside her store was hotter than it was outside and after five minutes of trying on dresses that fit nicely, I had to leave. I’m sure if her store had been cold, I would’ve left with a bag full of things.
However, the only thoughts running through my head were, “Man, I’m hot. This dress looks nice, but I’ll be so hot in it. When will I ever even wear it? I’m sweating like a pig. This place is a fucking sauna …” I gathered my belongings, dramatically wiped the beads of sweat from my upper lip, and walked into the relatively cool street. “Oh my God!” I said with especially wide eyes to no one in particular as if I was recuperating from some horrible experience. I felt as if I’d escaped a torture chamber.
That afternoon, while our two children took naps, sweating heavily while their fan was running, my husband and I turned on our small mobile a/c unit and lay on the couch immobile except for our mouths. “God, the French!,” he began. “I can’t wait to be in my hot office with my sweaty, smelly engineers tomorrow. They don’t even open their windows. I think they like it stuffy and humid and smelly in there, I swear!”
I started laughing. “We’re French,” he began in a loud voice, “We love to sweat. We love to keep our windows closed when it is a hundred degrees outside…love it! We like to smell! We’re French! We enjoy being uncomfortable!” Then he switched voices to sound like the feminine cliché version of a homosexual, “Air conditioner makes me so cold. Air conditioners aren’t good for your health, you know. They’ll make you sick…” I started laughing as many French have expressed their dislike for a/c and do believe it will make you sick. “God, France can be so third world sometimes!,” he added.
Needless to say, it does bring back memories of India, a real live third world country whose banking and Internet services are way ahead of France though the comfort level is about the same, stinky and hot, sewage smells seeping up through the sidewalks. After living in France for exactly 7 years to this day, I have the following recurring fantasy every single summer…
Wouldn’t it be pure heaven to be in the US strolling in a mall right now, sipping an iced Mocha in a cold plastic cup, my arms chilly, the over-abundant scent from perfume counters and smiling people who pass by.
My other recurring fantasy every single summer…
Wouldn’t it be pure heaven to be seated in an ice cold movie theatre, dark, clean, a brand new summer flick about to begin and a big bucket of freshly popped corn in my lap, an enormous cup filled with ice and Coke resting in the cup holder…
Wouldn’t it be nice?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Ikea the Experience
Ikea! You’ve heard about it, maybe even gone there. But do you really know the true full-fledged experience of Ikea? In France, Ikea is the place to buy furniture and even more. France does not have myriad shops with myriad price ranges like the US. No, you either buy the sleek Italian shelves for €3000 or the €200 unit from Ikea. Why isn’t there a store like Pottery Barn or even something like a JC Penny or Sears maybe even a Pier 1 Imports? I don’t know.
Ikea is its own little world here. My husband’s eye twitches merely from the word “Ikea.” People line up to go in all week long. They have a children play area where you can leave your kids for a maximum of one hour. (No one has ever done Ikea in one hour! Please!) They have their own restaurant. It is a half-day experience. You don’t just pop into Ikea like you would Target. It is a dizzying experience.
Well, one morning we went to find a desk or something. After passing every elaborate floor display with every concoction possible of a kitchen or a bathroom or a study, we decided to have lunch. It was perfect lunch time for the children, 11:30am. By noon, the restaurant would be packed to the gills. One thing I noticed right away is the cafeteria furniture is not child friendly. All the chairs have these huge holes in the back, just perfect for a child to fall out of if he or she should choose to lean back.
There are some tables with chairs that have real backs and that day while my children played at the cafeteria playground and my husband went to the self-serve food line, I chose our table. It’s true, I could’ve chosen any table that had chairs with backs, but, I needed a good view of my children as well and thus, I chose a long table that could seat up to 8 people near the window. There was a bag on the chair nearest the window so I figured someone was going to sit there. I know people like to have their space, so I chose the four chairs at the other end of the table thinking this was respectful. I guess I could’ve chosen a table that had no seats already “reserved” but I didn’t. Soon enough, an older man arrived with his trays (yes, he had more than one). He looked at me and then said, “Didn’t you see my things here?”
“Yes, yes,” I replied waiting to see what the anxiety was about.
“You have the whole restaurant to choose from. Why are you sitting here? I chose this table.” He made a grand sweeping gesture to emphasize the vast emptiness surrounding us, all the choices I could have made and failed at making.
The restaurant at this point was already filling up as I glanced around nervously wondering whether I should give in and find another table or not.
He sat right in front of me and said, “Are you going to be comfortable eating with me sitting in front of you like this?” He smiled but it was a sarcastic one.
“I’m fine here,” I said realizing he was prompting me to tell him he was right, it was not comfortable and I would find another table. “This is fine,” I repeated, “You don’t think it’s okay?”
“You think this is okay? You think this is okay?” he said in a scary Robert DeNiro way, nodding his head with a creepy grin that promised more trouble. “I chose this table. Why did you choose it when you have the whole restaurant?” he asked again.
“Look,” I said trying to stay calm and collected. “The other chairs have holes in the back. I needed to find these chairs for my children.”
He looked around the room and then said, “Well, other children seem to be sitting in those chairs. But, I guess your children are handicapped or something. Your children can’t sit in those chairs. But other people’s children can.”
“Listen to me again,” I said getting bitchy. I leaned over the table, “Are you listening?”
He nodded his head.
“I want my children to sit in these chairs. They will fall out of the other ones,” I said.
He ranted again about how my children were special since the other ones seemed to be doing fine in the other chairs. Just then his wife arrived, between the two of them; they had four trays and took up a lot of space. I guess they planned on eating there the whole day. Maybe it was some special afternoon treat…take the old wife to Ikea Cafeteria.
By then the cafeteria was completely full and noisy. Should I have gotten up and left? If I found another table as he had wanted, some other family would have come to his table at some point. It was just a matter of time.
My husband arrived and I said to him, “That man is upset we’re sitting here. He won’t leave me alone. It’s becoming harassment!”
“Excuse me,” said my husband smiling and leaning over to talk to the man. “Is there a problem with my wife?”
The man explained how I chose his table when I could have chosen another one. My husband turned to me, “Why did you choose this table? Why didn’t you choose another one?”
Feeling upset my husband wasn’t taking my side, I explained for the umpteenth time my chair complex which began to sound silly. The man defended his side once again noting all the children sitting in chairs with big holes in the back. Then he added that I had called him deaf! Obviously, when I had asked him, “Are you listening?” he had somehow thought I was alleging he was hard of hearing.
My husband said to me, “Why didn’t you choose another table? Why are you even trying to deal with this man? Can’t you see he’s upset?”
Clearly, my husband was right. Why hadn’t I left and found another table? I can’t tell you that reason. It was like this inner struggle. Do I leave because this man wants me to leave? Or do I stay because I have the right to sit here too? I wasn’t thinking, “It’s not worth dealing with this asshole, I’ll find another table.” I felt glued to my seat by principle alone. Plus, it was way too crowded now to find a table for four people. So we stayed. And, as I’m sure you can guess, the bastard was right. Eating our lunch was very uncomfortable indeed.
As we left, my husband said, “I don’t understand how I always get involved in your situations. How do you get yourself in those situations? You should’ve said something sarcastic and gone somewhere else! I don’t understand you sometimes,” he shook his head in annoyance.
I had no response and on the drive home, my husband was annoyed because Ikea in itself is annoying. You pick up your stuff, load your car, tie your trunk down, etc. So, he went on a mini-rampage, a pee-in-your-pantsingly funny stitch. (I saw this term on a London billboard about a show, "pee-in-your-pantsingly funny”) Back to my husband, he began ranting in a loud voice, “Ikea! Ikea! We all love Ikea!,” he bellowed out the window to no one in particular as we went around the huge round-about packed with cars leaving Ikea. “Let’s all go to Ikea!”, he continued.
I watched him, knowing it would be a couple minutes of hilarious improv for me to enjoy. “Everyone thinks Ikea is soooo great! But, it’s the day that never ends. First you go to Ikea. You’re there forever to find your thing, pick it up, and take it home. You think it ends when you pick up your furniture? No! It doesn’t end there. No! Cuz then, you have to put all the crap shit together and you know that is going to take all night. And, there’s always a missing piece so you have to come back for that little tiny crap fuck shit shove up your ass piece.”
I folded over in laughter.
“Then,” he continued, “you put together their crap piece of furniture and it’s still not over. No. Because now you have a million boxes that you have to get rid of and dismount and recycle. Ikea is just never-ending…They’re up in your fucking ass!,” he said through clenched teeth and slapping his ass for a dramatic effect. “They must be the worst company out there for the environment.” But he wasn’t finished just yet. “Oh, I have an idea. Let’s put this little tiny fuck shit screw in a little plastic bag. And let’s put this shelf in a box, and this shelf in another box, and this piece in a big mama fuck carton too! Oh, we are Ikea. We looooove the environment. Ikea! Hate Ikea! That's the last time we're going there! We're not going again. Shit fuck!”
Hysterical laughter came out of me. “That was excellent. I wish I had that on video. That is great! The best! I love it!”
“God!”, he said sweeping a mesh of hair out of his eyes and hitting the wheel of his car several times for the grand finale. “Ahhhhhhh!”
And that is Ikea the Experience.
Ikea is its own little world here. My husband’s eye twitches merely from the word “Ikea.” People line up to go in all week long. They have a children play area where you can leave your kids for a maximum of one hour. (No one has ever done Ikea in one hour! Please!) They have their own restaurant. It is a half-day experience. You don’t just pop into Ikea like you would Target. It is a dizzying experience.
