just ask joj
Isaac in Hollister, MO asks, “What’s the public opinion on medical marijuana?”
When I first got to France back in the late 90s, everyone was smoking cannabis. Hashish, to be exact. I grew up around weed, so I watched with fascination as my French friends held a flame to a stick of black, waxy hash, let it drip into a couple of rolling papers sprinkled with blonde tobacco stolen from a filtered cigarette, and roll it into a long joint. “Bud” (du beu in French) was harder to come by and considered more potent. I concur. The two times I had bud in France that year—once, baked into some cookies called Space Cakes I didn’t realized were spiked until after I had eaten a couple, and once when a friend gifted me a joint—both times resulting in mild hallucinations and being stoned for DAYS after.
When I moved back to France after grad school, this time as a parent trying to be a responsible adult brainwashed by Barbara Bush, I didn’t even think about smoking until I saw so many of my grown-up middle class cohort were getting stoned at least once a week. Even then, I was too skittish to seek out my own connections, smoking only when I was with friends who had it.
It was illegal. Still is.
This Wikipedia page tells some quick and interesting history about pot in France (dudes in Napoleon’s army brought hash back from the wars, yo!) if you’re interested. It also gives some facts and dates re: legalization.
But the thing I soon learned was that EVERYONE smokes pot in France. They may only do it once or twice in a lifetime, or once or twice a month, but everyone I met in France had at least tried cannabis. I don’t know if it is because I lived in a student residence and worked in a high school or if pot smoking. Something I realized within the first week of being here (back in ’98) is that laws and rules are more of a suggestion than a hard line for many French people.The practice of something being illegal but everyone doing it anyway is really French for me. (That said, most French people are chill when they get caught. They rarely have moments of self-righteous denial. They almost always fess up and shrug their shoulders—they did the crime, they did it knowingly and they’re cool with consequences, which in the case of cannabis now thanks to Macron is usually a warning or a ticket instead of arrest.)
If you read the Wikipedia page, you’ll know that cannabis for medical purposes was banned in 1953. Since 2013, there are markets selling CBD (the element of cannabis that provides pain/anxiety relief HERE (IN ENGLISH) is more info on that) to the public. Half of French people are for the legalization of cannabis but 90% of them are in favor of medical use.
While I don’t see recreational use becoming legal any time soon, last month a French doctor wrote the first prescription for medical marijuana. Our health minister Olivier Véran (yes, the hottie doc who showed off his abs in this vaccine pic) said that folks using it (in oil/vape form) will be watched and surveyed and if all goes well, it will be approved for widespread use for eligible patients!
HERE (IN FRENCH), and HERE and HERE (BOTH IN ENGLISH) are articles about the new 2-year trial of medical marijuana in 3,000 patients.
the jojdom
L’organisme
I’ve been reading some amazing memoirs lately—and I’ll get to that in a minute. There’s a lot of talk about bodies and gazes and internalization of implications of unwanted, unsolicited touch. I’m recognizing myself in these pages. A couple of years ago, I started to realize that the body I live in is a deliberate product of me doing everything I can to not be seen. I built myself a fat suit in which to hide. I’ll spare you the specifics. You can read the memoir(s).
I got up in the middle of the night twice this week to hear the authors of these memoirs read pages of their books. At 3am this morning, as Melissa Febos was reading—and I can’t remember what it was she said that smacked me—I was struck by the thought that I don’t have to hide. NOT hiding is rebellion and triumph. Maybe not for everyone, but for me. I used to love inhabiting this body. For a couple of decades, I’ve used it, preyed upon it, trampled it and sapped its power without working to replenish. I’ve blamed it for killing babies, hated it for trying to kill me, gave up on it. Every time I started to care for it, it would shine and I could feel hungry eyes looking at it. I’d panic, cover it back up with a new layer. I realized last night that I’m allowing those who abused me to continue, every day of my life, to control me and haunt me.
Enough.
I’m not saying that I have a problem being fat. I enjoyed nearly every bite of every overindulgence. I don’t regret the things I’ve eaten. I’ve really enjoyed these comfortable yoga pants years. I’ve appreciated reveling in lethargy. I regret no seconds of my Netflix binge-ing. But, y’all, I’m tired. My joints hurt. I’m snoring myself awake for the first time in my life.
I’ve gained 25 pounds over the past year. I put a bunch of my hand weights together to equal 26 pounds and couldn’t lift it with one hand. That’s how much creamy, delicious self-hatred I’ve added to my burden since the first lockdown. Y’all. It’s time. I can’t blame it on my uterus or my heart condition anymore.
It’s been a month since I stopped my beta blockers and my regular workout. The heart palpitations and sudden flashes of adrenaline were real and really scary so I’m feeling zero guilt for letting my body adjust but the stress of being sedentary is starting to get to me again. I’m yelling at the kids more and having a more difficult time focusing—especially on my writing. One positive is that the break gave me an opportunity to redesign my workout—as I mentioned a few weeks ago, I want to strike a better balance between muscle work and cardio. I did a test walk on Tuesday (literally) doing half an hour climbing walk on the treadmill and half hour flat ride on the spin bike and I was able to do it without any heart discomfort so I’m optimistic about getting back into things. For a few weeks, I’m going to limit the workout to around an hour—no more than an hour and a half a day—but want to progress in the coming months up to two hours a day before increasing intensity.
