French hand-me-downs...
...and MORE ANCHOVIES, PLEEEEEEASE!!!
NINIBOO
I need to take just a min to wish my oldest daughter, Lily (who I have started calling Nini or Niniboo) a happy 15th birthday. I usually love kid birthdays (even if I admittedly don’t go all out like I did when they were little—four kids is a lot of work!) but this one snuck up on me. A couple of weeks ago, she said, “In two weeks, I’ll be fifteen” and it knocked the wind out of me. Why didn’t I freak out when Ryan turned fifteen? I think it’s because Ryan was born six weeks early, weighing just over four pounds. I had to leave him in the NICU for twelve days. All I ever wanted was for him to grow grow grow and now he towers over me. But Lily waited until it was time to come out and even then, she came out without a push, bursting into the world with one fist in the air (not exaggerating), daring the world to fuck with her and she has never stopped. Fifteen, y’all. That’s how old I was when I had sex for the first time. I was wayward and broken. I’m so happy she is the opposite of all that. She’s the one in the family who keeps the rest of us straight. I’ve never met a young person who knows who they are like this one. I’m not going to gush too much more. I just never imagined myself as being one of those parents who doesn’t want their kids to grow up. Maybe THIS is another lasting consequence of the pandemic? I dunno.
Happy Birthday, my Niniboo!
just ask joj
Kyrina from Virginia asks: Is there a hand-me-down process there? Like our mini- library stands or freecycle?
While there are no typical American “yard sales,” there are from time to time, private vide-greniers which means (attic-emptying) even though many of the things folks put out for sale are not attic-quality things (just like not everyone has their sales in their yards). By that I mean, they aren’t dusty and littered with rat feces. What I’ve seen are antiques, knick-knacks, kitchen items, baby clothing, etc. There are also periodic events, usually when a community comes together to have a huge community sale thing, they’ll maybe pay a fee to participate and it will be in a central location like the party hall. These sales are called a brocante (Lille is super famous for theirs. It’s called a braderie and it is so big it even has a half-marathon associated with it). It’s all similar to a pop-up flea market in the States. (HERE ( IN ENGLISH) is a link which talks about vide-greniers, brocantes and braderies.)
There are also non-profit thrift stores whose goal is to raise money for less fortunate folks while also making available used things at a reasonable price. One organization started by a Capuchin friar named Abbé Pierre who made it his life’s mission to combat poverty and homelessness, is called Emmaüs (HERE (IN ENGLISH) is the Wikipedia page about the organization, its history and its stores). It’s NOT a religious organization but it does keep Abbé Pierre’s philosophy of serving others before oneself. I have found some really great stuff at Emmaüs. My grandmother gave me her wedding china to have as an heirloom and I kept it bubble-wrapped in tubs for years until I finally found a corner piece (her wedding china is only for four places, so I didn’t need anything huge) and I paid like 40 Euros for it (ironically, when we were looking for a house, we toured one who had the exact same piece—the owner was like 90 years old). I have found pristine antique sheets, all kinds of furniture, great kitchen items, amazing artwork—and all for super cheap.
In my town there’s a place called La Resourcerie that’s similar to a Goodwill. They will come to your house and take everything you need to get rid of. Everything.
There are also really cool sites that are similar to (but way less cringe-y than) Craig’s list. One is called ParuVendu (which means “It shows up, it’s sold.”) and another called LeBonCoin (which transliterates as “the good corner” but pretty much means “the good place”). On both of these, you can find just about anything. It’s where I bought my treadmill. There are also a lot of local online marketplace groups (like on Facebook), etc.
Fun fact: THO used to hate going thrift store shopping because he thought that we were taking things away from poor people. I guess because we could afford to buy things new, he thought we shouldn’t buy them discounted because we’d be robbing less fortunate folks of an opportunity. He came around, though.