Well, one morning we went to find a desk or something. After passing every elaborate floor display with every concoction possible of a kitchen or a bathroom or a study, we decided to have lunch. It was perfect lunch time for the children, 11:30am. By noon, the restaurant would be packed to the gills. One thing I noticed right away is the cafeteria furniture is not child friendly. All the chairs have these huge holes in the back, just perfect for a child to fall out of if he or she should choose to lean back.
There are some tables with chairs that have real backs and that day while my children played at the cafeteria playground and my husband went to the self-serve food line, I chose our table. It’s true, I could’ve chosen any table that had chairs with backs, but, I needed a good view of my children as well and thus, I chose a long table that could seat up to 8 people near the window. There was a bag on the chair nearest the window so I figured someone was going to sit there. I know people like to have their space, so I chose the four chairs at the other end of the table thinking this was respectful. I guess I could’ve chosen a table that had no seats already “reserved” but I didn’t. Soon enough, an older man arrived with his trays (yes, he had more than one). He looked at me and then said, “Didn’t you see my things here?”
“Yes, yes,” I replied waiting to see what the anxiety was about.
“You have the whole restaurant to choose from. Why are you sitting here? I chose this table.” He made a grand sweeping gesture to emphasize the vast emptiness surrounding us, all the choices I could have made and failed at making.
The restaurant at this point was already filling up as I glanced around nervously wondering whether I should give in and find another table or not.
He sat right in front of me and said, “Are you going to be comfortable eating with me sitting in front of you like this?” He smiled but it was a sarcastic one.
“I’m fine here,” I said realizing he was prompting me to tell him he was right, it was not comfortable and I would find another table. “This is fine,” I repeated, “You don’t think it’s okay?”
“You think this is okay? You think this is okay?” he said in a scary Robert DeNiro way, nodding his head with a creepy grin that promised more trouble. “I chose this table. Why did you choose it when you have the whole restaurant?” he asked again.
“Look,” I said trying to stay calm and collected. “The other chairs have holes in the back. I needed to find these chairs for my children.”
He looked around the room and then said, “Well, other children seem to be sitting in those chairs. But, I guess your children are handicapped or something. Your children can’t sit in those chairs. But other people’s children can.”
“Listen to me again,” I said getting bitchy. I leaned over the table, “Are you listening?”
He nodded his head.
“I want my children to sit in these chairs. They will fall out of the other ones,” I said.
He ranted again about how my children were special since the other ones seemed to be doing fine in the other chairs. Just then his wife arrived, between the two of them; they had four trays and took up a lot of space. I guess they planned on eating there the whole day. Maybe it was some special afternoon treat…take the old wife to Ikea Cafeteria.
By then the cafeteria was completely full and noisy. Should I have gotten up and left? If I found another table as he had wanted, some other family would have come to his table at some point. It was just a matter of time.
My husband arrived and I said to him, “That man is upset we’re sitting here. He won’t leave me alone. It’s becoming harassment!”
“Excuse me,” said my husband smiling and leaning over to talk to the man. “Is there a problem with my wife?”
The man explained how I chose his table when I could have chosen another one. My husband turned to me, “Why did you choose this table? Why didn’t you choose another one?”
Feeling upset my husband wasn’t taking my side, I explained for the umpteenth time my chair complex which began to sound silly. The man defended his side once again noting all the children sitting in chairs with big holes in the back. Then he added that I had called him deaf! Obviously, when I had asked him, “Are you listening?” he had somehow thought I was alleging he was hard of hearing.
My husband said to me, “Why didn’t you choose another table? Why are you even trying to deal with this man? Can’t you see he’s upset?”
Clearly, my husband was right. Why hadn’t I left and found another table? I can’t tell you that reason. It was like this inner struggle. Do I leave because this man wants me to leave? Or do I stay because I have the right to sit here too? I wasn’t thinking, “It’s not worth dealing with this asshole, I’ll find another table.” I felt glued to my seat by principle alone. Plus, it was way too crowded now to find a table for four people. So we stayed. And, as I’m sure you can guess, the bastard was right. Eating our lunch was very uncomfortable indeed.
As we left, my husband said, “I don’t understand how I always get involved in your situations. How do you get yourself in those situations? You should’ve said something sarcastic and gone somewhere else! I don’t understand you sometimes,” he shook his head in annoyance.
I had no response and on the drive home, my husband was annoyed because Ikea in itself is annoying. You pick up your stuff, load your car, tie your trunk down, etc. So, he went on a mini-rampage, a pee-in-your-pantsingly funny stitch. (I saw this term on a London billboard about a show, "pee-in-your-pantsingly funny”) Back to my husband, he began ranting in a loud voice, “Ikea! Ikea! We all love Ikea!,” he bellowed out the window to no one in particular as we went around the huge round-about packed with cars leaving Ikea. “Let’s all go to Ikea!”, he continued.
I watched him, knowing it would be a couple minutes of hilarious improv for me to enjoy. “Everyone thinks Ikea is soooo great! But, it’s the day that never ends. First you go to Ikea. You’re there forever to find your thing, pick it up, and take it home. You think it ends when you pick up your furniture? No! It doesn’t end there. No! Cuz then, you have to put all the crap shit together and you know that is going to take all night. And, there’s always a missing piece so you have to come back for that little tiny crap fuck shit shove up your ass piece.”
I folded over in laughter.
“Then,” he continued, “you put together their crap piece of furniture and it’s still not over. No. Because now you have a million boxes that you have to get rid of and dismount and recycle. Ikea is just never-ending…They’re up in your fucking ass!,” he said through clenched teeth and slapping his ass for a dramatic effect. “They must be the worst company out there for the environment.” But he wasn’t finished just yet. “Oh, I have an idea. Let’s put this little tiny fuck shit screw in a little plastic bag. And let’s put this shelf in a box, and this shelf in another box, and this piece in a big mama fuck carton too! Oh, we are Ikea. We looooove the environment. Ikea! Hate Ikea! That's the last time we're going there! We're not going again. Shit fuck!”
Hysterical laughter came out of me. “That was excellent. I wish I had that on video. That is great! The best! I love it!”
“God!”, he said sweeping a mesh of hair out of his eyes and hitting the wheel of his car several times for the grand finale. “Ahhhhhhh!”
And that is Ikea the Experience.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
To Pee or Not to Pee
For all you mothers out there who dream of the day your baby will be potty-trained, I can tell you, it’s not that fantastic. Claire, who is almost three years old, is in her first phase of being potty-trained. “I didn’t know there were phases?” I hear you confused readers saying. Well, there are. Some of you might have children who seamlessly passed from diapers to underwear without any confusion or help necessitated by you, but not Claire.
I’m not sure how often she peed when she wore diapers, but now, she must go every 20 minutes. “Big deal,” you’re saying, “Why all the hysteria? She sits and pees. End of story.”
No. Not exactly. First, she announces it, “Pee pee, Mommy. Pee pee.”
Then I respond, “Okay, Claire. Go sit on the potty.”
Then she says, “Help, Mommy, help.” So, to avoid her going pee in her pants which would mean I have to change and clean her up, as well as the floor, I go with her to the potty.
Sometimes she goes by herself, like when we are at home. But, at the café (she is my café pal) or at the park, it is annoying to get up and go with her. At the café, it’s fairly simple. I just sit her on the big adult toilet and it’s rather quick. Of course it is annoying to constantly get up and pack our things so no one steals everything while we’re gone. The park, however, is agonizing. Why? I’ll tell you. There is no public rest room, which is fine because if there were one, I have no doubt it would be abominable and no one would even go in it.
The park routine is all-around unnerving. First I have to find a little corner which often means my eyes are no longer on big sis, Eva. Then, I have to remove Claire’s shoes, pants and everything and help her squat in a way so she won’t pee on her feet or mine. I kind of hold her mid-air and my arms and legs start to hurt. She just dangles there, poor thing, and wants to pee but for whatever reason, she cannot. She almost never goes at the park but she makes me do the whole pee routine at least three times in one hour.
Considering I can’t see Eva, I feel anxious and say during every pee pee attempt, “Hurry, Claire…Pee pee, psssss,” and I make a pee sound hoping it will illicit some subconscious desire to take a whiz. Why I do this, I don’t know. It hasn’t worked yet. So, that’s the pee pee deal.
Now, we also have the caca deal. At our house, we have a little potty on the floor and also a little seat we put on top of the normal toilet seat. She likes both options and seems to have no problems peeing on her little potty or the big one but when it comes to pooping it’s a different story. And to side track a little, yes, I’m still obsessed with poop considering it is omnipresent in my life. It’s seriously everywhere I turn, in my house, on the street, I can’t escape it. Anyway, moving right along with the caca routine, it’s actually a tad heart-breaking. First, Claire gets this painful look on her face and she starts holding her bottom and walking on her toes, “Poop…poop.”
So, I say, “Go! Go, Claire. Go sit on your potty!”
And of course she says, “Help, Mommy, help.” Then as I attempt to put her on her little potty, she says, “Big potty. Big Potty.” So, I put her on the big potty and she sits for a couple minutes and then says, “Done.” But, she hasn’t done a thing. I help her get her pants back on and try to do whatever I was doing before being interrupted and five minutes later, there’s Claire doing her dance and whining, “Poop, Mommy. Poop.” You get the gist. After many efforts on the big potty and Claire not pooping, it becomes not only aggravating but also a little stressful. For a mother, the only thing as important as keeping your kids fed is making sure they poop everyday, sad but true.
