n. – trainer as in for dogs
It wasn’t that long ago that I was the head of a department that brought in millions of dollars in international advertising revenue working with high-end luxury clients worldwide. Today I was taking directions from a dog trainer a good generation behind me in age.
The economic crisis was partly responsible for the change in my life. Advertising budgets being cut causing revenue to drastically decrease was one of the reasons that the office I ran, once the in-house sales team for one of the largest international magazine publishers, was outsourced to a media rep firm. The city I lived in and loved, New York, is now one I love to visit since a great work opportunity brought my French husband to Paris. So it is here in my new home that I have been spending my time carving out a new niche, a new identity for myself.
At the moment, my role is nurturing, rearing and training a puppy. It may sound trivial, but anyone who has dedicated themselves to it as I have will tell you it is no small feat. I am humbled by the patience and discipline that it takes along with the respect I have for someone who is an expert in his field, the dog trainer, just as I used to like to think I was an expert in mine, an advertising executive.
Once the boss, I am now the trainee. In fact sometimes I think I have more to learn than the puppy himself. I was so proud today when I told the trainer that I taught the dog “attends” or wait in addition to “assis” or sit. He tells me “Down,” (because like most French people he has trouble pronouncing Dawn for some reason) “Felix doesn’t understand French, there is no point in teaching him the word for wait.” “But you’ve taught him the word for sit.” I insist, confused as to what I’ve done wrong. “Exactly, and the word for sit is enough – to wait on top of that doesn’t mean anything.”
It’s amazing how we complicate our lives. The trainer is absolutely right. As long as the dog is sitting, he’s not moving, therefore he is naturally waiting. The puppy doesn’t need many words, which doesn’t come naturally to someone like me. I used to spend hours meticulously drafting emails whether it was to convince a client that our titles were the right environment for their products or to explain the rationale for our negotiations. Now it has come down to several “mots clefs” or literally translated, key words: “laisse,” leave or stop; “prends,” take it; “assis,” sit; “avance,” go; “couché,” lie down and “c’est fini,” it’s finished, to signify the end of the game or exercise.
Once ecstatic at landing a million dollar marketing campaign, I’m now thrilled at the sight of my puppy peeing anywhere outside of our apartment. Once exhilarated by gaining a new client through endless prospecting, I’m now elated when my puppy follows me in the park without his leash. There is a different, but undoubtedly far more profound feeling of accomplishment that my new role brings me. And while I have the time to dedicate myself to it, I want to excel at it. I want to make the trainer proud, but more importantly I want to make my puppy the best that he can be.
Mind you, not everyone is pro trainer. Many think it unnecessary and a waste of money. I think that for the basics of dog psychology, it’s been very helpful. I see how affective the theory of rewarding or “récompense” is. My puppy will do anything for those tasty little treats the trainer keeps in his pocket hanging on his hip. On the other hand, they make the dog thirsty and after a session with the trainer, my pup poos and pees more than ever! But I don’t follow all of the trainer’s rules. I still pick my puppy up and put him on my lap from time to time (just don’t tell him.)
So while Felix may not bring me much in terms of revenue, he brings me everything in terms of loyalty and unconditional love. As for the housetraining and leash training and all the rest, it will come with time and perseverance. There is an expression here, “Petit a petit, l'oiseau fait son nid.” Little by little, the bird makes his nest."
C’est fini.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 14, 2010
En baver des ronds de chapeau
Exp. – have a tough time of it
The trainer used this expression about the dog and I see what he meant. While I tried to get a better handle of the expression by looking it up, I couldn’t really find a satisfactory explanation of its orgins, but because “baver” is the verb for drool and “ronds de chapeau” is the noun for hat brim, it makes sense that this would be a difficult thing to do – unless you’re standing upside down, which is what it feels like sometimes when training a pooch.
We human adults take so many things for granted. But when I now take Felix for his walks, I realize how many perils lurk outside. The streets are filled with trash, even in our pristine neighborhood. I really don’t know why it’s so hard to reach one’s arm out and throw something in the many trash bags that line the street. I remember once in New York when I was in the subway, I watched a woman drop her metro card on the ground. I called after her because I genuinely thought she dropped it by mistake, but she gave me a look to say “I don’t need it anymore.” My jaw sort of dropped unconsciously as I looked a foot past her where there was a trash can. She got the message, picked up the card and threw it away.
I watched a woman here the other day open up her packet of cigarettes as she crossed the street and just drop the plastic wrapping on the ground. That plastic wrapping is not only litter, but now a possible choking hazard for my dog. I’m constantly pulling wads of paper, cigarette butts, metro tickets, you name it, out of the dog’s mouth. He also loves leaves and pigeon feathers. I sometimes feel I’m walking a dustbuster.
As I’ve mentioned before, the French love their dogs, but apparently they don’t love cleaning up after them so much. This leaves another obstacle to navigate, which I was always cautious of before, but now I have the added concern of my dog’s open mouth ready to ingest anything he sees.
Felix is happy to have the attention of anyone, man, woman, child, fellow dog. Total strangers want to take his picture and hold him. Today while we were walking, a woman stopped to tell me how adorable he is. She went on to tell me about her dog that had died. When I asked if the dog was old, she explained that she had actually eaten something that killed her and started to cry. It broke my heart to see such profound sadness in her eyes. I told her she should get another dog to which she replied that she was too old. That broke my heart even more. She wished me all the best with Felix and I tried to take comfort in the fact that maybe for just a few moments he gave her some happiness, but her sadness lingers with me as I write this.
