Level 1 – You learn token phrases like “Hi my name is…” and this either charms/amuses people because you have at the least attempted their language although failing miserably at it (most countries), shock and delight people because a foreigner monkey speaks! (Japan), or stare at you with burning contempt because you are butchering their beautiful language (France).
Level 2 – You learn to say “Do you speak English?” and “I don’t know” really really well due to extreme use.
Level 3 – You learn words like “No”, “Bad” or “I don’t understand (as in you)” because you hear it so damn often.
Level 4 – You learn to cheat your way through life in a non English speaking country without actually having to learn annoying things like verb conjugation by using catch all phrases like “Ok” (as in I’m tired of trying to understand you so I’ll just going to say this now and sort it out later) or “Me too” (as in when the waiter asks you what you want to eat you point to a plate within view and say “Me too”).*
Level 5 – You learn all the dirty words and how to swear (this is coincidently when you start to make friends with the natives).
Level 6 – You either a. start to get really frustrated you can’t communicate beyond monkey gestures or b. start being embarrassed that you’ve been in the country that long and haven’t learned a damn thing so you start to learn things like vocabulary and verb conjugation. You get really excited at any opportunity to use what you have learned even if what you learn is useless and doesn’t communicate anything (like “this is a pen” or ‘there is a blue car”).
Level 5 – Those hours of studying pay off and you start to form the same sentences that toddlers can.
Learn 8 – You feel proud of yourself that you are “speaking” the language until you friend comes to visit you from the States and you realize that what you can communicate in the foreign language (I’d like a red wine please) they can communicate just as well using monkey gestures (points to red wine, makes drinking gesture).
Level 9 – You can watch a movie/show and understand parts of conversations but only the unimportant part like you understand “what are you doing here?” (useless) but you don’t understand the answer(useful).
Level 10 – Conversing like a normal adult and not hearing a. “Your [insert foreign language here] is good” in an encouraging way or b. excuses as to why they didn’t understand you the first three times (there’s a lot of noise in here) other than the fact that you suck.
Level 11 – The ability to get jokes and not be a humorless prick.
*** Levels 10 and 11 are guessed as I am only currently at level 9
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
my hat
So I lost my beanie the other day. I know this doesn’t seem like a big deal for she who loses things but that’s precisely why it’s kind of a big deal. Until last week I somehow managed to not lose this particular beanie for ten years.
I bought this beanie when I was a freshman in University. My college roommate and I each purchased the same style (but different color) matching beanies and scarves from The Gap. I had, of course, long ago lost the accompanying scarf.
It’s a bit of a mystery why I hadn’t characteristically lost the beanie earlier. It has all the characteristics of something I would lose. It’s small, something I often take on and off, and not a permanently attached to my body. Among the list of countless sunglasses, wallets, backpacks, scarves, gloves, and other hats I have lost over the years this beanie managed to elude my absentmindedness and remained within my possession for ten years.
It was with me all throughout University life as I crossed the windy drill field of campus during the winter months of Blacksburg, Virginia. It kept my head warm while I learned to toe in snowboarding and while I laid in my bed freezing when the timer on my heater would go off at night during Hokkaido’s six months of brutal winter. And it remained in my purse, still unlost and at my disposal in case of a hail storm during Normandy’s fickle spring when it had been sunny and warm earlier in the day.
About a month ago I saw a recent picture of myself wearing the beanie and had to admit in a moment of reflection that it was old, had lost most of its shape and was probably ill-suited for chic French society. I decided that, after ten years, it was probably time for a new.
And then last week when I was getting ready to go out on a particularly chilly spring morning, I couldn’t find my beanie to keep my head warm. I searched in all the likely places I usually throw it; in my purse, in the laundry hamper, in my closet. After I couldn’t find my beanie in those places I searched the unlikely places; under my bed, in my drawers, in my laptop case. And when I didn’t find it, I just knew. After all these years I had finally managed to lose it. And it made me sad.
And emotion inspires poetry.
Oh hat,
Where are you at?