Fortunately, a couple hours later she’ll miraculously go to the little potty by herself and announce, “Pooped. I pooped.” This is great. But, it’s also not so great because she has dropped a big log. I have to empty it into the toilet and it never hits just the water (as French toilets aren’t filled to the rim like the big American crappers) so I’m obligated to scrub the toilet bowl and then take her little potty over to the bath tub and her potty has major poop stuck inside it so I have to clean this out and spray it with disinfectant and then rinse it out. I also have to do the whole clean-up routine when she pees.
So, to summarize all of this up, my days of simply changing her diapers are gone. And, I was able to do that quite speedily. Now, I consecrate unfathomable amounts of time to all her tries at peeing, pooping and my cleaning of the god damn children potty.
I’m not exaggerating; this goes on all day long. I’m considering calling up everyone I know and saying, “Look, cancel this, cancel that, forget dinner, I am on potty duty. I don’t have time to pick-up Eva or buy groceries or do anything.” In fact, sometimes I need to go to the bathroom and while I’m sitting on the big toilet, Claire prances in holding her ass and complaining that she needs to poop…now! And, she wants to sit on the big potty, now!
This morning while trying to get ready, I must have been interrupted five times. I almost forgot to put make-up on one of my eyes. Then, I imagined myself taking Eva to school with one big eye all done up and one little puffy eye explaining, “Oh, Claire had to pee this morning…fifteen times.”
On a daily basis, I find myself aimlessly turning in circles like an old senile dog thinking, “Now, what the hell was I doing before I got interrupted?” I can already see myself at 80 years old with Alzheimer’s mumbling to no one in particular, “Claire? Did you poop? Can someone go wipe her? Hurry!” Or worse yet, I’ll find myself dangling in the arms of my adult children in the corner of a park, hearing them say “Hurry, Mom… pee pee, psssss.”
I’m not sure how often she peed when she wore diapers, but now, she must go every 20 minutes. “Big deal,” you’re saying, “Why all the hysteria? She sits and pees. End of story.”
No. Not exactly. First, she announces it, “Pee pee, Mommy. Pee pee.”
Then I respond, “Okay, Claire. Go sit on the potty.”
Then she says, “Help, Mommy, help.” So, to avoid her going pee in her pants which would mean I have to change and clean her up, as well as the floor, I go with her to the potty.
Sometimes she goes by herself, like when we are at home. But, at the café (she is my café pal) or at the park, it is annoying to get up and go with her. At the café, it’s fairly simple. I just sit her on the big adult toilet and it’s rather quick. Of course it is annoying to constantly get up and pack our things so no one steals everything while we’re gone. The park, however, is agonizing. Why? I’ll tell you. There is no public rest room, which is fine because if there were one, I have no doubt it would be abominable and no one would even go in it.
The park routine is all-around unnerving. First I have to find a little corner which often means my eyes are no longer on big sis, Eva. Then, I have to remove Claire’s shoes, pants and everything and help her squat in a way so she won’t pee on her feet or mine. I kind of hold her mid-air and my arms and legs start to hurt. She just dangles there, poor thing, and wants to pee but for whatever reason, she cannot. She almost never goes at the park but she makes me do the whole pee routine at least three times in one hour.
Considering I can’t see Eva, I feel anxious and say during every pee pee attempt, “Hurry, Claire…Pee pee, psssss,” and I make a pee sound hoping it will illicit some subconscious desire to take a whiz. Why I do this, I don’t know. It hasn’t worked yet. So, that’s the pee pee deal.
Now, we also have the caca deal. At our house, we have a little potty on the floor and also a little seat we put on top of the normal toilet seat. She likes both options and seems to have no problems peeing on her little potty or the big one but when it comes to pooping it’s a different story. And to side track a little, yes, I’m still obsessed with poop considering it is omnipresent in my life. It’s seriously everywhere I turn, in my house, on the street, I can’t escape it. Anyway, moving right along with the caca routine, it’s actually a tad heart-breaking. First, Claire gets this painful look on her face and she starts holding her bottom and walking on her toes, “Poop…poop.”
So, I say, “Go! Go, Claire. Go sit on your potty!”
And of course she says, “Help, Mommy, help.” Then as I attempt to put her on her little potty, she says, “Big potty. Big Potty.” So, I put her on the big potty and she sits for a couple minutes and then says, “Done.” But, she hasn’t done a thing. I help her get her pants back on and try to do whatever I was doing before being interrupted and five minutes later, there’s Claire doing her dance and whining, “Poop, Mommy. Poop.” You get the gist. After many efforts on the big potty and Claire not pooping, it becomes not only aggravating but also a little stressful. For a mother, the only thing as important as keeping your kids fed is making sure they poop everyday, sad but true.
Fortunately, a couple hours later she’ll miraculously go to the little potty by herself and announce, “Pooped. I pooped.” This is great. But, it’s also not so great because she has dropped a big log. I have to empty it into the toilet and it never hits just the water (as French toilets aren’t filled to the rim like the big American crappers) so I’m obligated to scrub the toilet bowl and then take her little potty over to the bath tub and her potty has major poop stuck inside it so I have to clean this out and spray it with disinfectant and then rinse it out. I also have to do the whole clean-up routine when she pees.
So, to summarize all of this up, my days of simply changing her diapers are gone. And, I was able to do that quite speedily. Now, I consecrate unfathomable amounts of time to all her tries at peeing, pooping and my cleaning of the god damn children potty.
I’m not exaggerating; this goes on all day long. I’m considering calling up everyone I know and saying, “Look, cancel this, cancel that, forget dinner, I am on potty duty. I don’t have time to pick-up Eva or buy groceries or do anything.” In fact, sometimes I need to go to the bathroom and while I’m sitting on the big toilet, Claire prances in holding her ass and complaining that she needs to poop…now! And, she wants to sit on the big potty, now!
This morning while trying to get ready, I must have been interrupted five times. I almost forgot to put make-up on one of my eyes. Then, I imagined myself taking Eva to school with one big eye all done up and one little puffy eye explaining, “Oh, Claire had to pee this morning…fifteen times.”
On a daily basis, I find myself aimlessly turning in circles like an old senile dog thinking, “Now, what the hell was I doing before I got interrupted?” I can already see myself at 80 years old with Alzheimer’s mumbling to no one in particular, “Claire? Did you poop? Can someone go wipe her? Hurry!” Or worse yet, I’ll find myself dangling in the arms of my adult children in the corner of a park, hearing them say “Hurry, Mom… pee pee, psssss.”
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Heat Is On
Everyone has moments when they are forced to improvise in a trying situation. My sister, Diane, is one of those people who can rely on her wits but she is also irreverent and uncensored. When we're together, this personality combination often gets us into trouble.
During my years at ASU in Arizona, Diane and I would do a yearly road trip from Arizona to Colorado where our folks lived. It was roughly a 13 hour drive and we’d usually stop half-way in New Mexico for the night. For our trip, we’d stock the car with a jug of water, hardy pretzels and our favorite processed squeeze cheese. We’d top the pretzels high with the smooth orange spread and take turns passing this sophisticated snack back and forth.
Diane would always start out the road trip by saying, “If one of us gets a ticket, we’ll split it, okay?”
And I’d agree. So, as we came to our fifth hour of driving in an endless flat and unchanging scenery in New Mexico, Diane behind the wheel, the speed began to slowly rise. Soon enough, we heard sirens and a big Ford police car was tailing us.
“Oh, shit!” Diane said glancing anxiously in the rear view mirror. She pulled over. I pulled my sun visor down to peak at the police man. We both saw a strong Mexican cop, young and good looking, approaching our vehicle. New Mexico is highly populated with a Latino community. Diane had an idea. “Quick! Quick! Put the Gypsy Kings on!”
“Good plan, sis!” I thought. It would be an attempt to show our cop we loved Spanish music. Maybe he’d empathize with us if he knew just how much we had in common with him. As he walked up to our car, “Bombalero” was blaring from the stereo, Gitano clapping sounds ringing out.
“Hello, ladies,” he smiled at us with bright white teeth.
“Sorry,” Diane mumbled. “How fast was I going?”
“You were going about 85.”
“Oh,” she paused, “sorry.”
“Yep. That’s a little too fast for a warning. I’m going to have to give you a ticket. Please keep your speed down,” he said.
“Okay,” she replied, “How fast can I go?” she asked.
“Keep it around 75 and you’ll be fine,” he handed her the ticket.
“Okay. Thanks a lot,” she said.
“Take care,” he started walking away.
“I can’t believe you asked him how fast you could go!” I exclaimed.
“Why? He was nice. You see, we can go 75.”
The rest of our road trip we stayed within a reasonable speed. At one point, we needed gas and a small break. The only place to stop was this mega gas and convenient store complex complete with a free movie theatre. It looked like a mall.
Inside, they sold Kachina dolls, Indian beaded jewelry and dream catchers. It was packed with Indians (or if you prefer “Native Americans” though I’ve never heard a Native American refer to himself as anything other than an Indian) Anyway, back to my sister Diane. We were strolling through the complex with cherry Slurpees when out of nowhere, Diane started singing rather loudly, “Cherokee People…Cherokee Tribe…”
We both looked at each other shocked at her outburst and laughed uncontrollably. I finally caught my breath, “What the fuck, Diane?”
“Oh, my God,” she said still laughing, “I swear that song just popped into my head!”
“You’re going to get our asses kicked!”
She bent over and started laughing again. “I didn’t mean to do that. It just came out!”
“Time to get you out of here,” I grabbed her hand and we headed for the parking lot. Diane, my un-politically correct sis. But wait, it gets better…
During my junior year abroad, I lived in Nice. Diane decided to visit me over Christmas vacation. I happened to be staying in a very strict dorm where the cleaning staff was especially mean. The rooms were tiny and had one small single bed barely big enough for one person. My friend who left for the vacation had given me the keys to her room for Diane.