Just as it’s readily apparent when people love dogs, it’s equally so when they do not. I always wonder what goes through the minds of people who glare in disgust at my little innocent ball of fur. I wonder how unhappy they must be to look at something that makes most people’s heart melt with such contempt. What amuses me the most though is the expression on Felix’s face as they march past him as if to say “Wait, don’t you think I’m cute – what’s wrong with you?”
My dog is napping now – a time when the world goes quiet and I can tend to things that need to be done. Sometimes he dreams and according to the trainer, only predators dream because they feel safe when they’re sleeping. Sometimes I feel like napping, too because when the little whirling dervish of energy comes alive, I need to be fortified. Another thing the trainer explained to me is the role of the alpha male (or female in my case). He said that when puppies get too unruly, the alpha will simply turn away from them or even turn their back on them completely. Another trick they use is to yawn signifying that they’re bored with the behaviour. But after dealing with a puppy at play, I actually believe the alphas yawn because they’re just really tired!
The trainer used this expression about the dog and I see what he meant. While I tried to get a better handle of the expression by looking it up, I couldn’t really find a satisfactory explanation of its orgins, but because “baver” is the verb for drool and “ronds de chapeau” is the noun for hat brim, it makes sense that this would be a difficult thing to do – unless you’re standing upside down, which is what it feels like sometimes when training a pooch.
We human adults take so many things for granted. But when I now take Felix for his walks, I realize how many perils lurk outside. The streets are filled with trash, even in our pristine neighborhood. I really don’t know why it’s so hard to reach one’s arm out and throw something in the many trash bags that line the street. I remember once in New York when I was in the subway, I watched a woman drop her metro card on the ground. I called after her because I genuinely thought she dropped it by mistake, but she gave me a look to say “I don’t need it anymore.” My jaw sort of dropped unconsciously as I looked a foot past her where there was a trash can. She got the message, picked up the card and threw it away.
I watched a woman here the other day open up her packet of cigarettes as she crossed the street and just drop the plastic wrapping on the ground. That plastic wrapping is not only litter, but now a possible choking hazard for my dog. I’m constantly pulling wads of paper, cigarette butts, metro tickets, you name it, out of the dog’s mouth. He also loves leaves and pigeon feathers. I sometimes feel I’m walking a dustbuster.
As I’ve mentioned before, the French love their dogs, but apparently they don’t love cleaning up after them so much. This leaves another obstacle to navigate, which I was always cautious of before, but now I have the added concern of my dog’s open mouth ready to ingest anything he sees.
Felix is happy to have the attention of anyone, man, woman, child, fellow dog. Total strangers want to take his picture and hold him. Today while we were walking, a woman stopped to tell me how adorable he is. She went on to tell me about her dog that had died. When I asked if the dog was old, she explained that she had actually eaten something that killed her and started to cry. It broke my heart to see such profound sadness in her eyes. I told her she should get another dog to which she replied that she was too old. That broke my heart even more. She wished me all the best with Felix and I tried to take comfort in the fact that maybe for just a few moments he gave her some happiness, but her sadness lingers with me as I write this.
Just as it’s readily apparent when people love dogs, it’s equally so when they do not. I always wonder what goes through the minds of people who glare in disgust at my little innocent ball of fur. I wonder how unhappy they must be to look at something that makes most people’s heart melt with such contempt. What amuses me the most though is the expression on Felix’s face as they march past him as if to say “Wait, don’t you think I’m cute – what’s wrong with you?”
My dog is napping now – a time when the world goes quiet and I can tend to things that need to be done. Sometimes he dreams and according to the trainer, only predators dream because they feel safe when they’re sleeping. Sometimes I feel like napping, too because when the little whirling dervish of energy comes alive, I need to be fortified. Another thing the trainer explained to me is the role of the alpha male (or female in my case). He said that when puppies get too unruly, the alpha will simply turn away from them or even turn their back on them completely. Another trick they use is to yawn signifying that they’re bored with the behaviour. But after dealing with a puppy at play, I actually believe the alphas yawn because they’re just really tired!
Sep 1, 2010
Chien
n. dog
Chiot
n. – puppy
We did it. We broke down or “craque” as the French say and we bought a puppy. His name is Felix and he is just a little over two kilos of pure heaven. He is a blonde, miniature wire-haired dachshund. His name is Felix because this is the year of the F. As I explained in an earlier post, the French have a “rule” that a pet’s name corresponds with a letter of the alphabet. I use brackets because I’m not really sure how it could be enforced. My husband liked Winston, but in fact there is never a W year – I believe it stops at T and then resumes again at A based on the fact that U, V, W, Y, Y and Z names are less common. Anyway, we actually like the name Felix, which is why we went with that. His middle name is Winston.
Anyone who has a dog and even those who don’t, know the incredible amount of work a puppy is. While he’s cute enough to eat when resting, he can quickly turn into a mini spawn of Satan when insisting on chewing the furniture or eating the leaves of my ficus tree. Sometimes I think he believes his name is NO.
I use “no” since it’s fairly universal – “no” and “non” sound the same and it’s more the tone you use vs. the word itself. But I have to consider my key words carefully since not everyone is going to be speaking to him in English. Since I want him to be well behaved and well adjusted, we have invested in some training sessions for him. I have already learned far more than I thought I knew, having had pets as a child. The important thing is to think like a dog and not like a human.
I am the Alpha Male I keep telling myself. Well for now since my husband is away. I will be the Alpha Female when he gets back. There’s no question though that my schedule now revolves around the puppy’s. I just took a 15 minute nap on the floor since he’s sleeping in his bed. Unlike him, I don’t have the luxury of napping for three hours at a time during the day. So like a new mother, I am feeling the effects of sleep deprivation. And especially so because I am a big sleeper!