I had you ten years long
And now you’re gone
Your absence felt instead
Mostly by my head
Mais c'est le temps je crois
Pour notre au revoir
I bought this beanie when I was a freshman in University. My college roommate and I each purchased the same style (but different color) matching beanies and scarves from The Gap. I had, of course, long ago lost the accompanying scarf.
It’s a bit of a mystery why I hadn’t characteristically lost the beanie earlier. It has all the characteristics of something I would lose. It’s small, something I often take on and off, and not a permanently attached to my body. Among the list of countless sunglasses, wallets, backpacks, scarves, gloves, and other hats I have lost over the years this beanie managed to elude my absentmindedness and remained within my possession for ten years.
It was with me all throughout University life as I crossed the windy drill field of campus during the winter months of Blacksburg, Virginia. It kept my head warm while I learned to toe in snowboarding and while I laid in my bed freezing when the timer on my heater would go off at night during Hokkaido’s six months of brutal winter. And it remained in my purse, still unlost and at my disposal in case of a hail storm during Normandy’s fickle spring when it had been sunny and warm earlier in the day.
About a month ago I saw a recent picture of myself wearing the beanie and had to admit in a moment of reflection that it was old, had lost most of its shape and was probably ill-suited for chic French society. I decided that, after ten years, it was probably time for a new.
And then last week when I was getting ready to go out on a particularly chilly spring morning, I couldn’t find my beanie to keep my head warm. I searched in all the likely places I usually throw it; in my purse, in the laundry hamper, in my closet. After I couldn’t find my beanie in those places I searched the unlikely places; under my bed, in my drawers, in my laptop case. And when I didn’t find it, I just knew. After all these years I had finally managed to lose it. And it made me sad.
And emotion inspires poetry.
Oh hat,
Where are you at?
I had you ten years long
And now you’re gone
Your absence felt instead
Mostly by my head
Mais c'est le temps je crois
Pour notre au revoir
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
hi, i'm glad you're alive
So when my parents came to Paris my mom saw some old friends, one of which she hadn’t seen in 50 years. And when they saw each other it was “Hey, glad you survived”. Literally.
When people were fleeing Vietnam, everything was shrouded in secrecy so, outside of close relatives, nobody knew who left and who didn’t let alone who made it and who didn’t. And unfortunately, the reality of the situation was that many people didn’t.
Each of my mom’s friends had their own story, recounted with now still bewilderment that it happened, and relief that they are around now to re-tell it. They reminisced about what it was like to live under the communist regime similar to how my college buddies and I would reminisce about campus life. And there I was, having the rare opportunity to be the privileged child fly on the wall to hear it all. Uncensored, as told by fellow survivors over coffee.
I like my mom’s friends. They know the value of life, the absence of freedom, and what it truly means to be lucky. And they live their lives this way, never forgetting how it was, appreciating that it’s no longer this way, and realizing the value of things most people take for granted.
That and they fed me my first decent bowl of rice in a while. Like I said, they know what’s important in life.
When people were fleeing Vietnam, everything was shrouded in secrecy so, outside of close relatives, nobody knew who left and who didn’t let alone who made it and who didn’t. And unfortunately, the reality of the situation was that many people didn’t.
Each of my mom’s friends had their own story, recounted with now still bewilderment that it happened, and relief that they are around now to re-tell it. They reminisced about what it was like to live under the communist regime similar to how my college buddies and I would reminisce about campus life. And there I was, having the rare opportunity to be the privileged child fly on the wall to hear it all. Uncensored, as told by fellow survivors over coffee.
I like my mom’s friends. They know the value of life, the absence of freedom, and what it truly means to be lucky. And they live their lives this way, never forgetting how it was, appreciating that it’s no longer this way, and realizing the value of things most people take for granted.
That and they fed me my first decent bowl of rice in a while. Like I said, they know what’s important in life.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
parent's european trip bloopers
So my parents came to Europe for two weeks. Below is proof that they are, in fact, crazy.
