will WE play in Peoria?

This afternoon, I stopped at one of the giant grocery stores I don’t frequent and was stumped by some of the checkout lanes.

I’ve gotten used to the lanes that are reserved for the customers who bother to sign up for the super-duper-special loyalty cards. I’ve seen clerks make people put all their groceries back in their cart and change lanes if they try to sneak through without one of those cards. So I try to apply caution before putting my stuff on just any old conveyor belt.

Two of the checkout lanes had no lines… which was suspect. But I didn’t understand what the signs said so I went ahead and got in line. Plus, I was starting to drop the stuff I was carrying (I didn’t have a cart, just an armfull of spaghetti supplies for weekend company.) The cashier gave me a suspect look. Do I have a scanner? A what? Whatever it is, no. So she shooed me out of line. Before I could feel too stupid about it, a man was shooed off right behind me.

After struggling with the self-check out lane, I examined the signs again on my way out. It appears that some people go around the store and scan their items as they put them in their carts. I’ve got to go back and follow someone around with that thing to see how it works.

So I went and got my haircut again this morning. I’m still not sure if I like it or not. I guess the real test comes tomorrow when I wash it and have to fix it myself.

It started out well enough. The woman who seems to be the salon’s owner wasn’t there when I walked in. So, without thinking, I agreed to let a woman I’d never even seen before color my hair. She speaks no English. If she does, she spoke none to me. She tried politely to hold some sort of conversation with me, asking where in the US I’m from, why I’m living here, do I have any children. She told me that she had no trouble understanding me; I think that was a compliment to the way I pronounce the little French I know to say. Or, I’m telling myself that.

After a little while the owner arrived. When she saw me she greeted me and shook my hand. I think that means I’m an official regular customer now.

I can’t read the magazines in the shop and while someone is glopping goo on one’s head, it’s best to not try to concentrate on a book (I’d brought one for the sitting-and-waiting portion of coloring). I can look at pictures. And the more pictures of crazy haircuts I looked at, the more likely it was I’d find something I thought was cute. I did. Then I completely lost my mind and pointed at the pictures for the hairstylist.

After she washed my hair, she put me in a different chair so that the owner could do the actual cutting. Apparently, only the owner actually cuts hair unless the client is a kid, then any old person can do it. I felt a little relieved because this owner woman didn’t see me pointing out any pictures. She’d left for coffee and had just returned. (I swear, a customer came in and had the woman dry her hair in exchange for a cafe.) But before I could say anything, the hair-color-woman rushed over with the pictures to help out. Gee, thanks. Next thing I know, hair is flying all over the place and all I can think is “Bill is not going to be happy” and “Maybe I can find a nice fall hat to wear.”

When the scissors finally stopped, I thought “that’s not so bad.” But it is short. And I’m just not sure what I think now. But if I decide I don’t like it, I think I’m going to have to figure out how to find another hairstylist. I wonder if that woman who speaks English who I haven’t been to in a year would remember me?

The clock in our kitchen is set to read out in what we think of as military time… to help me get used to the 24-hour clock used for official times in France. After a year of staring at it, I still don’t get it.

The past two nights I’ve hustled Kaitlyn off to bed and tucked her in all in a rush, thinking that it was nearly 10pm. Both nights, it’s been nearly 9pm.

Then again, both nights she fell asleep within 10 minutes of the goodnight kiss. So maybe she needs to go to bed earlier all the time.

The prospect of spending the afternoon shopping, lavishing myself with the birthday gifts I was instructed to buy myself sounded lovely. The reality was, it wasn’t really so much fun. I went to the mall instead of going downtown… likely a mistake. The mall is so small that I’d circled the entire place within 20 minutes of arriving. Even the stores that are also located in the shopping district downtown are smaller and don’t carry everything the others do. The department store in the mall is a serious let-down. It’s an H&M. I’ve only gone in once and I vowed never to return.

At the shop where I’d found one thing to buy, the clerk asked me if I want to be on their mailing list. Oh, sure, why not. I don’t get any junk mail or catalogs here. So she asked my address. Mine is 798… and I’ve been told that here you cannot say seven-nine-eight or seven-ninety eight. It’s seven hundred ninety eight. I find that just too hard to believe so I said “seven-nine-eight.” (in French) And that woman just stared at me like she had no idea what I’d just said. I guess it is true.