“Faire la grasse matinée” is an expression here that means literally “to make a fat morning” or to sleep in. “Une grosse merde” is another less polite way to put it. I’ll let you figure out the translation for that. I never thought I would see the day when I was actually thrilled to sleep in until 7am. I also never thought I would get so excited to see a poop on a sidewalk. You see Felix loves to walk outside only to come home and do his business in the apartment. While watching another dog pee outside the other day, my husband said Felix is thinking, “That’s so rude – I go in my apartment!”
It’s a process. The trainer told me not to coddle him since he already has a Napoleon complex. Well of course he does, the poor thing only comes up to my ankle! I like the trainer though very much and I trust him even if I feel like he’s training me too. He talks to me sort of the same way he talks to the dog. It’s ok though because I don’t have a Napoleon complex and I will do anything he says if it means my dog will be good and housebroken.
Everybody and I mean everybody will give you their opinion on raising a dog. When to walk him, how long to walk him, how often to walk him, when to feed him, how often, collar leash vs. harness leash, crate vs. bed, wee wee pads vs. none and so on and so on. But the beauty of it all is that you meet the nicest people and the French are especially dog friendly. There is an instant connection with fellow animal lovers. I just made a coffee date with a neighbor who owns a big Boarder Collie.
My in-laws are already treating Felix as their grandson with fur and I think we’ve inspired my brother-in-law and his girlfriend to get a puppy and upgrade from their guinea pig or “cochin dinde,” literally translated as pig from India. “Cobaye” is the word they use for a guinea pig in the experimental sense. I already made my first play on words since getting the dog. When our friend was over the other night, I asked “Qu’est ce que tu veux aboies?” instead of “Qe’est ce que tu veux a boire?” meaning what would you like to drink and substituting the verb for to drink with the verb for to bark. I was quite pleased with myself, although apparently from the reaction, it wasn’t one of my better repartees!
Well the little native is getting restless so time for our afternoon constitutional. We’ll see who we make friends with next. Woof.
Chiot
n. – puppy
We did it. We broke down or “craque” as the French say and we bought a puppy. His name is Felix and he is just a little over two kilos of pure heaven. He is a blonde, miniature wire-haired dachshund. His name is Felix because this is the year of the F. As I explained in an earlier post, the French have a “rule” that a pet’s name corresponds with a letter of the alphabet. I use brackets because I’m not really sure how it could be enforced. My husband liked Winston, but in fact there is never a W year – I believe it stops at T and then resumes again at A based on the fact that U, V, W, Y, Y and Z names are less common. Anyway, we actually like the name Felix, which is why we went with that. His middle name is Winston.
Anyone who has a dog and even those who don’t, know the incredible amount of work a puppy is. While he’s cute enough to eat when resting, he can quickly turn into a mini spawn of Satan when insisting on chewing the furniture or eating the leaves of my ficus tree. Sometimes I think he believes his name is NO.
I use “no” since it’s fairly universal – “no” and “non” sound the same and it’s more the tone you use vs. the word itself. But I have to consider my key words carefully since not everyone is going to be speaking to him in English. Since I want him to be well behaved and well adjusted, we have invested in some training sessions for him. I have already learned far more than I thought I knew, having had pets as a child. The important thing is to think like a dog and not like a human.
I am the Alpha Male I keep telling myself. Well for now since my husband is away. I will be the Alpha Female when he gets back. There’s no question though that my schedule now revolves around the puppy’s. I just took a 15 minute nap on the floor since he’s sleeping in his bed. Unlike him, I don’t have the luxury of napping for three hours at a time during the day. So like a new mother, I am feeling the effects of sleep deprivation. And especially so because I am a big sleeper!
“Faire la grasse matinée” is an expression here that means literally “to make a fat morning” or to sleep in. “Une grosse merde” is another less polite way to put it. I’ll let you figure out the translation for that. I never thought I would see the day when I was actually thrilled to sleep in until 7am. I also never thought I would get so excited to see a poop on a sidewalk. You see Felix loves to walk outside only to come home and do his business in the apartment. While watching another dog pee outside the other day, my husband said Felix is thinking, “That’s so rude – I go in my apartment!”
It’s a process. The trainer told me not to coddle him since he already has a Napoleon complex. Well of course he does, the poor thing only comes up to my ankle! I like the trainer though very much and I trust him even if I feel like he’s training me too. He talks to me sort of the same way he talks to the dog. It’s ok though because I don’t have a Napoleon complex and I will do anything he says if it means my dog will be good and housebroken.
Everybody and I mean everybody will give you their opinion on raising a dog. When to walk him, how long to walk him, how often to walk him, when to feed him, how often, collar leash vs. harness leash, crate vs. bed, wee wee pads vs. none and so on and so on. But the beauty of it all is that you meet the nicest people and the French are especially dog friendly. There is an instant connection with fellow animal lovers. I just made a coffee date with a neighbor who owns a big Boarder Collie.
My in-laws are already treating Felix as their grandson with fur and I think we’ve inspired my brother-in-law and his girlfriend to get a puppy and upgrade from their guinea pig or “cochin dinde,” literally translated as pig from India. “Cobaye” is the word they use for a guinea pig in the experimental sense. I already made my first play on words since getting the dog. When our friend was over the other night, I asked “Qu’est ce que tu veux aboies?” instead of “Qe’est ce que tu veux a boire?” meaning what would you like to drink and substituting the verb for to drink with the verb for to bark. I was quite pleased with myself, although apparently from the reaction, it wasn’t one of my better repartees!
Well the little native is getting restless so time for our afternoon constitutional. We’ll see who we make friends with next. Woof.