*******************
I noticed my face wash cap was not properly closed for the second day in a row (thus eliminating me as the culprit since the day before I made sure to close it tightly). Since the tube was of the stand upside down variety, this was causing major leakage so I asked my mom if she was using it:
Me: Hey mom, are you using my face wash?
Mom: No.
Me: [puzzled] hmmm…
Dad: What’s the problem?
Me: [holding up the tube] Well it’s leaking because someone didn’t close it properly.
Dad: Oh I’ve been using it…
Me: [my dad uses face wash?]
Dad: As shampoo.
Me: [bingo]
*******************
My mom is someone who is not what you would call “technologically savvy”. For example when we got call waiting, instead of learning to pushing a button, she would instead come running all over the house to ask someone to switch over for her with panic in her voice.
Anyways so she’s not real good with digital cameras so my dad and I end up taking all the pictures. Which means my dad and I could never be in a picture together because she never takes them. I decided to ease her into the digital age and showed her how to do it.
Unfortunately zooming was too much for her to handle so she opted instead for manual zoom. By this I mean she would walk closer to or further from the object of the picture in order to decrease/increase the size. And she would do this while still in the position of the “slightly crouched down bent knees still looking through the viewer” position oblivious to anyone or anything that might be occupying the space in which she was moving towards.
You can imagine it took her a pretty long time to take any picture. And any humor I got from watching her ridiculous tactics was overshadowed by my sympathy for any poor soul nice enough to wait for her to take the picture before walking through her line of sight.
After one particularly long photo session, I decided to check out her picture taking ability to see if the whole process was worth it. Except, there was no picture. I clicked back through all the other pictures.
She never managed to take a picture. Not a single one.
*******************
My parents are terrible travelers. As in my father is always asking “What’s so special about this place?” (read: I am not impressed, why is this famous) and my mom is always demanding to leave as soon as we set foot anywhere.
Take for example the Vatican. The entire time my mom wanted to rush through and barely took any time to admire the great beauty that surrounded her. When she finally got her way and we exited the Sistine Chapel, we stopped by the gift shop.
There she sees a calendar with pictures of the Sistine Chapel . I then have to witness as she takes out her glasses (glasses which have firmly remained in her fanny pack before this moment), puts them on, and exclaims with awe: “Wow, how exquisitely beautiful!”
Right, you took a 7 hour flight, a 12 hour train ride, and spent how much money to come to Europe? To do what? Admire a PICTURE of the Sistine chapel in the Sistine chapel BOOKSHOP after just snubbing the real thing a few steps away?
Right.
By the way I know I have been very delinquent in my blog updates. This one’s for you, L Bossy.
*******************
I noticed my face wash cap was not properly closed for the second day in a row (thus eliminating me as the culprit since the day before I made sure to close it tightly). Since the tube was of the stand upside down variety, this was causing major leakage so I asked my mom if she was using it:
Me: Hey mom, are you using my face wash?
Mom: No.
Me: [puzzled] hmmm…
Dad: What’s the problem?
Me: [holding up the tube] Well it’s leaking because someone didn’t close it properly.
Dad: Oh I’ve been using it…
Me: [my dad uses face wash?]
Dad: As shampoo.
Me: [bingo]
*******************
My mom is someone who is not what you would call “technologically savvy”. For example when we got call waiting, instead of learning to pushing a button, she would instead come running all over the house to ask someone to switch over for her with panic in her voice.
Anyways so she’s not real good with digital cameras so my dad and I end up taking all the pictures. Which means my dad and I could never be in a picture together because she never takes them. I decided to ease her into the digital age and showed her how to do it.
Unfortunately zooming was too much for her to handle so she opted instead for manual zoom. By this I mean she would walk closer to or further from the object of the picture in order to decrease/increase the size. And she would do this while still in the position of the “slightly crouched down bent knees still looking through the viewer” position oblivious to anyone or anything that might be occupying the space in which she was moving towards.
You can imagine it took her a pretty long time to take any picture. And any humor I got from watching her ridiculous tactics was overshadowed by my sympathy for any poor soul nice enough to wait for her to take the picture before walking through her line of sight.