What is your opinion on bargain shopping? Do you think it’s opportunistic to thrift shop when you can afford to buy things new?
the jojdom
l’organisme
The debut—well, relaunch—of the working out was grueling. My muscles hurt so bad the kids were making fun of the way I was waddling slowly, grunting when getting up from any seat, climbing the stairs. But I did the same workouts this week and they don’t hurt as much. I’m able to move around a little better. That said, I tried this inner/outer thighs and glutes workout Tuesday and it nearly killed me. I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow. I’m also happy to report that I did a full half hour on my rowing machine TWICE this week and that’s just freakin’ awesome. Also, I restarted Zumba Gold and forgot how much joy! How fast it just flies by because I’m having so much fun and not really exercising but just shaking my fat ass. I used to teach it and I’m amazed at how difficult some of the movements are a decade later, how lithe and limber and balanced I used to be. I’ll be that again by December if I keep this up. Right?
I’ve been eating kind of keto-y. Not so much for weight loss but because I always notice way less inflammation when I avoid processed carbs. Breads and pastas and all junk foods, while I LOVE them, make me bloated and gassy and make ALL of my joints sore and clacky.
Y’all know how much I love food. It’s like 85% of what I write about in this newsletter. I can’t diet. I can change my eating patterns, stop buying Doritos and ice cream, stop binge-watching shows while eating said chips/desserts sitting on the couch for hours, start moving my body more and stop bribing or begging the kids to bring me things and just get up and do it my damn self. But, one thing I can NOT do is starve myself. It’s not that I CAN’T do it. I’ve gone long periods of time doing intermittent fasting and it didn’t bother me too bad. Right now, though, I can’t handle it. I get mean, resentful at no one in particular, at life and the unfairness of me being as the French like to say, gourmande (someone who really appreciates food). I’m in my mid-forties and I’ve raised a quad of kids and I deserve to freakin’ EAT. And that’s why I like eating low-carb. For me, it doesn’t mean NO carb. I know, I know, that’s the best way for some folks, cold turkey, etc. I know myself. I’m too rebellious. I’d eat that way for a couple of weeks and then fall completely off the wagon and onto my fat face. So, meat, fish, eggs and veggie fats make up most of my diet. I do eat salads and steamed veggies and I’ll even eat a small spoonful of rice once or twice a week—I love those things. But I can NOT go hungry, and protein and fats are the things that keep me full. That and a LOT of water and herbal tea.
France 2 announced on the news last Friday night that obesity will now be considered an important comorbidity. They said that the obese are three times as likely to suffer from grave symptoms of the coronavirus (including DEATH). So, anyone with a BMI of 30 or more is now eligible for the vaccine! Y’all. I cried. THO made us both (his BMI is like 30.8) appointments and we went yesterday to get the first jab of Moderna. My arm started hurting late last night and plagued me in my sleep so I’m a smidge tired today but I’m still as grateful as ever. What a small price to pay! I know a lot of folks are having pretty strong side-effects after the second jab and I’ll cross that bridge when I get there, but to be one step closer to “immunity” and safety and to hang up this parka of anxiety I’ve been wearing—scared shitless I’m going to mother-orphan my sweet babies—is just sweeter than honey.
That said, if I wasn’t a fatso, I would have had to wait until mid-June. There’s just so much wrong with that. For one, I’m glad my being an American gourmande served me for something. For another, kudos (a little one) to France for finally getting on the ball. I don’t know how they got the vaccine gate open but I sure am grateful.
UPDATE: In the time it took me to write this, Macron announced (HERE (IN FRENCH) and article on YahooFrance) that everyone over 50 can be vaccinated starting May 10 and then he said (HERE (IN FRENCH) is a FranceInfo article about it) that starting May 12, EVERYONE 18+ will be eligible for the vaccine!!!
