This past year has been one of the busiest, most hectic, and quite honestly, stressful of my life.  There’s been times when I felt as though I was going to be completely buried in piles of papers to correct, write, reread, and study.  However, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, and now that the light of the tunnel is starting to shine through the gaps in that pile, I’m starting to smile again, and start thinking about the near and not-so-near future.

 One of my jobs wraps up for the school year at the end of next week, meaning my work hours will be halved, just in time to start studying for the finals that begin in a month’s time.  My other job still has about six weeks left to go, but it has been so fulfilling, and the experimental blog project has been a success thus far, allowing the students to notice some of their more frequent mistakes and begin autocorrecting them. 

 My bachelor’s will wrap up in the next month and some change as well, and despite the difficulties that come with working two different teaching jobs at the same time as studying in an environment which is terribly unadapted for such multi-tasking, I see myself heading out with one diploma with the intention of diving back in, head-first, working on the next one.  The university is opening a new, literature masters next year, and I think I’ll be signing up to be one of the guinea pigs.  I’ve had my first-year mémoire subject in mind for the last year, and although the aims of it have changed slightly, it intrigues me more and more with every new bit of information I stumble across which seems to support my ideas.

 If I seem to have a new skip to my step, don’t mind me — it must be the Laverne and Shirley theme song running through my head.

My English group at the PolySci school is rather mixed.  With equal parts Chinese and French students, with a Vietnamese and a Moroccan student thrown in for good measure, we get the chance to learn all sorts of interesting things.  I’ve learned that the name of the “dragon fruit” is actually called in Chinese something more along the lines of the “dragon fire fruit”.  I’ve learned that in both Chinese and Vietnamese culture when a women gets pregnant outside of wedlock, there is an expression which translates to “the rice is cooked” — which may or may not translate to “the goose is cooked” (I need to look into this).  But Monday, I learned something that caused my jaw to drop to the floor in time with those of a few of my students:

Chinese women consider Vladimir Putin the HOTTEST. WORLD. LEADER. in recent times.

The reasoning was that he used to be a “bodyguard” (their wording, not mine), therefore he is very strong.  Also, they told me that he is a good, faithful husband who loves his wife very much.

 I believe my response was something along the lines of “ummmmm, okay.”

 However, being thrown into such a cultural melting pot also has its difficulties.  These students are all specializing in Asian studies.  Therefore, they naturally have an interest in current events involving this country; currently, the difficulties of the Olympic tour are on everyone’s mind.  Yet, a real discussion or debate on this subject seems to be impossible or nearly so, for a number of reasons.

 The French students, at least those who have very strong opinions on the matter, tend to want to express them as the French seem to do:  loudly.  With gusto.  In a way which, to many foreigners — this one included — can seem rather agressive.  The Asian students tend to get rather quiet, and although judging by the glances they should back and forth between each other they obviously have some opinions of their own that they have most likely discussed amongst themselves.  And I’m left spouting off maxims to attempt to bridge the gap, things like “a true friend tells you when they disagree with you” etc.

In addition to the cultural differences, there is also differences in English level, which makes it difficult as people form their thoughts at various rates, and therefore, by the time some feel ready to speak others are already monopolizing the conversation.  

There must be a better way to do this, so everyone can speak without everyone ending up speaking at the same time.  If you have suggestions so I don’t have to end up using some sort of “speech stick” — you know, as in only the one with the stick can speak — I would love to hear them. 

All day long, I fought the desire to reach out and pinch every single person I crossed who hadn’t bothered to include even an ounce of green in their ensemble.  Which is apparently everyone, excepting a very small number of people who paid tribute to the land of the leprechauns without even realizing they were doing so. 

 There will be no green beer for yours truly, simply because the French see absolutely no reason to dye food for purely kitschy purposes.  At twenty-seven, I have still never drunk a glass of green beer.  Whether I am ashamed or proud of this fact is still up for debate.

 However, thanks to the hard work of my oh-so-talented husband, we are celebrating here on the website with a wee bit of luck of the Irish thanks to the site’s new artwork.  This is God’s way of saying, “you know all those times your husband insisted on discussing mathematical formulas at dinner?  Those hours he spent killing zombies, shooting Nazis, or worse, getting annoyed with twelve-year-olds on Maple Story?  Every time he said ‘I’ll be there in five minutes’ and you woke up three hours later to find that spot in the bed next to you was still empty?  It’s not all bad, this geeky streak.  Only 95% bad.  Enjoy!”

I walk past one of the few matinal café-bars in Le Havre, the only one in this quarter.  The owner busies himself here and there, the incandescent light reflecting off the empty countertop.  The smell of cooking oil wafts through the doorway, flooding the streets with french fry dreams.  It is 7:30am.

 Ten minutes later, the first bus stop on the Cours de la République.  Fresh off their commuter trains, a gaggle of apprenti hairdressers plow through the doors, hands full of black bags emblazoned with various beauty product advertisements and metallic toolboxes containing lord only knows what sort of torture devices.  I adjust the cheap black claw which struggles to hold my hair in place and wonder what they think of me.

I’m not sure how many teachers might lurk around these parts, but I thought I’d give it a go.