La rentrée
n. the return
It’s September 1 and also the first Wednesday of the month. This means that at noon, an alarm will go off – a left over from the air raids of World War II. I’m not sure if I find it comforting or distressing that they still feel the need to keep this system in check. It’s a bit like the boy who cried wolf or fire drills though because if there were really an emergency, nobody would pay attention just as they do now when it goes off.
The beginning of September also signals the “rentrée” or the return from vacation. It’s not to be confused with another word for return, which is “retour” because this is much bigger. It’s a mass exodus in reverse as Parisians swarm back into the city. Lights in apartments that have been dark all summer come back to life. The streets are no longer sleepy and tranquil, but bustling with activity, as cars are unpacked and homes are filled again.
It’s fascinating to me how a culture can all but shut down for an entire month. Fascinating and somewhat annoying for those of us who haven’t shuttered up our lives. It reminds me of that time in the afternoon in New York when all the cabbies go off duty. Can’t they stagger it? Do all three butchers within close walking distance have to close down at the same time?
For the next few weeks, everyone will ask how your “vacances” or vacation was. It’s sort of the equivalent of the first few weeks in January when everyone keeps wishing you a happy new year. If you haven’t taken a vacation, it’s best to just lie and say you had a great time, lest not be judged.
Last year, I actually liked the solitude of Paris in August. There’s no traffic, restaurants are easy to get into, parking places easy to find. This year however, I found it more desolate and inconvenient. But I suppose that’s because now I’m getting used to the pattern of life here and being in Paris in August isn’t the natural order of things. I suppose in some way, I did actually follow the pattern myself as I didn’t write anything in August. But I’m back along with the rest and can assure more to come…
It’s September 1 and also the first Wednesday of the month. This means that at noon, an alarm will go off – a left over from the air raids of World War II. I’m not sure if I find it comforting or distressing that they still feel the need to keep this system in check. It’s a bit like the boy who cried wolf or fire drills though because if there were really an emergency, nobody would pay attention just as they do now when it goes off.
The beginning of September also signals the “rentrée” or the return from vacation. It’s not to be confused with another word for return, which is “retour” because this is much bigger. It’s a mass exodus in reverse as Parisians swarm back into the city. Lights in apartments that have been dark all summer come back to life. The streets are no longer sleepy and tranquil, but bustling with activity, as cars are unpacked and homes are filled again.
It’s fascinating to me how a culture can all but shut down for an entire month. Fascinating and somewhat annoying for those of us who haven’t shuttered up our lives. It reminds me of that time in the afternoon in New York when all the cabbies go off duty. Can’t they stagger it? Do all three butchers within close walking distance have to close down at the same time?
For the next few weeks, everyone will ask how your “vacances” or vacation was. It’s sort of the equivalent of the first few weeks in January when everyone keeps wishing you a happy new year. If you haven’t taken a vacation, it’s best to just lie and say you had a great time, lest not be judged.
Last year, I actually liked the solitude of Paris in August. There’s no traffic, restaurants are easy to get into, parking places easy to find. This year however, I found it more desolate and inconvenient. But I suppose that’s because now I’m getting used to the pattern of life here and being in Paris in August isn’t the natural order of things. I suppose in some way, I did actually follow the pattern myself as I didn’t write anything in August. But I’m back along with the rest and can assure more to come…
Jul 29, 2010
Moisissure
n. – mould
Faux plafond
n. – dropped ceiling
The day following a torrential rainstorm earlier this month, we awoke to a loud crash. I knew what it was right away without even looking – the ceiling in the kitchen had collapsed. Well, in order not to over exaggerate, it wasn’t the entire ceiling, but rather one of the “plaques” or panels that separates it from the roof allowing for the spot lighting that we have.
Nevertheless, it was a mess with water and plaster everywhere. We had warned the owner that we had seen some cracks and the day before I could hear dripping even though I couldn’t see any water. So when my husband called to tell her the latest news, it couldn’t have come as a surprise. He pointed out that it was a good thing neither one of us were standing in the kitchen at the time to which she actually had the nerve to respond that the panels aren’t that heavy. Trust me, we picked up the pieces (literally) and I wouldn’t want something not that heavy falling on my head!
This was two weeks ago and given that it’s July and everyone in Paris is on vacation, not only has it not been repaired, but nobody has even come to assess the damage. I had a mini fit about the mould that had gathered on what was now our ceiling, but after cleaning that off with a sponge in rubber gloves and protective face mask, I’ve become resigned to the fact that this could take not days, but maybe weeks or even months to rectify.
You see that’s the beauty of July and August in France. It’s as if the months don’t even exist because life in its normal pace simply doesn’t. Several years ago when they had the “canicule” or heatwave that left many elderly dead, it was primarily the result of the “vacances.” People were away and not checking on their older relatives and that coupled with nursing staff also reduced because of vacation, led to a tragedy that rocked the country.
A little air conditioning might come in handy, but people say the same thing every summer when it gets hot – “c’est exceptional,” it’s exceptional. But it isn’t if it happens every summer! It’s that stubbornness that is a characteristic of the French. And while it helps secure so many of the wonderful traditions that mark the French lifestyle, it can also be a bit of a hindrance as the world changes.
So while they may not always be that adaptable, I have become more so. That combined with patience and a healthy sense of humour is what gets me through the frustrating moments. And somehow, things work out – after all it can’t stay summer all year long and eventually people have to come back. Until then, I remain zen and just hope that it doesn’t rain hard again any time soon.