I’ve decided to have two days of strength training spaced out by two days of cardio, rest or both:
Sunday—30 min uphill walk on treadmill + 30 minute flat ride on spin bike + Holly Dolke Arms + post spin stretch (
Monday—THIS Caroline Girvan (which I love not only for her kickass Irish accent but also because she puts a preview of the next exercise in the tiny window to the side so you can mentally prepare yourself or the change) ARM&SHOULDER workout + this Squat workout + this Abs for “beginners” (and ain’t nothin’ beginner about it, but I love this kind of sequence where you do the exercise for 45 secs and get a 15 sec break cuz it goes by fast and I don’t get bored).
And this yoga for bigger bodies to cool down and relax:
Tuesday—This Jenny Ford step workout + this rowing workout + this heavy bag routine.
Wednesday—
Holly Dolke *&^%$ arms:
This battle rope exercise routine for muscles AND cardio (HERE is a video that shows what muscles are being worked) + 30 minute uphill walk + 30 minute flat ride.
Thursday--This Caroline Girvan FULL BODY KETTLEBELL WORKOUT (a doozie!)
+ This yoga for bigger bodies video for focus and productivity:
Friday— This super white Jenny Ford step routine:
+ Holly Dolke *&^%$ arms + this battle rope routine
Saturday—NOTHING!!!! RECOVERY!!!
Here are some great short demo vids for the different exercises I’ll be doing…
Battle Rope
The science behind the battle rope
Heavy bag/kickboxing
Squats
Rouspeter
LA grippe v. UNE grippe
It ain’t easy for an American to talk about being ear-nose-throat sick in France because the vocabulary is all screwy (y’all remember how some taxes are impôts and some impôts are taxes even if that’s not what they’re called? if not, go check out this episode.
Let’s touch base on MY basic American understanding of ENGLISH ear-nose-throat sick vocab:
For Americans, a cold is a VIRUS that involves coughing, sneezing, runny/congested nose, chest congestion, headache as basic symptoms.
What we called tonsilitis when I was a kid (now called strep) is a BACTERIAL infection.
What we called bronchitis (now called upper respiratory infection) are usually a VIRUS but can also be caused by an untreated BACTERIAL infection.
The flu is the influenza VIRUS that may include many of the aforementioned symptoms but with high fever, muscle aches, chills and digestive issues. Right?
Well, in France, it’s confusing for an American to talk about these things because though I learned in French class that un rhume is a cold, for many French people, un rhume is just a nasal issue—someone who is enrhumé has a stuffy or sneezy nose. Also, we have taken our kids to the doctor (and our asthmatics to the ER) when their cold is so bad they can’t breathe. This is usually diagnosed NOT as un rhume, but une rhinopharyngite (rhinopharyngitis?)
MOST FRENCH PEOPLE I KNOW call a cold une grippe. The problem with that is that LA grippe is THE flu. When I hear a Frenchy say, “I caught une grippe,” I’m confused as to whether they just have a cold or the actual flu virus. I’m not sure how worried to be about them! I always have to ask, “UNE grippe ou LA grippe?” at which point they usually look at me like I have a cupcake growing out of my head.
BONUS: A stomach flu is une gastro-entérite or une gastro (or more commonly, LA gastro) for short.
In French, a strep infection is called une angine. But when you look up the English translation of une angine, it’s angina, which is acute chest pain, NOT une angine!
BONUS: An ear infection is called une otite.
So, if you ever get ear-nose-throat sick, don’t try to be too specific if you’re trying to tell your French friend what’s wrong. Just say, “Je suis malade.” (I’m sick). Here are some other vocabulary words to help describe your symptoms:
Une toux=a cough (une toux sèche = a dry cough, une toux grasse = a wet cough)
Le nez qui coule = runny nose
Une/de la fièvre = a fever
Mal à la tête = a headache (une migraine = a migraine)
Mal à la gorge = a sore throat
Mal à la poitrine = chest discomfort
Enrhumé = stuffy nose
Des frissons = chills
Des courbatures = muscle aches (partout = everywhere)
La Bouffe
Since Monday was all about cheese, I figured I’d share with you one of my favorite cheeses. It’s one I only eat once or twice a year because 1) it ain’t cheap, 2) it’s super strong and stinky so once every six months or so is enough and 3) there are only three of us in this house who like it. It’s called Mont d’Or. It’s a seasonal (sold between September and May) non-pasteurized, washed-rind soft cow milk cheese from the Jura region of France (the Swiss would argue with that—they even have their own different way of spelling it). This Wikipedia link says that it’s made in the winter months when the cows come down from the mountains and that it has a 45% to 50% milkfat content. It’s stored and sold in a round box made of spruce wood. You can eat it just like it is, with a spoon or spread onto some bread. But most French people jab it with garlic cloves, pour some white wine into a hole cut in the middle of it and throw it in the oven. It’s great like that. But this week, because we wanted to give ours a Provençal flavor (Provence is famous for the wild herbs—rosemary, thyme, sage, etc.), we poked ours with sprigs of rosemary and thyme from our herb garden. Of course, we still added some white wine from right here in Pierrevert and some minced garlic before throwing it into the oven and baking it until it was all bubbly and runny. Usually, the French eat it with boiled potatoes and charcuterie just like they would a raclette (see Monday’s episode), but we ate it more like it was a fondue—just dipping big hunks of warm baguette into it. So freakin’ yum. If you follow me on Instagram or Facebook, you’ve already seen these photos.