la bouffe
Y’all already know about my history with fish (if not look back at this episode ). The tl;dr version is that I didn’t grow up with it, so I didn’t think I liked it. I knew I didn’t like the way it smelled. Back down the dirt road, on the mountain, in the woods, the fish we ate that we didn’t catch came in cans. Tuna was okay if you mixed it with tons of mayo—my grandma made this amazing tuna salad with mayo, onions, apples, pickles and hard-boiled eggs that I make for my kids because they love it—but it was still considered so smelly and gross (rightly so) that mean boys used the odor as an insult about girls’ genital hygiene. The other canned fishes I experienced was mackerel and salmon. My foster family used to get it donated (or buy it when it was on sale) and we’d mix it with flour and egg, form it into a patty that we’d fry in oil or lard. It made the whole house and yard smell like death. It also grossed me out that we ate the bones—the entire spinal column was left in the can. When I complained about it the first time, someone barked at me that it was cooked and digestible but I could never get over knowing I was eating something’s backbone (and listen, y’all KNOW I’m a carnivore). I never saw sardines in my life other than in old cartoons. Anchovies were a joke: “No anchovies, pleeeeease.” A joke I didn’t even get but loved how it made everyone around me laugh like I was in the know. People on TV mentioned not putting anchovies on pizza but I couldn’t fathom why in the world anyone would put fish on a pizza!
I didn’t discover the joys of tinned fish until I met The Hairy One. He took me somewhere pretty and romantic and instead of just having sandwiches, he bought these cans of tuna salad—not with apples and eggs, but with tomatoes and onions and corn. I was skeptical but new love makes you adventurous. I tried it and was floored how good it was, not fishy at all but zesty with a yummy sauce! Another one had pieces of carrot and potato and a lemony Dijon sauce! It was amazing. Encouraged, I started to try other tinned fishes and was shocked and surprised to find that I loved every one. Tuna, of course I love it like always, but ever since I had pasta with tuna in a red sauce while staying in the hospital (a decade ago?) I have a newfound love for it. But also, in France they have canned tuna filets in delicate sauces that are delicious straight from the can! Mackerel—not the fat round can with backbone in it, but long filets swimming in a dozen various sauces. Sardines in white wine and basil, lemon and dill, paprika and tomato, traditional Dijon with the seeds in it! (Did you know that sardines are not just one kind of fish?! We just saw a report on it from a Breton fisherman. The fish can be up to 32 different species of small fishes!) And the biggest surprise of all… I love anchovies!!! Anchovies on a salade niçoise with tomatoes, hard-boiled eggs, corn, onions and tuna are delish!
les bouquins
This week, I’m reading Leaving Isn’t the Hardest Thing by Lauren Hough. I first read her writing because we were in the same writers’ forum and I read an essay she had published and shared on the boards and fell madly in love with her words. I was so excited to finally crack open this memoir! I’ll include now my usual caveat about not being a book critic and I’ll admit that when I first started reading this book, I wasn’t yanked in like I thought I would be—so, if you’re reading it and you’re not seduced by the first five pages, you’re not alone—but it didn’t take long for things to warm up and hook me.
I’m loving this book because I feel like Lauren and I are in a support group together. I didn’t grow up in an evangelical sex cult, nor did I grow up traveling around the world begging and peddling, nor did I join the military and get kicked out for being gay, nor did I become a bouncer in a gay bar. So, what in the world might I have in common with Lauren? I recognize the constant struggle in her childhood. The faking it. The biding my time. The neverending desire to escape or be rescued. I relate to being homeless. I relate to being homeschooled. I relate to being queer. I relate to feeling like I have no idea what the rules are, how I’m supposed to be, what’s the punchline at which everyone’s laughing. I relate to being scared and angry and hurt and poor poor poor. I relate to having a fucked up backstory.
I love the brazen way she tells her story. She doesn’t hide her anger and resentment. It’s off-putting in the best, most beautiful way in its honesty. There are moments of dark humor that made me laugh out loud mainly because I related so hard. Same for the cry moments and some of the angry ones. All the scared ones.
Reading this book gives me hope and certainty that my own story deserves to be told. I hope I can do it half as well.
Here’s a summary from the publisher’s website:
Searing and extremely personal essays, shot through with the darkest elements America can manifest, while discovering light and humor in unexpected corners.
As an adult, Lauren Hough has had many identities: an airman in the U.S. Air Force, a cable guy, a bouncer at a gay club. As a child, however, she had none. Growing up as a member of the infamous cult The Children of God, Hough had her own self robbed from her. The cult took her all over the globe–to Germany, Japan, Texas, Chile—but it wasn’t until she finally left for good that Lauren understood she could have a life beyond “The Family.”