My real quest was to find a pair of shoes that can substitute for my glaring white sneakers. No luck. I’d worn loafers there, to try to blend. They hurt my feet and as soon as I got home I rushed to change into Keds.

This morning when I took Kaitlyn to school, there was a handwritten note taped to the door: the class was going to the library today. This is a big deal because there is not a library in the school. The teachers walk the children to the town’s library… several blocks away.

I watched them as they left. The line up in pairs and hold hands with their partner. One teacher leads, the other brings up the rear. Today the English teacher was there; she helped run interference with potential traffic issues.

It is so cute the way they all walk down the sidewalk, holding hands. Kaitlyn was so excited about going to the library. Just yesterday she asked me to take her, but I wasn’t up to the task of tackling all those French books.

When I picked her up for lunch, I learned there was one little mis-step in the trip. Kaitlyn marched right through what was apparently a sizeable pile of dog poop. The stuff is everywhere; people let their dogs do their thing wherever they happen to be at the time. Luckily, the kids keep slippers in their backpacks for rainy days. (You might say today it was raining dogs.) Now I’m avoiding getting the poop-coverd shoes out of the plastic bag the teacher wrapped them in so that I can clean them.

Today after ballet class, Kaitlyn and I decorated for Halloween. We brought two big plastic bins filled with Halloween decorations… although not everything we own made it. (For instance, our black fake trees with orange lights are in storage.)

Kaitlyn carefully unwrapped everything and we put out our ghosts, haunted houses, spiders and vampires. Most are bowls or containers, which is especially tough in a house with so little (aka: no) counter space. So now they are holding fruit, veggies and coffee and their usual containers are on top of the fridge. (Well, I can’t see them there)

Then, Kaitlyn wanted to get a pumpkin to carve. Pumpkins here aren’t pumpkins like we think of. They sell them pre-sliced in most stores because the flesh is several inches thick. I bought two last year and didn’t do anything with either and ended up just tossing them. So I don’t even know what they’re like to try to cook with, but I guess they aren’t much like the canned pumpkin I’m used to.

We went to the marche in our little town. There are usually a couple of produce vendors there. Not today. Just one, and he had no pumpkins. The Petit Casino in town didn’t have any, either.

We did see an older lady on the street who had picked something up off the sidewalk… as we passed by her she held out what was in her hand and said “noisette.” Hazelnut. I don’t know if she took it home to eat . Probably. People here just pick stuff up and eat it. Nuts, mushrooms, whatever. I tried to convince Kaitlyn when we passed back by the same spot to leave the nuts on the ground for the squirrels.

Since by then I was starving for lunch, we went home. I fully intended to drive into town this afternoon and try one of the better fruit and vegetable stores there. But I was just too tired (I couldn’t sleep last night) and then it started to rain and, honestly, the idea of struggling with one of these massive mutant pumpkins just didn’t appeal. So we didn’t go. I do feel a little bad about it. Maybe this weekend, when Bill can be the one to try to stab the thing.

Then Kaitlyn decided she wants candy. It is Halloween, after all. I pointed out that we don’t have any because she doesn’t even like it. She wants candy corn. I don’t think they sell that here. Maybe I’ll try to make cookies in that shape. (yea, maybe I’m crazy)

It all makes me miss Target and pumpkin patches.

Those poor monks… just trying to stay up all night and chant… then trying to stay up all day and not doze off at their tables in their rooms praying. Yet they get blamed for everything.

Today, my French teacher told me his theory about why French is such a, well, messed up language… with thousands of “irregular” verbs and exceptions to every rule (except the rule stating that every rule has an exception.) Blame it on the monks.

Here’s his take on things: hundreds of years ago everything written in French was written by the monks. And the monks like to hit the bottle a little. So, with the aid of perhaps some green liquor, a monk or two went to work and, well, made some mistakes. Repeatedly. Until it actually altered the language.

I don’t know if I believe that. But it does make you wonder… does that mean that learning French would be easier if tried after a drink or two?