After one particularly long photo session, I decided to check out her picture taking ability to see if the whole process was worth it. Except, there was no picture. I clicked back through all the other pictures.
She never managed to take a picture. Not a single one.
*******************
My parents are terrible travelers. As in my father is always asking “What’s so special about this place?” (read: I am not impressed, why is this famous) and my mom is always demanding to leave as soon as we set foot anywhere.
Take for example the Vatican. The entire time my mom wanted to rush through and barely took any time to admire the great beauty that surrounded her. When she finally got her way and we exited the Sistine Chapel, we stopped by the gift shop.
There she sees a calendar with pictures of the Sistine Chapel . I then have to witness as she takes out her glasses (glasses which have firmly remained in her fanny pack before this moment), puts them on, and exclaims with awe: “Wow, how exquisitely beautiful!”
Right, you took a 7 hour flight, a 12 hour train ride, and spent how much money to come to Europe? To do what? Admire a PICTURE of the Sistine chapel in the Sistine chapel BOOKSHOP after just snubbing the real thing a few steps away?
Right.
By the way I know I have been very delinquent in my blog updates. This one’s for you, L Bossy.
Monday, March 30, 2009
there’s a guy at the bus stop that stares at me and eats things
So I’ve gotten into the routine of doing my major grocery shopping every Tuesday (minor grocery shopping every Saturday) because I run out of things to eat on a weekly basis due to the lack of two things 1. Car (I have to carry what I buy so it’s not much) and 2. preservatives in French food (so things go bad after a week).
Since the grocery store is like a 20 walk from my apartment I always catch the bus back. Usually I can catch the 6:30 bus but sometimes I miss it and have to wait for the 7:00 bus. And that’s when I see him.
Thin, white, pimply faced, and carrying a large briefcase that, if it’s label is to be trusted, contains a trumpet but due to the creepiness he oozes could contain a basement made bomb.
Every time we’ve been at the bus stop together he stares at me. While eating something.
The first time I saw him he was eating chips and staring at me. The second time it was some kind of French snack I didn’t recognize. Today it was a baguette. Same shit every time. Eating. And staring.
And not like the slick staring where you look and then look away or you stare but when they see you you either look away or smile. No, he’s eating and continuously staring at me. Like how one would eat popcorn and watch a movie.
The staring is weird but the eating part is totally creeping me out. I’ve tried to ignore him. Nope. Munch, munch, stare, stare. I’ve tried to move out of his line of sight. Nope. He moved to put me back in range. Munch, munch, stare, stare. I’ve tried to give him the “look I know your staring at me stop it already” look. Nope. Munch, munch, stare, stare.
How is this ok?!?! Do you not have parents that teach you social norms?!?!
I’ve also tried to elicit the help of other people at the bus stop through pleading eyes but all I get is the “better you than me” look.
So far he hasn’t done anything aside from stare and eat which in and of itself is totally harmless so maybe it’s ok?
We’ll see.
Since the grocery store is like a 20 walk from my apartment I always catch the bus back. Usually I can catch the 6:30 bus but sometimes I miss it and have to wait for the 7:00 bus. And that’s when I see him.
Thin, white, pimply faced, and carrying a large briefcase that, if it’s label is to be trusted, contains a trumpet but due to the creepiness he oozes could contain a basement made bomb.
Every time we’ve been at the bus stop together he stares at me. While eating something.
The first time I saw him he was eating chips and staring at me. The second time it was some kind of French snack I didn’t recognize. Today it was a baguette. Same shit every time. Eating. And staring.
And not like the slick staring where you look and then look away or you stare but when they see you you either look away or smile. No, he’s eating and continuously staring at me. Like how one would eat popcorn and watch a movie.
The staring is weird but the eating part is totally creeping me out. I’ve tried to ignore him. Nope. Munch, munch, stare, stare. I’ve tried to move out of his line of sight. Nope. He moved to put me back in range. Munch, munch, stare, stare. I’ve tried to give him the “look I know your staring at me stop it already” look. Nope. Munch, munch, stare, stare.