Faux plafond
n. – dropped ceiling
The day following a torrential rainstorm earlier this month, we awoke to a loud crash. I knew what it was right away without even looking – the ceiling in the kitchen had collapsed. Well, in order not to over exaggerate, it wasn’t the entire ceiling, but rather one of the “plaques” or panels that separates it from the roof allowing for the spot lighting that we have.
Nevertheless, it was a mess with water and plaster everywhere. We had warned the owner that we had seen some cracks and the day before I could hear dripping even though I couldn’t see any water. So when my husband called to tell her the latest news, it couldn’t have come as a surprise. He pointed out that it was a good thing neither one of us were standing in the kitchen at the time to which she actually had the nerve to respond that the panels aren’t that heavy. Trust me, we picked up the pieces (literally) and I wouldn’t want something not that heavy falling on my head!
This was two weeks ago and given that it’s July and everyone in Paris is on vacation, not only has it not been repaired, but nobody has even come to assess the damage. I had a mini fit about the mould that had gathered on what was now our ceiling, but after cleaning that off with a sponge in rubber gloves and protective face mask, I’ve become resigned to the fact that this could take not days, but maybe weeks or even months to rectify.
You see that’s the beauty of July and August in France. It’s as if the months don’t even exist because life in its normal pace simply doesn’t. Several years ago when they had the “canicule” or heatwave that left many elderly dead, it was primarily the result of the “vacances.” People were away and not checking on their older relatives and that coupled with nursing staff also reduced because of vacation, led to a tragedy that rocked the country.
A little air conditioning might come in handy, but people say the same thing every summer when it gets hot – “c’est exceptional,” it’s exceptional. But it isn’t if it happens every summer! It’s that stubbornness that is a characteristic of the French. And while it helps secure so many of the wonderful traditions that mark the French lifestyle, it can also be a bit of a hindrance as the world changes.
So while they may not always be that adaptable, I have become more so. That combined with patience and a healthy sense of humour is what gets me through the frustrating moments. And somehow, things work out – after all it can’t stay summer all year long and eventually people have to come back. Until then, I remain zen and just hope that it doesn’t rain hard again any time soon.
Filleul
n. – godson
Last year for the first time I was asked to be a godmother. I was deeply honoured. We were in New York for a visit when my friend told me the news of her pregnancy. I was so thrilled for her and her husband, a fellow Franco-American couple like us. We went out to dinner that night with my husband and hers who asked me if I thought I would be a good mother. I replied that I thought I would be a good mother even though I wasn’t sure if I would ever be a mother. I thought it was a strange question since his wife was the one who was pregnant, not me. He kept repeating the question until finally I understood through his slightly accented English that he was asking me if I would be the godmother!
I couldn’t wait to tell people. As soon as we got back to Paris I proudly told our friends that I was going to be a “marraine” or godmother. People were very excited for me. I was convinced that the baby was going to be a girl. I reminisced about my own godmother, a fascinating woman who was one of a few colonels in the army at the time and this was a while back. She was widowed twice and never had any children of her own. She had the discipline of someone in the army. When the Surgeon General issued the first warning about cigarette smoking, she quit a three pack a day habit cold turkey. She held herself ramrod straight, but at the same time was feminine, elegant and gracious. I adored her.
So I felt that she would be my role model to be the perfect godmother. She was the first person to take me to Disneyland and I would have sleep-overs at her house where we would talk about grown up things. It was a wonderful relationship, nurturing and non-judgmental. And this is the relationship I wanted with my goddaughter.
The results from the first sonogram were in. I was having a godson! So a few mental adjustments were made – I was no less thrilled, but it would just mean that I wouldn’t be giving him the little gold baby bracelet of mine that I had kept for all these years.
I did quite a bit of research into godparenting. From what I could find, godmother and godson are both one word and are not capitalized. Traditionally the godmother is supposed to ensure the spiritual education of the baby where the godfather or “parrain” is to ensure the financial security in case anything should happen to the parents. The mother’s brother is the godfather.
I followed the pregnancy closely with frequent emails from my friend as well as online research of what to expect at the different stages. When the baby was finally born, they called me and I cried. Into the world arrived seven plus pounds of pure perfection named Preston. And his godmother couldn’t have been prouder.
My first sight of him apart from photos was via Skype. I felt so close, but at the same time so far. I couldn’t wait for our trip to New York for the “Baptême” or Baptism. I did more research on that to understand if there was a difference between that and Christening, but the only nuance is that they used to use the word Christening since it was where the child was given his or her Christian name. It’s interesting because when my friend was telling my about names they had chosen, the girl’s name would have been the same as my maternal and my husband’s paternal grandmother. Instead, my godson’s first name is actually the maiden name of my friend, which I think is lovely and his middle name is coincidentally the same as my maternal grandfather, who sadly I never knew, and my beloved uncle who just recently passed on. So I felt a connection with all of that as well.
The ceremony was wonderful, the baby slept peacefully and we bonded during our all too brief visit. I held this precious two-month bundle of love and happiness until we finally had to make our way back to Paris.
Lucky me because two months later, I was back on a plane this time to act as nanny fill-in for three days. It was a delight to spend so much quality time with my little godson, enjoying the rhythm of an infant’s life – sleep, eat, change, play or maybe sleep, play, change, eat. I would watch his little face in repose, sleeping so soundly and then watch it come to life and his studious observation of me and his surroundings. And then there would be a smile, bright and wide and really very few tears. We got along swimmingly and I enjoyed every second.