Bonus: Mac & Cheese
I talked about mac n cheese on Monday. If you grew up in low- or middle-class America, you’ve eaten and loved mac n cheese. Maybe yours was generic, maybe it was Kraft, maybe it was Annie’s because your parents wanted to cloak it in “health.” (When I was a kid, we threw in a can of chili—sometimes some cut up hot dogs—and called it chili-mac). I started out feeding this boxed mac to my kids but when I had my hippie transformation in 2008, I threw out all powdered cheeses. I made my own mac n cheese using whole wheat elbows or bow ties or other pasta, a homemade béchamel sauce and shredded Gruyère, chucking it all into the oven to brown. Yeah, that’s some yummy shit that staved off our home sickness and was probably healthier than American mac n cheese.
But y’all know that mac n cheese ain’t about health. It’s about comfort. After I had gotten over my hippie self, I realized this: You don’t know how bad you miss mac n cheese until you can’t get it anymore. I have lived all OVER this country and have only ever seen one box of mac n cheese and it was special ordered. The past few times I’ve come back this way from the States, I’ve brought 10-box packages of “Blue Box.” The last time, the flimsy box came open and exploded macaroni into every crevice of my suitcase—picture me combing through all my clothes to recover all the pasta since there was no way we were wasting even one noodle.
Jonesing for a hit of mac n cheese, the one comfort food we thought might soothe our covid-fatigued souls, we found some powdered cheese from a company in India. We paid a pretty hefty price and you’ve probably already figured out that it tasted like ASS. Recently, a friend of mine sent me a care package. Inside I found these ginormous shakers of just the powdered Kraft cheese (imported from CANADA where they call it KD for Kraft Dinner!). We tried it in several different pastas but found that it goes best in tiny elbow pastas called coquillettes. We made up a big ol’ batch and rubbed our bellies on the couch, comforted for a short time.
Le Boulot
I hit a wall, y’all. I was rolling along on my memoir HOW I LEARNED FRENCH and just face-planted into a wall. I sat rocking and crying, wondering if I’m destined to ever get this damn story out there. I needed help. So, I took what little savings I had, sprinkled some covid-stimulus on it and hired a consultant. It has changed everything. Because I don’t have a complete manuscript, I told her I’d send her a proposal with an annotated Table of Contents and some sample chapters—like I’d probably need to do to query it anyway—and just the act of preparing this document has solidified EVERYTHING. I’m back to work and feeling confident about where things are going and the little epiphanies I have every day.
I’m not going to talk about the essay about becoming a teenager on the road. It’s still on my mental shelf, but right now, I’m all about HILF.
I did get another piece accepted by a website and found out it’s set to run April 27th. I’ll post a link when it’s time.
Les Bouquins
This week, I read THE PART THAT BURNS, a memoir by Jeannine Ouelette. Here is a summary from Split Lip Press:
You can tear a thing apart and tape it back together, and it will still be torn and whole. There is no other way. In her fiercely beautiful memoir, Jeannine Ouellette recollects fragments of her life and arranges them elliptically to witness each piece as torn and whole, as something more than itself. Caught between the dramatic landscapes of Lake Superior and Casper Mountain, between her stepfather’s groping and her mother’s erratic behavior, Ouellette lives for the day she can become a mother herself and create her own sheltering family. But she cannot know how the visceral reality of both birth and babies will pull her back into the body she long ago abandoned, revealing new layers of pain and desire, and forcing her to choose between her idealistic vision of perfect marriage and motherhood, and the birthright of her own awakening flesh, unruly and alive. The Part That Burns is a story about the tenacity of family roots, the formidable undertow of trauma, and the rebellious and persistent yearning of human beings for love from each other.
and a detailed review.
Here is a video of her reading from it with a Q&A:
Since that work is done for me, I’m just going to say that I loved every second of reading this book. I related so much to it. I won’t spoil it for you by telling you why. Its hybridity bolsters me since my memoir’s structure is unorthodox. Do yourself a favor and buy this book. Read it. If you want to talk about it, hit me up because I’m here for it.
Merci …
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