How is this ok?!?! Do you not have parents that teach you social norms?!?!
I’ve also tried to elicit the help of other people at the bus stop through pleading eyes but all I get is the “better you than me” look.
So far he hasn’t done anything aside from stare and eat which in and of itself is totally harmless so maybe it’s ok?
We’ll see.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
hot 995 milf contest
Kelly’s top three (assumed) sources for contestant pictures:
1. MySpace page designed to get some
2. Mail order bride catalogue
3. Teaser picture for internet porn
God I don’t want to do any work.
1. MySpace page designed to get some
2. Mail order bride catalogue
3. Teaser picture for internet porn
God I don’t want to do any work.
le zzzzzzz
So I got a job at the research facility at my school and my first day of work coincidently started the Monday after I got back. Exhausted by my nonstop traveling for the past week, I considered whether or not that if I hauled ass I would be able to catch the last train back to Rouen so I could finally get a good night’s rest in my own bed before starting work the next day (the alternative was getting up at the buttcrack of dawn to catch a train early enough to get me to work on time).
When I arrived at the airport to check in the lady handed me my boarding pass along with the news that my flight was delayed by one hour effectively dashing any hopes I had of making it back to Rouen that night.
My flight actually ended up departing two hours late and by the time I got into Paris it was midnight where an unhappy Alex (who also had to wake up early the next day) was waiting for me (good thing I bought him Austrian chocolates).
At 5:30am the next morning I woke my ass up to catch the 7am train back to Rouen. On the train ride back I wondered to myself if there was any chance I could pull off “forgetting” today was my first day of work (I seriously considered this).
I finally got back to my apartment at 9, dropped off my bags, changed clothes (sans shower), and proceeded to sit at my desk for the next 3 hrs trying to avoid interacting with anyone in my catatonic state (which is not easy given it was my first day and people wanted to know all about me – en francias bien sur). I’m pretty sure I got dubbed that unfriendly girl of questionable hygiene.
Finally it was lunch time and I went home and took an hour nap in lue of eating (not like I had anything to eat anyways since I cleared out my fridge before I left) and returned to work afterwards still exhausted but now also hungry.
It sucked but I made it through the day (with help from the fuck you penguin blog that people blatantly saw me reading but whatever) but still I couldn’t go home and pass out because I had to go to the damn grocery store to buy some damn food (I was tres grumpy at this point).
I finally got home at 7pm, got some food in me, and put myself to bed.
Sometimes this traveling bniz isn’t as great as it seems.
When I arrived at the airport to check in the lady handed me my boarding pass along with the news that my flight was delayed by one hour effectively dashing any hopes I had of making it back to Rouen that night.
My flight actually ended up departing two hours late and by the time I got into Paris it was midnight where an unhappy Alex (who also had to wake up early the next day) was waiting for me (good thing I bought him Austrian chocolates).
At 5:30am the next morning I woke my ass up to catch the 7am train back to Rouen. On the train ride back I wondered to myself if there was any chance I could pull off “forgetting” today was my first day of work (I seriously considered this).
I finally got back to my apartment at 9, dropped off my bags, changed clothes (sans shower), and proceeded to sit at my desk for the next 3 hrs trying to avoid interacting with anyone in my catatonic state (which is not easy given it was my first day and people wanted to know all about me – en francias bien sur). I’m pretty sure I got dubbed that unfriendly girl of questionable hygiene.
Finally it was lunch time and I went home and took an hour nap in lue of eating (not like I had anything to eat anyways since I cleared out my fridge before I left) and returned to work afterwards still exhausted but now also hungry.
It sucked but I made it through the day (with help from the fuck you penguin blog that people blatantly saw me reading but whatever) but still I couldn’t go home and pass out because I had to go to the damn grocery store to buy some damn food (I was tres grumpy at this point).
I finally got home at 7pm, got some food in me, and put myself to bed.
Sometimes this traveling bniz isn’t as great as it seems.
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