It’s true that it’s work, no doubt about that. I guess I looked more tired than I thought at the end of it because when we went to the doctor for his four-month check-up, the doctor asked if I was the grandmother. Yikes! I’m 16 years older than my friend so I suppose theoretically, I could be, but still. I felt the doctor could have erred on the side of caution and asked if I was the aunt or even just a friend or maybe just asked who I was. I’m sure she was mortified – as she should be! I sympathized with little Preston after she gave him his shots. As the poor little guy cried briefly from the pain, I agreed with him that she was a mean doctor.
The next time I see my godson, he will be almost seven months old. I know the time will go quickly, but I can’t wait yet again to see how he’s changed and enjoy spending time with him. It’s true that children are gifts so by sharing their son with me by giving me the role of godmother, my friends have given me the greatest gift of all. For that I will always be touched and grateful.
Last year for the first time I was asked to be a godmother. I was deeply honoured. We were in New York for a visit when my friend told me the news of her pregnancy. I was so thrilled for her and her husband, a fellow Franco-American couple like us. We went out to dinner that night with my husband and hers who asked me if I thought I would be a good mother. I replied that I thought I would be a good mother even though I wasn’t sure if I would ever be a mother. I thought it was a strange question since his wife was the one who was pregnant, not me. He kept repeating the question until finally I understood through his slightly accented English that he was asking me if I would be the godmother!
I couldn’t wait to tell people. As soon as we got back to Paris I proudly told our friends that I was going to be a “marraine” or godmother. People were very excited for me. I was convinced that the baby was going to be a girl. I reminisced about my own godmother, a fascinating woman who was one of a few colonels in the army at the time and this was a while back. She was widowed twice and never had any children of her own. She had the discipline of someone in the army. When the Surgeon General issued the first warning about cigarette smoking, she quit a three pack a day habit cold turkey. She held herself ramrod straight, but at the same time was feminine, elegant and gracious. I adored her.
So I felt that she would be my role model to be the perfect godmother. She was the first person to take me to Disneyland and I would have sleep-overs at her house where we would talk about grown up things. It was a wonderful relationship, nurturing and non-judgmental. And this is the relationship I wanted with my goddaughter.
The results from the first sonogram were in. I was having a godson! So a few mental adjustments were made – I was no less thrilled, but it would just mean that I wouldn’t be giving him the little gold baby bracelet of mine that I had kept for all these years.
I did quite a bit of research into godparenting. From what I could find, godmother and godson are both one word and are not capitalized. Traditionally the godmother is supposed to ensure the spiritual education of the baby where the godfather or “parrain” is to ensure the financial security in case anything should happen to the parents. The mother’s brother is the godfather.
I followed the pregnancy closely with frequent emails from my friend as well as online research of what to expect at the different stages. When the baby was finally born, they called me and I cried. Into the world arrived seven plus pounds of pure perfection named Preston. And his godmother couldn’t have been prouder.
My first sight of him apart from photos was via Skype. I felt so close, but at the same time so far. I couldn’t wait for our trip to New York for the “Baptême” or Baptism. I did more research on that to understand if there was a difference between that and Christening, but the only nuance is that they used to use the word Christening since it was where the child was given his or her Christian name. It’s interesting because when my friend was telling my about names they had chosen, the girl’s name would have been the same as my maternal and my husband’s paternal grandmother. Instead, my godson’s first name is actually the maiden name of my friend, which I think is lovely and his middle name is coincidentally the same as my maternal grandfather, who sadly I never knew, and my beloved uncle who just recently passed on. So I felt a connection with all of that as well.
The ceremony was wonderful, the baby slept peacefully and we bonded during our all too brief visit. I held this precious two-month bundle of love and happiness until we finally had to make our way back to Paris.
Lucky me because two months later, I was back on a plane this time to act as nanny fill-in for three days. It was a delight to spend so much quality time with my little godson, enjoying the rhythm of an infant’s life – sleep, eat, change, play or maybe sleep, play, change, eat. I would watch his little face in repose, sleeping so soundly and then watch it come to life and his studious observation of me and his surroundings. And then there would be a smile, bright and wide and really very few tears. We got along swimmingly and I enjoyed every second.
It’s true that it’s work, no doubt about that. I guess I looked more tired than I thought at the end of it because when we went to the doctor for his four-month check-up, the doctor asked if I was the grandmother. Yikes! I’m 16 years older than my friend so I suppose theoretically, I could be, but still. I felt the doctor could have erred on the side of caution and asked if I was the aunt or even just a friend or maybe just asked who I was. I’m sure she was mortified – as she should be! I sympathized with little Preston after she gave him his shots. As the poor little guy cried briefly from the pain, I agreed with him that she was a mean doctor.
The next time I see my godson, he will be almost seven months old. I know the time will go quickly, but I can’t wait yet again to see how he’s changed and enjoy spending time with him. It’s true that children are gifts so by sharing their son with me by giving me the role of godmother, my friends have given me the greatest gift of all. For that I will always be touched and grateful.
Jul 8, 2010
Blague
n. – joke
Rigoler
v. – to joke
Our local butcher is a very jolly fellow – almost a young Kris Kringle type without the beard and with less of a girth. He’s always making jokes – asking how many hundred of pounds of this or that I want. At first, I had trouble getting them because his method is very tongue in cheek, but now I’ve caught on. So today when I went in to ask for some veal, he asked me how many dozens of cuts I wanted. I thought I was very clever by responding, “une sixieme d’une douzaine” or a sixth of a dozen so in other words, two. I guess he didn’t get my humor either though since he started cutting six pieces.
Back when we first arrived in Paris and were living on the Ile St. Louis, there was a very hot butcher as he was known on the island. I wrote about him in an earlier posting, but what I should have done was take a picture of him! On the other hand, thanks to my mother who was here at Christmas, I have a picture of our current butcher, not hot, but very pleasant.
