My eyes are bleeding. In that painful, “Why the hell did I just read that … again” kind of way. Make it stop.

I have wanted to post about Facebook for a while. (Alright, I've wanted to just post for a while, and we all see how that's been going, so maybe not the best of intros there, granted.) I came reluctantly to the Facebook scene, probably because I have always had a reluctance to reconnect with the people I went to school with (you'll remember I'm the one who skipped prom for roller coasters because honestly, if I had the choice between hanging with the majority of my classmates or having my nails ripped out, I'd give up ever scratching an itch). But there are exceptions to every rule, right? And when my new group of friends, my 'real' friends, my hand-picked family if you will, all started raving about FB, well... I'm a follower.

And all in all it's been an interesting experience. The ones I thought would make good, who deserved to make good, have, at least for the most part. And there are, of course, the ones who haven't set a foot outside of their trailer park, and probably still don't know what's down at the end of the road. The confirmation of my beliefs has been an ego-enriching experience.

But the fun part, the most interesting part if you will, has been the odd few who I knew, and I mean KNEW, would probably end up as crab fodder, passed out and drowned in the ICWW from too much beer and bong who have actually tuned into interesting, intelligent adults. And maybe that is why, day after day, I allow my IQ to be sucked further down by the phenomenon that is Facebook. It's those people, the odd success stories, that capture my interest. Them, and Mafia Wars, of course.

But there is the TMI factor. We all post little updates about ourselves, about how we're feeling, what we're doing, etc. It's like Twitter (one addiction I have been able to curb) with lots of bonuses. But really, how much of this stuff do I want to know?

I am wholly of the idea that sexual encounters and religion are on the same plane of privacy. I doubt seriously anyone I know on FB or otherwise, would toss out a few perfectly written blurbs about that blow job she (or he, of course) gave last night, or would wax poetic about the most excellent position they enjoyed the week before. Facebook probably has some policy about that anyway. They seem to have a policy for most things.

But why is it that we can keep all our dirty laundry locked up tight, but we (we meaning ya'll of course, because me? Not lumping myself in with that group) suddenly feel the need to brag about our religions. “Had a beautiful rainy morning at church and got washed free of sins!” Umm, are JC, Big Daddy and the Spook now in the laundry business? Because I knew you way back when, and hon, ain't no bleach strong enough to wash that shit away. And why not drag the kids into it too, right. I mean, Little Ophelia is probably still shitting her pants, but I'm so glad she believes in God and is happy the Baby Cheeses died on the crossword so we can eat chocolate and color eggs that we hide in the backyard and find many months later when the boiled baby chicken has fully decomposed. Of course Little Ophelila believes in The Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, The Tooth Fairy, Ghosts, Goblins, The Monster Under the Bed, The Monster in the Closet (Did she just mention closets? Who's in the closet? Gay is so unGodly!), Mickey Mouse, Spiderman, and a whole plethora of other fictional characters so why, WHY for fucks sake, are you so PROUD (a sin, if memory serves) that she also believes in God?

When did church become the new status symbol? And is it so bad that I still don't feel like having the Herd Mentality?

“But Doc,” I can hear you thinking, “this reeks of bitterness.” You're damn right it does. I mean, here I sit, thousands of miles away from my 'home', getting a good bit of perspective from the distance, and what do I see? Hell, the USA started a war against religious extremists. Ain't that just the pot calling the kettle black?

Do you remember what it was like when you were a kid and you couldn't wait for Christmas to get here? How that anticipation would drive you insane until you could no longer sleep? And how when Christmas morning finally made it's slow-ass way to your house, well, you were so tired from the weeks of sleepless nights that you fell asleep ten minutes after opening the Best Christmas Present Ever! That's about how I feel.

Seven years ago Marc and I started down the road to home ownership. We looked and looked and looked in vain for a house. Our criteria were rather exacting. It had to be near the farm, big enough, with some land around it (I am American after all). And I needed windows, and lots of light. I die inside without sunlight (which maybe explains why I'm in a vegetative state most days). So we looked, and what we found was nothing. The places we did like were either too far, or too expensive, or too owned-by-people-who'd-never-sell. So we gave up looking and started fighting over plans. Floor plans.

When I say we fought, I mean that in a literal sense. We had a few good rounds over what was acceptable, what was needed, what was fluff and what was just plain absurd. And what we finally ended up with, after months of arguing and sleepless nights (sometimes on the couch), was a house we LOVED... at least in theory.

So we went to a nice reputable builder with our much-fought-over dream and handed it to them and held our breath. And the nice reputable builder looked at the plans and said, “We can do this. Just let me run some figures.” I was pregnant with my first child, and we were building a house! Life was good.