Unfortunately, this convenient living arrangement quickly came to an end. One day, Diane was about to go into her room when she heard a man cry out behind her, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!”
Gripped with fear and also unable to communicate in French, my sister pretended not to hear him. He approached her and tapped her shoulder, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!” He showed her a photo of my friend, “Où est la mademoiselle?” he asked her. (Where is this young woman?) Diane, not wanting to be in trouble decided to play deaf and began signing the few words she knew in sign language hoping the man would feel overcome with pity. But, he grabbed the keys from her and said something mean. Diane fled to my room knocking frantically. “I got caught! I got caught! Hurry! Let me in!”
I let her in and she came into my room breathless and scared. “That fag dude took my keys!”
“Huh?” That “fag dude” was François, the meanest of the cleaning staff.
“I pretended to be deaf so we have to pretend I’m deaf, okay?”
“What? Why?” I was dumbfounded.
“I don’t know. I thought it would help.”
“Oh, great!” I said. We left my room in search of François. He was in the office sitting smugly behind a desk.
“What’s going on?” I asked him, Diane stood innocently beside me. “My sister said you took her keys? She’s deaf, you know.”
He didn’t seem to care. “You need to pay to use that room,” he said.
“Why? It’s my friend’s room and she is away for Christmas.”
He turned and looked out the window. He ignored us.
“My sister’s things are in that room. At least let us get her bags,” I pleaded.
He shook his head enjoying his omnipotent position in the situation.
Frustrated, I began crying and left the room. Diane followed me and began doing a stupid deaf routine in case François was listening. We couldn’t blow our cover, not that it had helped a smidgen. Several minutes later, François walked over to us.
“Look, we need the keys, just let us get our stuff,” I asked again.
After several minutes of contemplation, François looked at my sister and said, “I’ll go with you and let you get your stuff. But, you cannot have the keys!”
Then he turned to me and announced, “Your friend is in trouble!”
Relieved he was willing to budge enough for my sister to get her things, I looked at her and pretended to translate everything he had just said. After a couple farcical gestures, I topped it off by mouthing “Let’s go,” and I did the fist-on-top-of-fist, thumb over one shoulder, thumb over the other shoulder, essentially the “hand jive” straight from Grease.
After we got my sister’s bags, we were back in my tiny room, sitting on my bed quietly.
“Nice,” Diane raised her eyebrows at me. “Let’s…go” she said and she mimicked my ridiculous hand jive number.
“I didn’t do that!” I stammered.
She shook her head, “Yes, you did! You did that!”
“I did? Oh, god!”
Now, whenever we want to leave a place, Diane will say, “Hey, sis…let’s…go” and she’ll do the duke upon duke, over the shoulder routine.
I can't always keep up with her, but damn, it's a fun ride.
During my years at ASU in Arizona, Diane and I would do a yearly road trip from Arizona to Colorado where our folks lived. It was roughly a 13 hour drive and we’d usually stop half-way in New Mexico for the night. For our trip, we’d stock the car with a jug of water, hardy pretzels and our favorite processed squeeze cheese. We’d top the pretzels high with the smooth orange spread and take turns passing this sophisticated snack back and forth.
Diane would always start out the road trip by saying, “If one of us gets a ticket, we’ll split it, okay?”
And I’d agree. So, as we came to our fifth hour of driving in an endless flat and unchanging scenery in New Mexico, Diane behind the wheel, the speed began to slowly rise. Soon enough, we heard sirens and a big Ford police car was tailing us.
“Oh, shit!” Diane said glancing anxiously in the rear view mirror. She pulled over. I pulled my sun visor down to peak at the police man. We both saw a strong Mexican cop, young and good looking, approaching our vehicle. New Mexico is highly populated with a Latino community. Diane had an idea. “Quick! Quick! Put the Gypsy Kings on!”
“Good plan, sis!” I thought. It would be an attempt to show our cop we loved Spanish music. Maybe he’d empathize with us if he knew just how much we had in common with him. As he walked up to our car, “Bombalero” was blaring from the stereo, Gitano clapping sounds ringing out.
“Hello, ladies,” he smiled at us with bright white teeth.
“Sorry,” Diane mumbled. “How fast was I going?”
“You were going about 85.”
“Oh,” she paused, “sorry.”
“Yep. That’s a little too fast for a warning. I’m going to have to give you a ticket. Please keep your speed down,” he said.
“Okay,” she replied, “How fast can I go?” she asked.
“Keep it around 75 and you’ll be fine,” he handed her the ticket.
“Okay. Thanks a lot,” she said.
“Take care,” he started walking away.
“I can’t believe you asked him how fast you could go!” I exclaimed.
“Why? He was nice. You see, we can go 75.”
The rest of our road trip we stayed within a reasonable speed. At one point, we needed gas and a small break. The only place to stop was this mega gas and convenient store complex complete with a free movie theatre. It looked like a mall.
Inside, they sold Kachina dolls, Indian beaded jewelry and dream catchers. It was packed with Indians (or if you prefer “Native Americans” though I’ve never heard a Native American refer to himself as anything other than an Indian) Anyway, back to my sister Diane. We were strolling through the complex with cherry Slurpees when out of nowhere, Diane started singing rather loudly, “Cherokee People…Cherokee Tribe…”
We both looked at each other shocked at her outburst and laughed uncontrollably. I finally caught my breath, “What the fuck, Diane?”
“Oh, my God,” she said still laughing, “I swear that song just popped into my head!”
“You’re going to get our asses kicked!”
She bent over and started laughing again. “I didn’t mean to do that. It just came out!”
“Time to get you out of here,” I grabbed her hand and we headed for the parking lot. Diane, my un-politically correct sis. But wait, it gets better…
During my junior year abroad, I lived in Nice. Diane decided to visit me over Christmas vacation. I happened to be staying in a very strict dorm where the cleaning staff was especially mean. The rooms were tiny and had one small single bed barely big enough for one person. My friend who left for the vacation had given me the keys to her room for Diane.
Unfortunately, this convenient living arrangement quickly came to an end. One day, Diane was about to go into her room when she heard a man cry out behind her, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!”
Gripped with fear and also unable to communicate in French, my sister pretended not to hear him. He approached her and tapped her shoulder, “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!” He showed her a photo of my friend, “Où est la mademoiselle?” he asked her. (Where is this young woman?) Diane, not wanting to be in trouble decided to play deaf and began signing the few words she knew in sign language hoping the man would feel overcome with pity. But, he grabbed the keys from her and said something mean. Diane fled to my room knocking frantically. “I got caught! I got caught! Hurry! Let me in!”
I let her in and she came into my room breathless and scared. “That fag dude took my keys!”
“Huh?” That “fag dude” was François, the meanest of the cleaning staff.
“I pretended to be deaf so we have to pretend I’m deaf, okay?”
“What? Why?” I was dumbfounded.
“I don’t know. I thought it would help.”
“Oh, great!” I said. We left my room in search of François. He was in the office sitting smugly behind a desk.
“What’s going on?” I asked him, Diane stood innocently beside me. “My sister said you took her keys? She’s deaf, you know.”
He didn’t seem to care. “You need to pay to use that room,” he said.
“Why? It’s my friend’s room and she is away for Christmas.”
He turned and looked out the window. He ignored us.
“My sister’s things are in that room. At least let us get her bags,” I pleaded.
He shook his head enjoying his omnipotent position in the situation.
Frustrated, I began crying and left the room. Diane followed me and began doing a stupid deaf routine in case François was listening. We couldn’t blow our cover, not that it had helped a smidgen. Several minutes later, François walked over to us.
“Look, we need the keys, just let us get our stuff,” I asked again.
After several minutes of contemplation, François looked at my sister and said, “I’ll go with you and let you get your stuff. But, you cannot have the keys!”
Then he turned to me and announced, “Your friend is in trouble!”
Relieved he was willing to budge enough for my sister to get her things, I looked at her and pretended to translate everything he had just said. After a couple farcical gestures, I topped it off by mouthing “Let’s go,” and I did the fist-on-top-of-fist, thumb over one shoulder, thumb over the other shoulder, essentially the “hand jive” straight from Grease.
After we got my sister’s bags, we were back in my tiny room, sitting on my bed quietly.
“Nice,” Diane raised her eyebrows at me. “Let’s…go” she said and she mimicked my ridiculous hand jive number.
“I didn’t do that!” I stammered.
She shook her head, “Yes, you did! You did that!”
“I did? Oh, god!”
Now, whenever we want to leave a place, Diane will say, “Hey, sis…let’s…go” and she’ll do the duke upon duke, over the shoulder routine.
I can't always keep up with her, but damn, it's a fun ride.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Pantyhose Man
When we lived in Toulouse, I had my own yoga studio. I had never had any strange encounters with my students. They seemed to understand the protocol of a yoga class. They would arrive on time and in appropriate clothing. I never had to tell anyone to stop coming or to change their ways, until Pantyhose Man arrived.
He called one evening to ask about my classes. I explained a little to him. He had an effeminate voice and asked if he could come to class in stockings. He said he wore them in dance class and preferred to wear them. It seemed like a strange thing to where to yoga, but I couldn’t see the harm so I answered, “Sure.”
By coincidence, I had lots of new students trying my class the next evening. The room was packed to the gills. I even had to turn one student down as we had no more room. All of this just to give you an idea of how closely we were doing yoga to each other this evening.
Everyone arrived and was ready. The man who called me previously arrived looking normal. He wore jeans and a jacket and went into the changing room. Several minutes later, he came out wearing a dark brown sweater and brown opaque tights without pants or shorts on top, just tights. He wore glasses and was tall, pale, bald and muscular.