My hairdresser is quite handsome and the grocer is a bit of a player, but everyone these days is hot – whether attractive or not. The main topic of conversation lately is the “chaleur” or heat. The French are living in fear of another “canicule” or heat wave. A little “clime” or air conditioning would go a long way, but I doubt I will see that in my lifetime if ever. We make due with a giant “ventilateur” or fan and it suffices.
It’s surprising that especially the French women don’t put up more of a fuss. I say this because recently I was having a conversation with an Italian woman about working out, more specifically, power yoga and how it’s not that common here where as a more gentle practise is preferred. She explained that French women don’t like to sweat.
We’re all creatures of habit, which is why it can be challenging to move to a different way of life. I remember discussing the showerhead dilemma with a former French intern of mine who had lived in New York for six months. Where I can’t understand why they can’t be attached, she couldn’t understand how you could take a shower without being able to remove it from the wall. Personally I prefer having both my hands free in the shower, especially when washing my hair, but to each his own.
Here the windows don’t have screens, another topic I’m sure I’ve broached. It’s lovely for the view, but not helpful in dissuading bugs from coming in. Last year, I was eaten alive by mosquitoes and just the other day I was attacked by a giant moth. I never had these issues in New York, but wouldn’t you know that the tenant renting my apartment there now, who happens to be French, asked me if she could actually remove the screens.
So it all comes down to what you’re used to and the beauty of adaptability is that you get used to more and more things. That’s why change should be looked as an opportunity - to learn how to live with or without different things and to grow as a result.
Rigoler
v. – to joke
Our local butcher is a very jolly fellow – almost a young Kris Kringle type without the beard and with less of a girth. He’s always making jokes – asking how many hundred of pounds of this or that I want. At first, I had trouble getting them because his method is very tongue in cheek, but now I’ve caught on. So today when I went in to ask for some veal, he asked me how many dozens of cuts I wanted. I thought I was very clever by responding, “une sixieme d’une douzaine” or a sixth of a dozen so in other words, two. I guess he didn’t get my humor either though since he started cutting six pieces.
Back when we first arrived in Paris and were living on the Ile St. Louis, there was a very hot butcher as he was known on the island. I wrote about him in an earlier posting, but what I should have done was take a picture of him! On the other hand, thanks to my mother who was here at Christmas, I have a picture of our current butcher, not hot, but very pleasant.
My hairdresser is quite handsome and the grocer is a bit of a player, but everyone these days is hot – whether attractive or not. The main topic of conversation lately is the “chaleur” or heat. The French are living in fear of another “canicule” or heat wave. A little “clime” or air conditioning would go a long way, but I doubt I will see that in my lifetime if ever. We make due with a giant “ventilateur” or fan and it suffices.
It’s surprising that especially the French women don’t put up more of a fuss. I say this because recently I was having a conversation with an Italian woman about working out, more specifically, power yoga and how it’s not that common here where as a more gentle practise is preferred. She explained that French women don’t like to sweat.
We’re all creatures of habit, which is why it can be challenging to move to a different way of life. I remember discussing the showerhead dilemma with a former French intern of mine who had lived in New York for six months. Where I can’t understand why they can’t be attached, she couldn’t understand how you could take a shower without being able to remove it from the wall. Personally I prefer having both my hands free in the shower, especially when washing my hair, but to each his own.
Here the windows don’t have screens, another topic I’m sure I’ve broached. It’s lovely for the view, but not helpful in dissuading bugs from coming in. Last year, I was eaten alive by mosquitoes and just the other day I was attacked by a giant moth. I never had these issues in New York, but wouldn’t you know that the tenant renting my apartment there now, who happens to be French, asked me if she could actually remove the screens.
So it all comes down to what you’re used to and the beauty of adaptability is that you get used to more and more things. That’s why change should be looked as an opportunity - to learn how to live with or without different things and to grow as a result.
Jul 7, 2010
Lentement
adj. – slowly
I think I’ve made this observation before, but Paris is not a place where you want to be in a hurry. As I walk along at my somewhat fast pace, I’m often forced to slow down for a number of reasons. First of all there are a lot of stoplights in Paris and while you don’t risk a ticket if you cross against them, with the circular streets, it’s not often a safe idea. Cars can come out of nowhere from a direction you didn’t even realize was crossing your path so I tend to play it safe and wait until the little man has gone green in the crossing sign. Unlike in other places where there is a flashing between the green and red options, here he goes from green directly to red giving you little idea of how much time you really have left and again forcing you to err on the side of caution and wait rather than crossing at your peril.
The sidewalks are often small, in some case with barely enough room for people to walk abreast. If people do choose to walk this way though, it leaves absolutely no room for the oncoming people yet there is a stubbornness about the Parisians where they refuse to budge forcing you, the oncomer, into the street. The sidewalks are also uneven and often made of cobblestones, another impetus to fleeting feet.
Running an errand is an oxymoron here. It’s really more like walking an errand or even waiting an errand. There’s no rush anywhere ever. Lunches or dinners can take hours. I would say a dinner is a commitment of three hours minimum. First there’s the half hour factor for running late. Then by the time it takes to order, you should be able to have committed the menu to memory. Dessert, followed by coffee will easily add another half an hour and asking for and then paying the check could take another half an hour on top of that.
Today I was in a Subway sandwich shop - please don't judge me. Let’s just say it’s not run with the same lightening speed efficiency I’m used to in New York. It can hardly be called fast food here because it’s anything but. I supposed it serves me right though to eat that kind of fare in one of the culinary capitals of the world.