Then we got some bad news. The baby was breech and that wouldn't do. So I got checked into the hospital to try and turn him. It didn't work and while I can't say I'm sorry I tried, I will admit it was painful enough to put on the list of experiences I wouldn't want to repeat. I came home from the hospital with the date my baby would arrive written on a piece of paper with all the instructions for checking in and getting him exorcised by surgical means.

Ten days before I was to check in for the exorcism, we got another shock. The contract we'd signed with the nice reputable builder had been annulled. The price they'd given us was a bit too low for them to handle because their agent, Mr Idiot, had forgotten to include things (like the staircase, and the heating, and a few other minor (note the sarcasm) details) and the new price was a mere 13% higher than what we'd been told. I left their office reeling from the shock. Sticker prices on new houses here are enough to test the limits of your cardiac capabilities, and we were just tossed out of our dream home.

Time to cut things down a bit.

So we went back to the arguing, and the drawing and re-drawing of our dream. And after more FIGHTS, and more sofa-sleeps, we ended up with something smaller, something we could more easily afford (theoretically) and honestly something we both liked better.

We both agreed that we were turned off by the reputable builder and shopped around elsewhere to find someone to realize this dream we had. Marc had heard of a new builder in town. We went for a visit. He brought us pretty pictures with the house we so dearly loved drawn on them. We were happy. And then he presented us with the price. I think Marc fell over. It was heavenly. Mr Manthing ran around clicking his heels with glee. Screw the establishment! We were getting the house we wanted at a price we could afford. Oh, and I was pregnant again. Life was great!

So we signed the contract and wrote the check and held our breath.

We live in a tiny village and honestly there's nothing here. Nothing, that is, except for a post office, and print shop and a château. Yes, a château. And inside the château there's ONE ROOM that is classified as a historical monument. INSIDE the château. The château that you can't even visit unless you know the owner. Who just happened to be the mayor. And our neighbor.

So our plans had to pass through the hands of the architect of the BF, Bâtiments de France, an agency that is charged with making sure that the French don't ugly-up their quaint rural villages with modern architecture and PVC windows or slate shingles. No sir, those things just won't do. This group even had (note the past tense—things have since changed) the ability to impose window sizes, roof colors and, get this, the materials we used for construction.

So we went to war again, armed with everything possible to defend ourselves and our dream from the over-zealous, idiot fonctionnaire at BF. We even brought along the Mayor/Neighbor/Château owner to plead our case, because if anything we wanted to do was going to reflect badly on his ONE classified room, who better to have on our side. And for the most part we won. The idiot finally relented and let us have our PVC shutters after I told him it was either that or he'd have to drag his sorry carcass up there every year to repaint the wood ones he insisted we use. We got our building permit. Things were starting to roll.

And they rolled, and rolled and walls went up, and things started taking form.

And then we started noticing odd stuff. Like the roof hadn't been ordered. And the front door? Ha! I managed to find one though, and it looked like we were going to get there in time for the second child.

Oh but no! Delays, delays and delays. Except where the second child was concerned. She decided to make her entrance a bit earlier than expected by kicking around a bit too much and making everyone think I was an the verge of a uterine rupture. So she came kicking and screaming into our lives in January. And the house? Oh, for February, for certain.

So February came and February went and our house? Well, it didn't get finished. Not in March, nor April nor May. In June I was getting rather anxious. And in July the kitchen arrived and...

Sometime in July the oldest child, who was by that time a walking talking pile of fun, decided to push on one of the walls upstairs. And it moved. A lot.

And it rained, and the house flooded.

The house is 65 meters above the water table.

And it flooded.

So we grumbled and we yelled and we called our insurance.

And around this time the builder filed bankruptcy.

But we weren't worried, because our beef was with the contractor. And he was still operational.

So everyone showed up to a nice meeting with the insurance expert who pointed out a lot of problems we didn't even know we had, problems like the roof that wasn't put together correctly and the drywall that was installed incorrectly and a few other minor (sarcasm again) details. The contractor took lots of notes and promised things would get straightened out... just as soon as he got back from vacation. What? July. In France. Everyone goes on holiday.

So six weeks later we expected to have his proposal for fixing things. The expert from the insurance set up another meeting so we could work things out amicably. We went up to the house and waited. The expert showed up. We chatted. We waited some more. No contractor. The expert, after having been prodded a bit, did mention that while we could do whatever we felt like, there was not a snowball's chance in hell he'd move into the house with the roof in the shape it was in. “You get a few centimeters of snow and that thing'll come down” was pretty much what he told us, although he did say this in French.

Lovely. We had a house that flooded and risked falling down on our heads.