All of my students, new and old, tried to digest this exotic character. No one said anything but everyone noticed, as you will soon find out. Didier Sage (sage which means “well-behaved” in French) slightly grunted as his feet, trapped in stockings, slipped in most of the positions we did.
As we moved onto the floor and onto our backs, one of my student’s faces was dangerously close to his bulging crotch area. I saw her turn her head and try to act composed. That evening, the only new student who signed up for more classes was Didier Sage. All the other newbie’s had an excuse. One girl said, “Oh, my allergies acted up in your studio tonight.” An English couple shyly said, “We’ll come back soon,” and months later, after never having come again, the woman confessed via email, “We enjoyed your class but my husband was freaked out by the man in tights.”
The next class, one of my students, Bridgette, arrived early. She was a clever English girl with a wonderful sense of humor. She said to me, “Oooh! I can’t wait to see what Pantyhose Man will wear tonight!” Bridgette began to look forward to Didier’s appearances. That evening, he entered the studio in his usual jeans just a tad late. He went into the dressing room while everyone else patiently waited on their mats.
He exited in a rather graceful manner adorning a sheer black negligee that fell around mid-knee. Tiny spaghetti straps exposed his pale muscular shoulders and shaved body. Tonight, he did not wear brown opaque tights, he wore sheer black pantyhose. He took his place rather confidently on his mat.
When we began our sun salutations, I caught a glimpse of Bridgette biting her lip and furtively staring at the ceiling as if praying to keep her composure. I felt my lips quiver and almost burst into laughter but managed to quickly reorient my gaze. Even my voice shook a little as I spoke to the class. I had to shut that smile off fast and act normal. The vision of myself completely losing control right there was enough to regain my senses.
As we moved smoothly in and out of different positions, I realized Didier was clearly not wearing any underwear. His genitals were as bald as his head. When I first saw his naked bits, I thought I hadn’t seen properly, but he was exposing everything. I hoped more than anything everyone was concentrating on their own moves and didn’t see what I saw. Did he think no one saw it? Would he have been embarrassed had he known? I figured he hadn’t thought it through, maybe he had forgotten we’d be lifting our legs high in the air.
After class, Bridgette ran up to me cackling, “Oh, my God! That was a killer. I almost lost it in class!”
I wondered if I should say something to Didier Sage who wasn’t acting so sage, definitely not living up to his name! Was his dress inappropriate? Yes, but he seemed so innocent and no one had mustered a word yet about his bald genitals smiling at the world. Wasn’t yoga about being open-minded?
The next class, Bridgette rubbed her hands together and said, “Ooooh! I can’t wait to see what Hoseman has in-store for us tonight!”
Didier arrived and did his perfunctory scene opener while everyone sat quietly waiting on their mats. The door opened and he strode across the floor wearing a yellow sleeveless turtleneck and black pantyhose, this time nothing was covering his thighs.
As we sat on the floor that evening doing lotus, no one missed the sight of Didier’s shaven parts. I shortened the exercise and quickly moved to something more prudent and discreet, like a nice seated forward bend.
After he left that evening, two students approached me. One was a very serious and disciplined woman who said, “I will not come to class next time if Didier is there. He either covers himself and respects the other students or he stops coming!”
Another woman added, “I agree. He is an exhibitionist. He gets a high out of this! You have to say something to him.”
“I agree,” I said. “I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry.”
“We all know how to dress properly. You don’t see any of us coming without underwear. He has a total lack of respect!” my serious student continued. A flash of my student wearing no underwear and lifting her leg up high entered my head and I momentarily felt a wave of nausea.
“I’ll talk to him,” I repeated, “Don’t worry.”
That evening, I asked my husband what to do.
“Tell him he needs to dress correctly or he can’t come back.”
“But can I dictate what people wear? Should I tell him instead that people are complaining?”
“No, no,” answered my husband. “Your other students know what dress-appropriate clothing for yoga is. He knows! He knows what he’s doing! He’s trying to see how far he can go.”
So, I called Didier. He didn’t answer so I left him a voice mail that we needed to talk in person before his next class. First he sent an email asking, “What do you need to talk to me about?” I told him again we needed to talk in person. He avoided me for almost a month sending me various excuses and then one night he finally showed up before class.
“You wanted to talk to me?” he asked shyly with an almost sly grin.
“Do you want to continue doing yoga with me?” I asked.
He paused, “Well, actually I’ve been having back problems so I think I’m going to stop.”
“Okay, then,” I said. There was nothing further to say considering he wouldn’t be coming anymore.
He stared at me anticipating something more.
“Well, good evening and good luck,” I said (In French it doesn’t come out like the movie line.)
He hesitated and then said, “Bye,” he left the studio. That evening, he sent an email: “I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me the reason why you wanted to talk to me.” I didn’t respond, but that was enough to tell me he had wanted some kind of reaction or reprimand for his behavior. Maybe that’s how he got his high, people’s shock and reaction and he hadn’t elicited any from us, at least not in front of him. What a downer that must have been for him.
His outfits did progressively get skimpier each class. If he had continued yoga, would his outfits eventually have dwindled down to nothing? I still don’t get why he did this. Was he a sexual pervert? Was he an exhibitionist?
“Don’t look for reasons,” said my husband. “No one knows. We’ll never know. It’s better he doesn’t go to your studio. He’s bad for your business.”
After that, we never saw Didier Sage, AKA Pantyhose Man, ever again. Whether he knew it or not, it’s fair to say he didn’t leave unnoticed.
He called one evening to ask about my classes. I explained a little to him. He had an effeminate voice and asked if he could come to class in stockings. He said he wore them in dance class and preferred to wear them. It seemed like a strange thing to where to yoga, but I couldn’t see the harm so I answered, “Sure.”
By coincidence, I had lots of new students trying my class the next evening. The room was packed to the gills. I even had to turn one student down as we had no more room. All of this just to give you an idea of how closely we were doing yoga to each other this evening.
Everyone arrived and was ready. The man who called me previously arrived looking normal. He wore jeans and a jacket and went into the changing room. Several minutes later, he came out wearing a dark brown sweater and brown opaque tights without pants or shorts on top, just tights. He wore glasses and was tall, pale, bald and muscular.
All of my students, new and old, tried to digest this exotic character. No one said anything but everyone noticed, as you will soon find out. Didier Sage (sage which means “well-behaved” in French) slightly grunted as his feet, trapped in stockings, slipped in most of the positions we did.
As we moved onto the floor and onto our backs, one of my student’s faces was dangerously close to his bulging crotch area. I saw her turn her head and try to act composed. That evening, the only new student who signed up for more classes was Didier Sage. All the other newbie’s had an excuse. One girl said, “Oh, my allergies acted up in your studio tonight.” An English couple shyly said, “We’ll come back soon,” and months later, after never having come again, the woman confessed via email, “We enjoyed your class but my husband was freaked out by the man in tights.”
The next class, one of my students, Bridgette, arrived early. She was a clever English girl with a wonderful sense of humor. She said to me, “Oooh! I can’t wait to see what Pantyhose Man will wear tonight!” Bridgette began to look forward to Didier’s appearances. That evening, he entered the studio in his usual jeans just a tad late. He went into the dressing room while everyone else patiently waited on their mats.
He exited in a rather graceful manner adorning a sheer black negligee that fell around mid-knee. Tiny spaghetti straps exposed his pale muscular shoulders and shaved body. Tonight, he did not wear brown opaque tights, he wore sheer black pantyhose. He took his place rather confidently on his mat.
When we began our sun salutations, I caught a glimpse of Bridgette biting her lip and furtively staring at the ceiling as if praying to keep her composure. I felt my lips quiver and almost burst into laughter but managed to quickly reorient my gaze. Even my voice shook a little as I spoke to the class. I had to shut that smile off fast and act normal. The vision of myself completely losing control right there was enough to regain my senses.
As we moved smoothly in and out of different positions, I realized Didier was clearly not wearing any underwear. His genitals were as bald as his head. When I first saw his naked bits, I thought I hadn’t seen properly, but he was exposing everything. I hoped more than anything everyone was concentrating on their own moves and didn’t see what I saw. Did he think no one saw it? Would he have been embarrassed had he known? I figured he hadn’t thought it through, maybe he had forgotten we’d be lifting our legs high in the air.
After class, Bridgette ran up to me cackling, “Oh, my God! That was a killer. I almost lost it in class!”
I wondered if I should say something to Didier Sage who wasn’t acting so sage, definitely not living up to his name! Was his dress inappropriate? Yes, but he seemed so innocent and no one had mustered a word yet about his bald genitals smiling at the world. Wasn’t yoga about being open-minded?
The next class, Bridgette rubbed her hands together and said, “Ooooh! I can’t wait to see what Hoseman has in-store for us tonight!”
Didier arrived and did his perfunctory scene opener while everyone sat quietly waiting on their mats. The door opened and he strode across the floor wearing a yellow sleeveless turtleneck and black pantyhose, this time nothing was covering his thighs.
As we sat on the floor that evening doing lotus, no one missed the sight of Didier’s shaven parts. I shortened the exercise and quickly moved to something more prudent and discreet, like a nice seated forward bend.
After he left that evening, two students approached me. One was a very serious and disciplined woman who said, “I will not come to class next time if Didier is there. He either covers himself and respects the other students or he stops coming!”
Another woman added, “I agree. He is an exhibitionist. He gets a high out of this! You have to say something to him.”
“I agree,” I said. “I’ll talk to him. Don’t worry.”