I sometimes marvel at how quickly the days go by here, but I realize it’s simply because everything takes so long and before you know it, the day is over and your list isn’t. Well there’s always tomorrow to surely, but slowly, start it all over again.
I think I’ve made this observation before, but Paris is not a place where you want to be in a hurry. As I walk along at my somewhat fast pace, I’m often forced to slow down for a number of reasons. First of all there are a lot of stoplights in Paris and while you don’t risk a ticket if you cross against them, with the circular streets, it’s not often a safe idea. Cars can come out of nowhere from a direction you didn’t even realize was crossing your path so I tend to play it safe and wait until the little man has gone green in the crossing sign. Unlike in other places where there is a flashing between the green and red options, here he goes from green directly to red giving you little idea of how much time you really have left and again forcing you to err on the side of caution and wait rather than crossing at your peril.
The sidewalks are often small, in some case with barely enough room for people to walk abreast. If people do choose to walk this way though, it leaves absolutely no room for the oncoming people yet there is a stubbornness about the Parisians where they refuse to budge forcing you, the oncomer, into the street. The sidewalks are also uneven and often made of cobblestones, another impetus to fleeting feet.
Running an errand is an oxymoron here. It’s really more like walking an errand or even waiting an errand. There’s no rush anywhere ever. Lunches or dinners can take hours. I would say a dinner is a commitment of three hours minimum. First there’s the half hour factor for running late. Then by the time it takes to order, you should be able to have committed the menu to memory. Dessert, followed by coffee will easily add another half an hour and asking for and then paying the check could take another half an hour on top of that.
Today I was in a Subway sandwich shop - please don't judge me. Let’s just say it’s not run with the same lightening speed efficiency I’m used to in New York. It can hardly be called fast food here because it’s anything but. I supposed it serves me right though to eat that kind of fare in one of the culinary capitals of the world.
I sometimes marvel at how quickly the days go by here, but I realize it’s simply because everything takes so long and before you know it, the day is over and your list isn’t. Well there’s always tomorrow to surely, but slowly, start it all over again.
May 13, 2010
Mille-pattes
n. – centipede
Chenille
n. - caterpillar or soft thick fabric
Chenil
n. – dog pound
The French have a flair for the dramatic, which can be demonstrated in their language. Take centipede as an example, centipede literally meaning 100 feet, in French translates to a thousand feet. I’m not sure exactly how many feet centipedes actually have, though because 100 already seems like a lot.
I discovered this because I happened across an article on a film titled The Human Centipede. I will leave it to you to discover what it’s all about at your own risk. In an email exchange with friends in Milan, fellow transplanted New Yorkers like us, I told them about it and suggested they google it to find out more. One did and emailed the other with me in copy saying WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T GOOGLE THE HUMAN CENTIPEDE!!!! It made me LOL as the kids say. In French that would be MDR for mort de rire or dying of laughter.
Well, I’m sure by now I’ve piqued your interest. My husband and I both indulge in the guilty pleasure of watching horror movies. I discovered in the review of the above mentioned film that what sets it apart from other “horror porn” films as they’re called such as Saw, Hostel, etc. is that more is left to the imagination thereby making it even scarier.
I can’t actually watch films like Chuckie or Halloween because of the sneak-up-on-you scare factor. I had to watch The Ring from the walk-in closet and when I was young I remember leaving the theatre in tears during Dawn of the Dead, which gave me nightmares for months afterwards. The Others and The Orphanage actually freaked me out pretty well, too. I’ve seen one French horror film with Cecile de France, a popular pretty French actress who plays a violent sexual serial killer. It was disturbing.
So I don’t know if I will allow myself to watch The Human Centipede. The premise alone is already shocking enough. And like a car wreck, I wished after the fact that I hadn’t looked at the trailer. The human imagination never ceases to amaze me – just when you think you’ve seen or heard it all, someone comes up with something unthinkable. And just to prove that point, there is already a sequel in the making.
Chenille
n. - caterpillar or soft thick fabric
Chenil
n. – dog pound
The French have a flair for the dramatic, which can be demonstrated in their language. Take centipede as an example, centipede literally meaning 100 feet, in French translates to a thousand feet. I’m not sure exactly how many feet centipedes actually have, though because 100 already seems like a lot.
I discovered this because I happened across an article on a film titled The Human Centipede. I will leave it to you to discover what it’s all about at your own risk. In an email exchange with friends in Milan, fellow transplanted New Yorkers like us, I told them about it and suggested they google it to find out more. One did and emailed the other with me in copy saying WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T GOOGLE THE HUMAN CENTIPEDE!!!! It made me LOL as the kids say. In French that would be MDR for mort de rire or dying of laughter.
Well, I’m sure by now I’ve piqued your interest. My husband and I both indulge in the guilty pleasure of watching horror movies. I discovered in the review of the above mentioned film that what sets it apart from other “horror porn” films as they’re called such as Saw, Hostel, etc. is that more is left to the imagination thereby making it even scarier.
I can’t actually watch films like Chuckie or Halloween because of the sneak-up-on-you scare factor. I had to watch The Ring from the walk-in closet and when I was young I remember leaving the theatre in tears during Dawn of the Dead, which gave me nightmares for months afterwards. The Others and The Orphanage actually freaked me out pretty well, too. I’ve seen one French horror film with Cecile de France, a popular pretty French actress who plays a violent sexual serial killer. It was disturbing.
So I don’t know if I will allow myself to watch The Human Centipede. The premise alone is already shocking enough. And like a car wreck, I wished after the fact that I hadn’t looked at the trailer. The human imagination never ceases to amaze me – just when you think you’ve seen or heard it all, someone comes up with something unthinkable. And just to prove that point, there is already a sequel in the making.
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