And the next week? Well, we found out that the contractor had filed bankruptcy.

And the insurance? Ha! Not that kind of insurance. Why? Because the builder explained to us in minute detail why That Kind of insurance was a waste of money, how we'd be covered by the contractor's insurance should anything go wrong and how much wiser we'd be to save that money and upgrade our kitchen tiles.

Yep, one born every minute.

So we finally got serious, and got a lawyer. And not just any lawyer. A GOOD lawyer (and here's hoping I don't have to eat those words one day). Only he lives in a far away land. And the only day he could see us was the Monday after Marc's best friend's wedding.

So we drove from the extreme north of France where the wedding was, to the extreme prostate of France to drop the kids off with my MIL and then on to Besançon where the lawyer was. Weddings are quite the shit around here, and I'm sure that Vivi can attest to what a hoot (YEEEHAW) this one was. I was tired, rather hung over, and stuck in the car for eight hours. Twelve with the return trip.

Did I mention I was hung over.

Very.

Se we met the lawyer, and showed him every scrap of paper, every contract, every receipt. And we played the part of the poor country hillbillies thinking we might one day make it good. We played the part well. And the lawyer looked at us and smiled. I think now he was trying not to laugh because we were, in all senses of the word, FUCKED.

Fucked because that famous 'worst case scenario' was what we had just spelled out to him.

Fucked because I was pregnant again.

And hung over.

Basically just Fucked.

But there was hope. So we signed, and he went to bat for us. And papers were served, court dates appointed and meetings held. And then came the first court date...

No contractor. No builder. Just our lawyer and the panel of judges who decided to ask a court appointed expert to take a look at things. It was February 2007. The experts report had to be finished for the 15th of August.

We paid the advance for the expert—nothing's free ya know. And he came to visit, along with our lawyer, and looked at the place and sighed. Worst he'd seen. Poor us. What idiots we were for letting Those People touch our dream. (sigh)

But he took pictures and measurements and wrote down a good many things. It all seemed so professional and official. Surely things would be better soon.

Then I had more bad news. My gestational diabetes was out of control, so at 36 weeks of gestation, as early as they dared do it, they plucked the third child from my innards. And while we got used to the roller coaster with her, it was nothing compared to the roller coaster we were about to ride.

August came and on the 15th (which is a legal holiday here), nothing happened—nothing that is, except for a huge storm that blew part of the roof off the house. (Oddly enough we do have That Kind of insurance, and that fact only made the roller coaster a bit worse, because seriously, why couldn't the storm have taken the ENTIRE roof, right?)

September, and still nothing. October had the lawyer calling the Tribunal. Nothing. November the same story. In December he mailed off a few nasty letters, got a reply in January and by February we had the pre-report from the expert. With a nice little 23,000 € price tag on it. Ha!

We laughed. There was no way in hell we'd be able to find anyone (anyone legal that is) who could fix everything for that price. So we cried FOUL and stomped our feet. And our lawyer went to bat for us. And another round of meetings were scheduled and held. The expert, once things were explained to him, backtracked a bit and tried another route. He had Another Reputable Builder come in and price things out for him.

That was in April. May, June and July passed while they ran their figures. There were a few more official visits in-between because things were that complicated. Every time we visited the house that year we found more problems. And the roof was now so deformed that you could see the deformations from the road. The ceilings were starting to fall down. The mold was so thick in places you could scratch your name in it, and a week later it would be covered again.

In August the Other Reputable Builder contacted us to present their estimate. See, not only did they serve as the expert's Easy Out, they were also looking to make a deal with us—something we were quite happy about because finding someone to take on that nightmare and fix it (and subsequently be responsible for the work later on down the road) is impossible. Or at least had been for us.

Their nice (and rather easy on the eyes) salesman visited and gave us the shock. The price to fix the house was just a bit less that what we'd already invested. And while I don't feel easy discussing figures, I will just say we're talking about six of them. Six figures' worth of 'repairs' on a new house.

And this is August 2008, a year after the expertise was supposed to have been reported to the tribunal.

But it hadn't been. And in September it still hadn't been. October, November, December, January, February, and March all passed. And nothing. Not a word. And there's someone following the file? Riiiight!

But today, a year and a half late, we finally got the expert's report. And it's been filed with the court. And the degrees of errors and mistakes listed within are staggering. As is the price tag for the repairs. The report is almost 100 pages long, and while some of that is annexed documents and copies of plans and correspondence, the bulk of it is a detailed listing of everything that is nightmarish about this dream house of ours.

I am straining not to be hopeful again. Every time I get hopeful about the house I end up on medication. But the report is in, finally, and we should have a ruling from the court soon. And while we know this ruling is only the first of many legal steps, it is the biggest hurdle of them all. Everything from here on out should be fairly quick, relatively speaking.