“We all know how to dress properly. You don’t see any of us coming without underwear. He has a total lack of respect!” my serious student continued. A flash of my student wearing no underwear and lifting her leg up high entered my head and I momentarily felt a wave of nausea.
“I’ll talk to him,” I repeated, “Don’t worry.”
That evening, I asked my husband what to do.
“Tell him he needs to dress correctly or he can’t come back.”
“But can I dictate what people wear? Should I tell him instead that people are complaining?”
“No, no,” answered my husband. “Your other students know what dress-appropriate clothing for yoga is. He knows! He knows what he’s doing! He’s trying to see how far he can go.”
So, I called Didier. He didn’t answer so I left him a voice mail that we needed to talk in person before his next class. First he sent an email asking, “What do you need to talk to me about?” I told him again we needed to talk in person. He avoided me for almost a month sending me various excuses and then one night he finally showed up before class.
“You wanted to talk to me?” he asked shyly with an almost sly grin.
“Do you want to continue doing yoga with me?” I asked.
He paused, “Well, actually I’ve been having back problems so I think I’m going to stop.”
“Okay, then,” I said. There was nothing further to say considering he wouldn’t be coming anymore.
He stared at me anticipating something more.
“Well, good evening and good luck,” I said (In French it doesn’t come out like the movie line.)
He hesitated and then said, “Bye,” he left the studio. That evening, he sent an email: “I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me the reason why you wanted to talk to me.” I didn’t respond, but that was enough to tell me he had wanted some kind of reaction or reprimand for his behavior. Maybe that’s how he got his high, people’s shock and reaction and he hadn’t elicited any from us, at least not in front of him. What a downer that must have been for him.
His outfits did progressively get skimpier each class. If he had continued yoga, would his outfits eventually have dwindled down to nothing? I still don’t get why he did this. Was he a sexual pervert? Was he an exhibitionist?
“Don’t look for reasons,” said my husband. “No one knows. We’ll never know. It’s better he doesn’t go to your studio. He’s bad for your business.”
After that, we never saw Didier Sage, AKA Pantyhose Man, ever again. Whether he knew it or not, it’s fair to say he didn’t leave unnoticed.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Desert Storm Operation
During my year teaching English in Israel, I had the opportunity to travel during vacation times. I had made good friends through our volunteer program. Among my friends was Ellen, the stoic and practical one, hard to frazzle and usually someone who made sound decisions, and Lizzy who was my soul sister and had the tendency to worry about others, including herself and just about everything else. That spring, we decided to go to Dahab in Egypt.
All the hip Israelis went there in the spring wearing baggy tie-dyed pants and smoking joints. It was also known for great snorkeling as it is on a little cove on the Red Sea. We had to stop for the night in Sinai and continue our trip the next morning. Our first night we found a tiny bunker-type room that looked like a cement sauna inside with benches and thin mattresses. There was no electricity and it was very hot but we had to keep the door shut as thieves were supposedly rampant. We were tired from all our travels so we went to bed shortly after dinner.
The next morning, we found a taxi fairly easily and started our journey through the desert to Dahab. It felt like hours in that stifling hot car, even with the windows down. When we arrived, we saw beautiful white beaches and clear waters. The beach had little tents everywhere for sleeping and some make-shift restaurants with cushions on the floors and flowing curtains. I hadn’t smoked pot for nearly 4 years, but the whole setting suddenly made me want to get high.
That evening I asked my friends if they wanted to get high. Lizzy said “yes,” and Ellen replied dryly, “Whatever you guys want to do is fine.”
Young boys with dark curly hair would often pass us and say in Hebrew, “grass, grass.”
“Do you think they’re selling pot?” I asked Ellen and Lizzy.
“Why don’t you ask the next one?” said Ellen.
“What happens if we get caught?” I asked.
“Well, you’re the ones who want to get high,” Ellen replied.
“Oh, dear,” Lizzy kept repeating which made me hesitant.
“Do you want to get high?” I asked her.
“Yes, I do but…” she gazed off into a far away land.
“Okay, so, should I ask the next guy who says “grass” to us?”
“Yes. That’s a good idea,” Lizzy said.
“But, what if we get caught? Do you think we’ll get caught?” I asked.
“Will you guys just make a decision?” asked Ellen, the equivalent of a man watching two indecisive women in a clothing store.
A young boy in a taxi slowly drove by and said out his window, “Grass, grass.” I walked up to his car. We spoke in Hebrew. He had pot but we had to get in his taxi to go get it. Of course, this started another dialogue between me and Lizzy with Ellen once again saying, “Will you guys just make a decision.”
The three of us got in the back of his taxi and he sped away, far away from our happy land of tourists and tents on the beach to a place we probably should not have gone. He stopped in the middle of the desert far from the sea. There were some tents and a type of café with men clothed from head to toe in white flowing garments and sitting on pillows in the sand. He led us to the café. We were the only girls there. He had us sit at a table where a teenage boy and an old man were playing backgammon.
“Order a drink while I go inside and get your stuff,” he suggested as he disappeared into the café.
Each of us ordered a Coke and we sat quietly. Lizzy looked paranoid, Ellen looked bored and I sat trying to look like we had come expressly for some cold drinks. The boy and the old man finished their game. Our taxi driver came and sat down with us.
“Do you play?” the teenage boy asked us. He had a gold front tooth and a red and white turban wrapped around his head. The old man smiled and had lots of missing teeth.
Lizzy shook her head shyly.
“I play,” I said.
He set up the board. The boy and the old man probably assumed I had notions of the game. But, I knew backgammon well and had learned it at a very young age. Within the first roll of the die, I was playing better than expected. Five minutes into the game, the boy was smiling nervously, his gold tooth shining and the old man heartily laughing. Our taxi driver sat quietly.
Every time I’d make a move, the boy would shift on his cushion and Lizzy would laugh apprehensively. None of us knew how the boy with the golden tooth would react if he lost. After much concentration from both parties, I won the game. The old man said something in Arabic to the boy, then slapped his thigh and shook with laughter. The boy looked at me with a little resent.
“Okay,” laughed Lizzy trying to break the tension a little.
“Let’s play again,” the boy said hoping to win this time and bring the score to even. He started to set-up the board.
Before I could respond, our taxi driver stood up and said, “Let’s go.” We paid for our Cokes and followed him.
“Let’s smoke a little together,” he said and led us to an empty tent. It was black outside except for the twinkling stars above. The boy left to go find a pipe. I don’t think he was used to smoking pot. He seemed harmless so when he came back, we began to smoke together. The more I smoked, the harder it was for me to understand Hebrew and when I spoke, my ridiculous accent echoed inside my head.
Lizzy and Ellen fell silent. The boy began drumming on his legs and the music vibrated and filled the tent. He was actually a pretty good percussionist (or maybe it was just the pot). We accompanied him with some clapping and swaying, then abruptly he stopped and we all laughed. We lie down staring up into the dark, relaxed. Then, he decided it was time to climb on top of Ellen. She remained calm.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I yelled.
Lizzy quickly left the tent and appeared seconds later holding a huge rock above her head she must have found in the sand. “That’s enough!” she hollered in Hebrew.
The boy got a frightened look on his face.
“Don’t overreact, you guys. I’ll handle this,” Ellen managed to say from her pinned-down position. She talked to him quietly in Hebrew, trying to reason with him. Whatever she said, it worked.
He got off of her and we told him to take us back. At first, we followed him as he wondered aimlessly in the dark desert. He couldn't find his taxi. I began imagining the worst-case scenarios, one being he had planned on someone taking his taxi so we'd be stranded with him and possibly his friends for god-knows-what. But, soon enough, we came upon his taxi. This was a huge relief.
It wasn’t too long into our drive when the boy started his own paranoia attack. “I can’t drive! I can’t drive!” he cried “I’m too stoned. I have to stop. Let’s go to my friends’ house and wait," he said.
Suddenly a vision of going to his friends’ house for a pre-meditated gang rape entered my head. I became fixated on this thought and could barely contain my fear. I had no idea where we were. In fact, no one had any idea where we were. We could be murdered and thrown out into the sand without a trace.
“Take us back now!” I said sternly. “You have to drive. You can do this. Stay calm.”
“Oh, no. Oh, no,” he cried, “I have a headache. I have to stop.”
"This is really bad," moaned Lizzy, "this is really bad."
I stared out the window and deliberated jumping out of the car and rolling as I hit the sand, the car speeding away.
“Keep driving. You’ll be fine,” said Ellen calmly. “Take us back now.”
I promised God I would never smoke pot again if we got back safely. We finally got back. Ellen got out of the car and walked quickly ahead of me and Lizzy. I managed to catch up with her. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
”You guys totally overreacted the entire night. You’re the ones who wanted to do this and then you lost complete control. I’m going to bed,” she barged on ahead.
Our evening ended with the three of us quietly staring in our tent. The next morning none of us said a word about our frightful evening. It wasn’t until years later while Lizzy was visiting me that we told this story to a group of friends and the two of us laughed harder than ever at our dangerous evening.
“I can’t believe we did that,” Lizzy said shaking her head, “I forgot about that night.”
“We are so lucky nothing happened,” I said.
Considering all the things that could have happened that night, we certainly are lucky we weren’t left in the desert without a trace.
All the hip Israelis went there in the spring wearing baggy tie-dyed pants and smoking joints. It was also known for great snorkeling as it is on a little cove on the Red Sea. We had to stop for the night in Sinai and continue our trip the next morning. Our first night we found a tiny bunker-type room that looked like a cement sauna inside with benches and thin mattresses. There was no electricity and it was very hot but we had to keep the door shut as thieves were supposedly rampant. We were tired from all our travels so we went to bed shortly after dinner.