Along the way, she’s loaded up her car and started over, trading one life for the next. She’s taken pilgrimages to the sights of her youth, been kept in solitary confinement, dated a lot of women, dabbled in drugs, and eventually found herself as what she always wanted to be: a writer. Here, as she sweeps through the underbelly of America—relying on friends, family, and strangers alike—she begins to excavate a new identity even as her past continues to trail her and color her world, relationships, and perceptions of self.
At once razor-sharp, profoundly brave, and often very, very funny, the essays in Leaving Isn’t the Hardest Thing interrogate our notions of ecstasy, queerness, and what it means to live freely. Each piece is a reckoning: of survival, identity, and how to reclaim one’s past when carving out a future.
Here’s a TED Talk she did on “code switching”:
HERE (IN ENGLISH) is an interview with her by Terry Gross on Fresh Air (NPR). And HERE (IN ENGLISH) is a review by Ilana Masad for NPR. And HERE (IN ENGLISH) is a review by Melissa Holbrook Pierson for the Washington Post.
le boulot
I met with my book consultant. She blew me over with her compliments, said that I could sell my project on the proposal and sample chapters alone, that I don’t need to write the whole book. She said I should work on turning some chapters into essays, get those published, generate buzz. She’s right. I’ve been TRYING to do that for the past couple of years in a kind of half-assed way. But I’m struggling with the essay “structure” and having time to read publications, etc. etc. Also, I know myself. If I stop writing the book, I will lose momentum. I need to get the book WRITTEN so that I can peddle it with confidence and certainty. I’m closer than I have ever been before. I guess the compromise is that I will do both. I’ll write the book and when I see something that might be fit for essay form, I’ll *gulp* submit it, and in the meantime, I’ll read more publications so I’ll have a better feel for it all.
That’s all I have to say about that. For now.
le brico
Last year when the pandemic hit, I fled Indiana for France just in time before Macron closed the borders (the DAY he closed the borders and the NIGHT before he made his “Nous sommes en guerre,” “I’m closing everything down at noon,” speech). At the time, I was finishing up grad school, had my own two bedroom apartment and a campus rec center pass. I was working out two hours a day every week day. I had my own space and no one else to clean up after.
So, after two weeks in sudden lockdown with my family, as delighted and grateful as I was to be reunited, I knew that if I didn’t find a way to physically expend my stress, I was going to start saying things I regretted. I moved the table out of our too-big dining room and put it in this little nook off the living room that wasn’t much good for anything else. I turned the dining room into a home gym and Wii station for the kids. The new eating nook was so cozy (read: a tight fit) that we designated the one kitchen-accessible chair of the table as The Gopher. To be fair, the other two chairs had jobs, too (Table—responsible for setting, clearing and wiping—and Floor—in charge of sweeping up all the baguette crumbs after every meal). The jobs rotate daily so everyone gets a turn being Gopher, Table and Floor. It was great. No one complained. They just slid into their duties like they were grateful and honored to help out. AND because we were all working out in some way or another in the gym, it was totes worth it!
The only bad thing about the new arrangement was (IS) the chair situation. We have these cheap, light chairs from Ikea. They’re great because they’re wooden and light. They’re HORRIBLE because they’re pointed and black and every time you scoot your chair away from the table to get up, they bang into the white walls and make nicks and marks. It looks BAD. So, since Lily’s birthday party is this weekend, I figured it would be a good opportunity to paint the eating nook (I mean, if I were her, I’d absolutely be embarrassed of the space.
The garden is doing well. I’m regularly eating kale and am so grateful for how good it is simply sautéed in butter. The lettuces and radishes started coming up after just three days (it rained a LOT this week), so we’ll be eating those soon, too. The Hairy One went to the nursery down the hill and bought a bunch of tomato plants (and some cukes!) to replace the ones we lost before the last freeze. We did have to put down egg shells and coffee grounds because the cats kept trying to poop in the garden boxes *eye roll* The pool is open and though the water is warm enough for swimming since we have the bubble wrap warmer, the air is still too nippy for even the bravest of us. That said, the sun is out with a vengeance and I’m ready to put the outdoor living room cushions back out.