And as for the house, well, I'm thinking of setting up a charity to help pay for the repairs...

The management wishes to inform its readers that the idiot behind the words is currently grappling with a huge case of self-censorship coupled with an unhealthy dose of writer's block.

If anyone out there has a cure for either of the two conditions, please, PLEASE, make it known.

Blogging will resume one day.

...I hope.

(I miss you guys)

Alright, things have calmed down on the work front, and will probably calm down more in the not-too-distant future, and Mr. Manthing has allowed me, after years of begging and pleading, to purchase a laptop, so MAYBE I might actaully get around to blogging again.

Maybe.

No promises.

Oh yeah, Happy New Year already. I’ve been slack, right ?

I’m not one for resolutions, probably because I’m only motivated for about the first five minutes after the date changes or more likely because I think I am perfect just the way I am and feel no need to change. In either case I’ll not hand out empty promises to blog more or plan on loosing X pounds. Who cares. I surely don’t, and chances are you don’t either.

Anyway, a quick update. August ended fairly well. Monkey the First was quite happy to head back to school, and Pooplette was quite happy to go along with him. This led to disaster right after, as apparently our idea of going to school didn’t quite gel with the school’s idea of accepting her. This was a fairly savage battle on all fronts. Pooplette was born eleven days after their stupid arbitrary cut-off date, and while the school has a low enough number of students that they were happy to have her, they were only happy to have her for half a day. We found this out the Saturday before school started, so our plans of having our afternoons somewhat freer came a screeching halt. And on top of that, the girl, who had spent the previous year watching her brother go off to school morning and afternoon, found it a bit difficult to accept. She’d watch her brother and classmates return to school after lunch, then come home with me to scream the afternoon away, throwing tantrums the likes of which we’d never seen (she even broke the door to their bedroom from throwing herself against it). When we tried to speak with the powers that be, we were told that we should just be happy they were taking her at all. Not the thing to say, people, not at all. So, after stomping our feet and screaming (me), and crying (me again) we got them to accept her all day long—our thinking being that she’s advanced for her age in any case and for fuck’s sake ELEVEN DAYS right?. Since then she’s been tested, and on an intellectual level she’s significantly ahead of the pack. However, the School Shrink (who Marc and I both seem to like, even if he’s … well, he’s a shrink, right?) thinks she’ll be better off waiting another year because she’s not as mature as she could be. Meaning? Well, she’s a loner, doesn’t feel comfortable with her classmates, prefers to hang out with the adults, or, when possible, her brother and his friends. I won’t go into what I really think of this assessment, because it will just get me all worked up again, but we’ve decided to be patient, and next year, should we get the same reaction from her because she doesn’t feel she’s where she belongs, we’ll kick and scream and yell some more. In the meantime….

The third child is growing, and no, we still don’t know how. She still eats next to nothing, and I have honestly given up trying. If she eats, she eats, if not, well, she’s not going to let herself starve, right? She’s doing well, and is having a blast at the crèche, where we leave her four days a week now.

Wait, four days? YES! Because I’m not around that much anymore! And it’s lovely. I’ve been drug back to work. In October, the sexy neighbors the people who have the house next to the Shit Heap On The Hill came to see me, to ask me to please call the principal at the college their son attends because the English teacher is out, had been out for three weeks at that point, and they were desperate. So I called. And was asked to come in immediately for an interview—immediately being the time it took me to drive over. And I got hired, because, YES, they are that hard up for English teachers here. So in the middle of November I became a middle school English teacher. And a week or two later, they added on a couple of high school classes, and I’m regretting that decision already, because one of them is as horrible as a class can get without weapons.

This little job thing has had several knock-off effects, of course. Not the least of these is that Mr. ManThing is finally getting a dose of what it means to be a parent. I’ll admit that the first couple of weeks were rather difficult, between me figuring out the ropes, and Marc’s constant grumbling (because, damn, if class starts at 1 o’clock, why should I leave here 45 minutes ahead of that if I’ve only got a ten minute drive, right?). But things have settled down, and I have to say I’m rather proud of the way he’s handled everything. Oh, he still grumbles, but I think he’s finally realized it’s not all fun stuff staying around the kids all day.

And we made it through Christmas fairly unscathed. We’re starting to come together with the whole Santa gift thing, and it’s good. And I didn’t have to answer the question ‘Why didn’t Santa bring you anything, mama?’ this year, either. Now all I have to do is figure out a way of getting us out of the afternoon at the in-laws and Christmas can be really good.

Anyway, that’s the news from here. Ciao!