The next morning, we found a taxi fairly easily and started our journey through the desert to Dahab. It felt like hours in that stifling hot car, even with the windows down. When we arrived, we saw beautiful white beaches and clear waters. The beach had little tents everywhere for sleeping and some make-shift restaurants with cushions on the floors and flowing curtains. I hadn’t smoked pot for nearly 4 years, but the whole setting suddenly made me want to get high.
That evening I asked my friends if they wanted to get high. Lizzy said “yes,” and Ellen replied dryly, “Whatever you guys want to do is fine.”
Young boys with dark curly hair would often pass us and say in Hebrew, “grass, grass.”
“Do you think they’re selling pot?” I asked Ellen and Lizzy.
“Why don’t you ask the next one?” said Ellen.
“What happens if we get caught?” I asked.
“Well, you’re the ones who want to get high,” Ellen replied.
“Oh, dear,” Lizzy kept repeating which made me hesitant.
“Do you want to get high?” I asked her.
“Yes, I do but…” she gazed off into a far away land.
“Okay, so, should I ask the next guy who says “grass” to us?”
“Yes. That’s a good idea,” Lizzy said.
“But, what if we get caught? Do you think we’ll get caught?” I asked.
“Will you guys just make a decision?” asked Ellen, the equivalent of a man watching two indecisive women in a clothing store.
A young boy in a taxi slowly drove by and said out his window, “Grass, grass.” I walked up to his car. We spoke in Hebrew. He had pot but we had to get in his taxi to go get it. Of course, this started another dialogue between me and Lizzy with Ellen once again saying, “Will you guys just make a decision.”
The three of us got in the back of his taxi and he sped away, far away from our happy land of tourists and tents on the beach to a place we probably should not have gone. He stopped in the middle of the desert far from the sea. There were some tents and a type of café with men clothed from head to toe in white flowing garments and sitting on pillows in the sand. He led us to the café. We were the only girls there. He had us sit at a table where a teenage boy and an old man were playing backgammon.
“Order a drink while I go inside and get your stuff,” he suggested as he disappeared into the café.
Each of us ordered a Coke and we sat quietly. Lizzy looked paranoid, Ellen looked bored and I sat trying to look like we had come expressly for some cold drinks. The boy and the old man finished their game. Our taxi driver came and sat down with us.
“Do you play?” the teenage boy asked us. He had a gold front tooth and a red and white turban wrapped around his head. The old man smiled and had lots of missing teeth.
Lizzy shook her head shyly.
“I play,” I said.
He set up the board. The boy and the old man probably assumed I had notions of the game. But, I knew backgammon well and had learned it at a very young age. Within the first roll of the die, I was playing better than expected. Five minutes into the game, the boy was smiling nervously, his gold tooth shining and the old man heartily laughing. Our taxi driver sat quietly.
Every time I’d make a move, the boy would shift on his cushion and Lizzy would laugh apprehensively. None of us knew how the boy with the golden tooth would react if he lost. After much concentration from both parties, I won the game. The old man said something in Arabic to the boy, then slapped his thigh and shook with laughter. The boy looked at me with a little resent.
“Okay,” laughed Lizzy trying to break the tension a little.
“Let’s play again,” the boy said hoping to win this time and bring the score to even. He started to set-up the board.
Before I could respond, our taxi driver stood up and said, “Let’s go.” We paid for our Cokes and followed him.
“Let’s smoke a little together,” he said and led us to an empty tent. It was black outside except for the twinkling stars above. The boy left to go find a pipe. I don’t think he was used to smoking pot. He seemed harmless so when he came back, we began to smoke together. The more I smoked, the harder it was for me to understand Hebrew and when I spoke, my ridiculous accent echoed inside my head.
Lizzy and Ellen fell silent. The boy began drumming on his legs and the music vibrated and filled the tent. He was actually a pretty good percussionist (or maybe it was just the pot). We accompanied him with some clapping and swaying, then abruptly he stopped and we all laughed. We lie down staring up into the dark, relaxed. Then, he decided it was time to climb on top of Ellen. She remained calm.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I yelled.
Lizzy quickly left the tent and appeared seconds later holding a huge rock above her head she must have found in the sand. “That’s enough!” she hollered in Hebrew.
The boy got a frightened look on his face.
“Don’t overreact, you guys. I’ll handle this,” Ellen managed to say from her pinned-down position. She talked to him quietly in Hebrew, trying to reason with him. Whatever she said, it worked.
He got off of her and we told him to take us back. At first, we followed him as he wondered aimlessly in the dark desert. He couldn't find his taxi. I began imagining the worst-case scenarios, one being he had planned on someone taking his taxi so we'd be stranded with him and possibly his friends for god-knows-what. But, soon enough, we came upon his taxi. This was a huge relief.
It wasn’t too long into our drive when the boy started his own paranoia attack. “I can’t drive! I can’t drive!” he cried “I’m too stoned. I have to stop. Let’s go to my friends’ house and wait," he said.
Suddenly a vision of going to his friends’ house for a pre-meditated gang rape entered my head. I became fixated on this thought and could barely contain my fear. I had no idea where we were. In fact, no one had any idea where we were. We could be murdered and thrown out into the sand without a trace.
“Take us back now!” I said sternly. “You have to drive. You can do this. Stay calm.”
“Oh, no. Oh, no,” he cried, “I have a headache. I have to stop.”
"This is really bad," moaned Lizzy, "this is really bad."
I stared out the window and deliberated jumping out of the car and rolling as I hit the sand, the car speeding away.
“Keep driving. You’ll be fine,” said Ellen calmly. “Take us back now.”
I promised God I would never smoke pot again if we got back safely. We finally got back. Ellen got out of the car and walked quickly ahead of me and Lizzy. I managed to catch up with her. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
”You guys totally overreacted the entire night. You’re the ones who wanted to do this and then you lost complete control. I’m going to bed,” she barged on ahead.
Our evening ended with the three of us quietly staring in our tent. The next morning none of us said a word about our frightful evening. It wasn’t until years later while Lizzy was visiting me that we told this story to a group of friends and the two of us laughed harder than ever at our dangerous evening.
“I can’t believe we did that,” Lizzy said shaking her head, “I forgot about that night.”
“We are so lucky nothing happened,” I said.
Considering all the things that could have happened that night, we certainly are lucky we weren’t left in the desert without a trace.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Magical Mystery Tour
When I was 21 years old, I lived in Israel as a volunteer. After three months of intense Hebrew study and working on a kibbutz, I was sent up north to a small village near Tsfat. I was going to live with another American girl, Ellen. We were to teach English together at the English Center.
We had first visited our place a month earlier. It was a labyrinth of furniture so walking around was nearly impossible. Our house had served as a home for volunteers over the years. It looked like a squat. Our bathroom had a shower with no shower head, just a pipe sticking out of the wall. Spiders were encrusted into the frost of our tiny freezer that was big enough to hold two ice trays. Our fridge smelled like decomposing garbage and our kitchen cabinets were full of dirty red plastic dishes.
In our front yard which was overgrown with abnormally long dead grass, were old rusty bike remains, and if you dug in the sand at our front door, you could find huge black sleeping scorpions. But, we heard the people were friendly and inviting and we wanted to have a real Israeli experience with the people and the language, so we figured it was worth it and we’d make our house nice little by little.
I happened to arrive by bus one evening by myself. Ellen was to arrive a day or two later. I had a big duffle bag and a rolled-up carpet wrapped in plastic in hopes to make our dump feel more like a home. I knew no one so I was planning on finding another bus from Tsfat to my little village.
I tried to get some information but no one was around. So I sat in the bus depot waiting optimistically. Not long after I sat down, a balding stocky dark man around 30 years old approached me. He was slightly effeminate in his ways.
“Hello! You speak English?,” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded.
”No more buses tonight. Where you go?”
“No more buses? Are you sure? I’m going to Moshav Biria,” I replied.
“I drive tour bus. Waiting for next bus to bring my friend. I know Moshav Biria. I give you ride if you like.”
“Okay,” I said feeling lucky as I was sitting all alone and he probably was right about there being no more buses.
“Let’s go," he said waiting for me to get up and walk with him.
“What about your friend?” I asked
“It’s okay. I bring you and come back.”
“Are you sure? We can wait,” I said not quite sure if this was the best thing to do.
“Sure. Let’s go! I help you,” He heaved my heavy rug over his shoulder. I followed him to a white and red bus. We climbed in. I sort of knew the way, at least I recognized which direction to go. At a fork in the road where he should’ve turned right, he took a left.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To my place. I just need to check my messages and see if my friend called.”
I did not like this answer. He turned on the radio. A Phil Collins love song was on. “I love this song,” he smiled and began to sing out loud. “You like this song?” he asked.
I told him yes even though it made me feel like gagging. This was getting uncomfortable. Not long after, we parked in front of some nice apartment buildings. He turned the engine off and started to climb out.
“I’ll wait for you,“ I said trying to minimize my risks of sexual harassment, murder, rape, mugging, and kidnapping.
“Come. Come,” he beckoned, “only a minute.”
I began to gather my belongings before getting out of his bus.
“Leave. Leave. No worries. We come right back.”
I followed him up some stairs. I looked down at his parked bus to see if by chance he had arranged someone to come steal my things. What was I thinking? We went inside his apartment which was neat and clean and well decorated. Maybe he was gay and I had nothing to worry about.
“Sit. Sit,” he motioned to his couch. “I make you tea.” He put on the kettle then came into the living room to check his answering machine. He had no messages. “My friend will probably call soon. Then, I go get her.”