Has anyone used blogs as part of their class?  Was it successful?

I’m thinking of having my students set up blogs and having them post a minimum of once a week about any subject that might interest them.  The idea is that it will get them writing more frequently, will be easy to correct, and hopefully the liberty will suit them.  I figure at the end of the semester I could give them one grade for the blog project.

I think that blogs will appeal to them more than journals, as they are interactive, and perhaps interest will lead them to read those of their classmates etc.  However, I worry that perhaps it may not be, well, “serious” enough.

 Any input is welcomed.

Just when you think Sarko’s dismal approval ratings can’t get any worse…

It’s what everyone in France was discussing around the water cooler coffee machine this morning.  Just when Sarko’s approval rating seemed to have hit rock bottom — 38 percent in the most recent poll — he brings out the digger and continues working on his own grave.

 Translation for those who are curious:

(Sarko goes through the crowd at the agriculture fair, shaking hands.) 

Man: Ah no, no touch me.

Sarkozy: Beat it then.

Man: You’re dirtying me.

 Sarkozy: So beat it you pathetic ass.

Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to be his proposal to get French cuisine listed as part of UNESCO’s World Heritage program that’s going to save him.

Finals officially ended a week and a half ago, and I have never felt so relieved and exhausted at the same time. Of course, while certain results have started to file in, many of them will remain unknown until mid-March, once the jury has placed their stamp of approval on the records and the wall of fame/shame has been posted. Still, exams = over, and that, my friends, is my kind of math.

Following the last one, I went into Paris for a great deal of fun and excitement (as some of you who keep up with the flickr page may have noticed. The summary involves lots of time with my favorite podcasting duo (you can hear me being particularly obnoxious on episodes 117 and 118), a Rocky Horror outing, museum visits, yummy food (Hawaiian pizza, fast food sushi, a homemade meal by the goddess of delish, what have you), and the most fantastic of company, plus a last-minute surprise visit to the ruins of the home of Richard the Lionheart with the oh-so-thoughtful husband.

Since then, I’ve been on “vacation” — yes, quotes are necessary. I’ve been so busy wrapping up things for one school (grading exams, etc.) and getting things ready to kick off the second semester for both schools while trying to get ahead with my own studies that time is speeding by. I did, however, both party on a boat and go roller skating for the first time in five years — and didn’t fall, despite looking like a drunk penguin on wheels.

Despite the work and the clutter piling up around me in our apartment, a rollerskating excursion without any resulting injuries is proof enough that the gods are smiling upon me.

Ten exams down, four more to go.

I think I now know how it must feel to be a sextagenarian. Thanks to a complete disregard for ergonomics — especially in amplitheater 6, which I’m sure was designed by a hunchback seeking revenge on fratboys who tormented him during their six years in college — my body rebels after four-hour-long sessions of twisting into karma sutra-esque positions which offer far less reward. I’m forced to unroll myself slowly, hearing noises coming from my spine, noises of which I doubted the existence outside of cartoons. Upon returning home, my right eye begins twitching uncontrollably. I literally limp up the stairs, thanks to what I assume are inherited bad knees from my father’s side.

While I refuse to make predictions (because if there’s one thing two and a half years of French university has taught me, it’s that one’s impression rarely has anything to do with their grade), I will proclaim that thus far I don’t think I’ve completely screwed up, and that my friend, is quite the accomplishment. Two more tomorrow, one on Saturday morning (jealous?), and a random exam next week, and this semester is O-VER. Sayonara, bastard!

To the dude with the shaved head, dark sunglasses, and leather trench that I passed the other week on the way to class: no, you don’t look cool like some sort of Matrix bad guy. You just look like a moron.

To the freak in the bus that stares at you from some unbeknowst reason: try looking out the window. It’s surely more entertaining.

Xmas in a nutshell: Xmas Eve dinner featured the scrumptious scallops in cream dish. Xmas featured my father-in-law pouting on the sofa, to the point where he didn’t actually eat anything, just watched us do so without a word.

New Years in a nutshell: Meat fondue. Wii. Strike-of-midnight madness, including the taping of two of the party attendees together with box tape, and an unappreciated potato fight (especially by the hostess of said soirée, yours truly).

The next week in a nutshell: Study. Study. Study. Work. Study.

And the following: Final. Final. Final. Final. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It was with a grin plastered on my face that I set out this afternoon, big bag of packages and cards in hand, on my way to the post office. You see, this year I was mailing my things before Xmas.

Sure, Xmas Eve international mailing may not seem like a feat to most people. Last year, my family received their gifts in March. You can imagine the extra skip in my step as I lugged that heavy bag down to the nearest post office, which just so happened to be closed.

However, this did little to discourage me, as quite frankly, the nearest post office is somewhat of a joke, having a whopping two employees maximum at any given time, and being known to close for a week or two without it seeming to have any reason to do so. So, skipping slightly less eagerly, I picked that bag back up and started heading to the next nearest post office, naturally in the opposite direction.

Imagine my dismay when, despite no official notice, this one was closed as well. The skip skipped away at that point, leaving me to head back home with my tail between my legs. French Postal Workers, I shake my fist at thee!