Y’all, I bitch. I know I do. But can I just take a moment to fess that I’m chuffed as fuck to have the life I have. When I was living in a camper with my mom and sister on the back of our pickup, I dreamed of having a stationary place with walls where I could hang things and where I didn’t have to worry about stuff like toilet paper and maxi pads. I don’t think I could let myself dream about having a home in the south of France with a big yard, fruit-bearing plants and a fucking POOL. I never dreamed that “putting the cushions out on the poolside living room” would be an item on my to-do list. I know how fortunate I am. I’m very grateful. It’s not my effort but that of THO (though he swears that I’m the one that motivated and encouraged him… I’ll take it. At least my mouth did some good!).
Rouspéter
Tuesday, in broad daylight in Bordeaux on the west coast of France, a woman was shot in the legs, doused in an accelerant and set on fire by her husband. (HERE (IN ENGLISH) is the article about it on France24.) He also set fire to her house. Fortunately, their three kids weren’t home. The couple was separated—in fact, he had spent eight months in jail for domestic violence against her and had only been out a couple of months. On the news, neighbors said that the victim had been complaining that he was watching her, that he was following her. The journalists said that she had gone to the cops and that they had sent him messages to come in and that they had gone looking for him but didn’t find him. Listening to the news on the radio coming back from getting our vaccines yesterday, this woman—some kind of minister or other, who I think works with or for the police—with zero emotion or empathy in her voice said very ho-hum-ly that this problem will never go away, that it was dommage (a shame) that the woman died but that this in no way reflected how the police had handled things.
I cry fucking bullshit.
There was NO police presence. WHY?! I see so many fucking cops walking around, hands on their waistbands, harassing people for minor things (I got finger-wagged by a cop when I was working the food truck at the market because we were “supposed to be cleared out by noon” and it was an absolute pleasure to smile in his smug, condescending face and tell him to take it up with the city (who had given us permission to stay until one to cater to the lunch crowd)). If they have time to hang out at roundabouts, monitoring whether or not people are more than 10km from their homes during lockdown, they can send a car over there to watch her house for fuck’s sake.
How is it that the cops “couldn’t find him?” I don’t even know what to say about this. I guess, see the above paragraph.
Women who complain of domestic violence are supposed to be given an emergency phone that alerts them when their estranged/attacker is near but she had none. WHY THE FUCK didn’t she have one? Why the FUCK wasn’t he wearing an alert bracelet after getting out of fucking JAIL for beating her?! He was sentenced to 18 months in prison and only served 8 and then just fucking set free? No following him? No one responsible for making sure he didn’t do it again?
You want to know why? Misogyny is why. France is ahead of other countries in a million ways but this way is a no.
WHY THE FUCK did this guy still have GUNS?!?! That’s what the president of the Fondation des Femmes, Anne-Cécile Mailfert, is also asking in this article (IN FRENCH), telling the Interior Minister (the boss of the cops) Gérard Darmanin that he could TOMORROW confiscate any weapons that men accused of crimes of domestic violence. 39 women have been killed by their husbands or partners since the BEGINNING OF THE YEAR and 18 of these were committed using a firearm. This is FRANCE for crying out loud!!! She also says that, “It’s also worrying to see that the French authorities and the political powers-that-be have such a problem being vigilant.” She goes on to say that things got a little better in 2020 but that they’re headed back in the other direction.
This morning, as I was researching this (because I want to find the name of the woman who was on the radio downplaying this), I read of ANOTHER (HERE (IN FRENCH)) case that happened on May 4th of a man strangling his wife and making up a lie about her having been attacked in a parking garage. She had just had a baby on April 11th.
Domestic violence (and misogyny in general) is what’s got me bitching today. I beg your pardon for the abundance of F-bombs in the above segment but I feel it’s warranted. Some days, there aren’t ENOUGH fucks.
Merci!
Thanks again so much for reading me! Have a great weekend and see you Monday!
Bargains are for all!