“Okay,” I said looking around and taking in his place, his things, any hint of craziness I might find though I had no idea what a murderer or rapist’s home might look like.
He brought some tea and chocolates to a low table by the couch. “I’m tour guide,” he said. Then he went to a chest of drawers and pulled open a drawer full of post cards. “Look,” he showed me all his thank you letters from past tourists.
I sat quietly drinking my tea and eating a few chocolates. I was starved from my long bus ride and hadn’t had dinner. I was hoping his phone would ring and we’d leave. He showed me card after card, smiling with nostalgia and feeling proud he was so loved.
“I also do massage at the spa,” he showed me a brochure of a hot springs spa. “I work there. Very nice.”
I looked at the brochure quietly.
“I give you massage. I’m very good.”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Yes. Yes. Just your head. You will like. Lots of nerves in our head. Need to get the energy out,” he came to sit next to me on the couch and the next thing I knew, I was semi-reclined, my back against his chest. I felt awkward in this almost sexual position and remember hoping he wouldn’t get an erection. Luckily, he never did as far as I could tell. This did relieve me to some extent.
He began using his knuckles to apply abrupt circular motions all over my head in a slightly painful manner. He did these tight little movements over and over. It felt like he was making tiny knots. Finally he stopped. He got up, left the room and seconds later came back holding a pair of red silky shorts in has hand, the kind Jane Fonda would’ve worn in the 70’s. “I do your legs. Put these on,” he said.
Was this a joke? I felt like laughing. “No thanks. I need to use your bathroom,” I said.
I went into his bathroom and when I looked in the mirror, I was terrified at what I saw. He had massaged my normally long curly hair into a giant afro. Frantically, I tried to smooth my hair down to no avail. I had to get out of there. He needed to take me home. But what if he refused? What if he wouldn’t let me go? Panic. I left the bathroom. “Take me home now,” I said.
“Okay. Okay,” he said not at all ruffled.
The first thing I did when we got in his bus was verify all my belongings were still there. Indeed they were right where I left them.
“I guess my friend not coming,” he said as we drove back, his radio turned up loudly.
Please get me home safely, I repeated in my head, bargaining with a higher power. The closer we got to my home, the more I began to panic about the situation…me with a stranger in a bus. I wouldn’t feel safe until I was in my dilapidated house with the doors locked. We finally arrived and I got out feeling blessed and relieved, “Thank you so much,” I said.
“Very welcome,” he smiled and drove away. I watched him and waited until I saw his bus far away before I walked inside my house. Two days later when my roommate Ellen arrived, I told her about my tour bus adventure. Several weeks later, she was walking to town when lo and behold, a red and white tour bus stopped alongside the road and the same fellow proposed to give her a ride.
“I know who you are,” she said to him supposedly giving him an evil look. After that, he promptly drove away.
A month or two afterward, she claimed to have seen his photo with a warning for a man posing to be a tour guide! Throughout our year in Moshav Biria, we would occasionally see him scouting the streets in his empty bus. Once in a while a group of army kids would get in and he’d bring them up the hill. I guess he was just a lonely guy. Maybe he was a pervert? Who knows what would have happened had I put on his red silky shorts…would he have made a pass at me or just massaged my legs or both? I’ll never know but he does deserve to go down as one of my Israeli adventures, my magical mystery tour bus man.
We had first visited our place a month earlier. It was a labyrinth of furniture so walking around was nearly impossible. Our house had served as a home for volunteers over the years. It looked like a squat. Our bathroom had a shower with no shower head, just a pipe sticking out of the wall. Spiders were encrusted into the frost of our tiny freezer that was big enough to hold two ice trays. Our fridge smelled like decomposing garbage and our kitchen cabinets were full of dirty red plastic dishes.
In our front yard which was overgrown with abnormally long dead grass, were old rusty bike remains, and if you dug in the sand at our front door, you could find huge black sleeping scorpions. But, we heard the people were friendly and inviting and we wanted to have a real Israeli experience with the people and the language, so we figured it was worth it and we’d make our house nice little by little.
I happened to arrive by bus one evening by myself. Ellen was to arrive a day or two later. I had a big duffle bag and a rolled-up carpet wrapped in plastic in hopes to make our dump feel more like a home. I knew no one so I was planning on finding another bus from Tsfat to my little village.
I tried to get some information but no one was around. So I sat in the bus depot waiting optimistically. Not long after I sat down, a balding stocky dark man around 30 years old approached me. He was slightly effeminate in his ways.
“Hello! You speak English?,” he asked.
“Yes,” I responded.
”No more buses tonight. Where you go?”
“No more buses? Are you sure? I’m going to Moshav Biria,” I replied.
“I drive tour bus. Waiting for next bus to bring my friend. I know Moshav Biria. I give you ride if you like.”
“Okay,” I said feeling lucky as I was sitting all alone and he probably was right about there being no more buses.
“Let’s go," he said waiting for me to get up and walk with him.
“What about your friend?” I asked
“It’s okay. I bring you and come back.”
“Are you sure? We can wait,” I said not quite sure if this was the best thing to do.
“Sure. Let’s go! I help you,” He heaved my heavy rug over his shoulder. I followed him to a white and red bus. We climbed in. I sort of knew the way, at least I recognized which direction to go. At a fork in the road where he should’ve turned right, he took a left.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To my place. I just need to check my messages and see if my friend called.”
I did not like this answer. He turned on the radio. A Phil Collins love song was on. “I love this song,” he smiled and began to sing out loud. “You like this song?” he asked.
I told him yes even though it made me feel like gagging. This was getting uncomfortable. Not long after, we parked in front of some nice apartment buildings. He turned the engine off and started to climb out.
“I’ll wait for you,“ I said trying to minimize my risks of sexual harassment, murder, rape, mugging, and kidnapping.
“Come. Come,” he beckoned, “only a minute.”
I began to gather my belongings before getting out of his bus.
“Leave. Leave. No worries. We come right back.”
I followed him up some stairs. I looked down at his parked bus to see if by chance he had arranged someone to come steal my things. What was I thinking? We went inside his apartment which was neat and clean and well decorated. Maybe he was gay and I had nothing to worry about.
“Sit. Sit,” he motioned to his couch. “I make you tea.” He put on the kettle then came into the living room to check his answering machine. He had no messages. “My friend will probably call soon. Then, I go get her.”
“Okay,” I said looking around and taking in his place, his things, any hint of craziness I might find though I had no idea what a murderer or rapist’s home might look like.
He brought some tea and chocolates to a low table by the couch. “I’m tour guide,” he said. Then he went to a chest of drawers and pulled open a drawer full of post cards. “Look,” he showed me all his thank you letters from past tourists.
I sat quietly drinking my tea and eating a few chocolates. I was starved from my long bus ride and hadn’t had dinner. I was hoping his phone would ring and we’d leave. He showed me card after card, smiling with nostalgia and feeling proud he was so loved.
“I also do massage at the spa,” he showed me a brochure of a hot springs spa. “I work there. Very nice.”
I looked at the brochure quietly.
“I give you massage. I’m very good.”
“No thanks,” I said.
“Yes. Yes. Just your head. You will like. Lots of nerves in our head. Need to get the energy out,” he came to sit next to me on the couch and the next thing I knew, I was semi-reclined, my back against his chest. I felt awkward in this almost sexual position and remember hoping he wouldn’t get an erection. Luckily, he never did as far as I could tell. This did relieve me to some extent.
He began using his knuckles to apply abrupt circular motions all over my head in a slightly painful manner. He did these tight little movements over and over. It felt like he was making tiny knots. Finally he stopped. He got up, left the room and seconds later came back holding a pair of red silky shorts in has hand, the kind Jane Fonda would’ve worn in the 70’s. “I do your legs. Put these on,” he said.
Was this a joke? I felt like laughing. “No thanks. I need to use your bathroom,” I said.
I went into his bathroom and when I looked in the mirror, I was terrified at what I saw. He had massaged my normally long curly hair into a giant afro. Frantically, I tried to smooth my hair down to no avail. I had to get out of there. He needed to take me home. But what if he refused? What if he wouldn’t let me go? Panic. I left the bathroom. “Take me home now,” I said.
“Okay. Okay,” he said not at all ruffled.
The first thing I did when we got in his bus was verify all my belongings were still there. Indeed they were right where I left them.
“I guess my friend not coming,” he said as we drove back, his radio turned up loudly.
Please get me home safely, I repeated in my head, bargaining with a higher power. The closer we got to my home, the more I began to panic about the situation…me with a stranger in a bus. I wouldn’t feel safe until I was in my dilapidated house with the doors locked. We finally arrived and I got out feeling blessed and relieved, “Thank you so much,” I said.
“Very welcome,” he smiled and drove away. I watched him and waited until I saw his bus far away before I walked inside my house. Two days later when my roommate Ellen arrived, I told her about my tour bus adventure. Several weeks later, she was walking to town when lo and behold, a red and white tour bus stopped alongside the road and the same fellow proposed to give her a ride.
“I know who you are,” she said to him supposedly giving him an evil look. After that, he promptly drove away.
A month or two afterward, she claimed to have seen his photo with a warning for a man posing to be a tour guide! Throughout our year in Moshav Biria, we would occasionally see him scouting the streets in his empty bus. Once in a while a group of army kids would get in and he’d bring them up the hill. I guess he was just a lonely guy. Maybe he was a pervert? Who knows what would have happened had I put on his red silky shorts…would he have made a pass at me or just massaged my legs or both? I’ll never know but he does deserve to go down as one of my Israeli adventures, my magical mystery tour bus man.
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