I refuse to take an art class;

I prefer not to know what I'm doing.

TWO DRAWINGS:

In honor of those who are flying back to college.

Pour ceux qui prennent l’avion pour retourner à l’université.

In honor of dog people.

Pour ceux qui aiment les chiens.

Is there life after Nutella?

Je suis enfin revenue de la France.  Le semestre était bien passé en général, grâce aux Français et Américains qui ont accepté de devenir amis avec moi.  C’était une expérience singulière.  Heureusement, la plupart de mes blagues se traduisaient assez bien. 

Je ne voulais pas retourner aux Etats-Unis.  Mais dans l’avion, coincé entre un type qui inclinait son siège à 3 cm de mon nez et un petit garçon qui utilisait le dos de mon siège comme un punching ball, je me suis mise à penser aux choses heureuses qui m’attendaient au Pays de la Liberté Débordante.  Voilà le fruit de mes efforts.  Et comme d’habitude, laissez-moi un commentaire si vous trouvez une faute dans mon français.

I’ve finally returned from France.  The semester was generally well spent, thanks to the French and Americans who agreed to be friends with me.  It was a singular experience.  Fortunately, most of my jokes translated rather well.

I didn’t want to return to the States.  But on the plane, stuck between a guy who’d reclined his seat to within 3 cm of my nose and a small boy who was using the back of my seat as a punching bag, I started thinking about the happy things that awaited me in the Country of Overflowing Freedom.  Here are the fruits of my efforts.

Qu'est-ce que j'anticipe le plus aux Etats-Unis?
Porter des pantalons de survêt.  Ouaiiis.

Effrayer mes parents avec mon anneau de nez

LE BEURRE DE CACAHUÈTES

Courir sans subir des regards comme ça

"Bonjour.  Je n'ai aucune idée de comment il faut faire les choses comme adulte dans ce pays, mais je viens de les faire toutes dans ma deuxième langue dans un pays étranger, donc je crois que je peux me débrouiller.  Capische?”

“Je ne voulais que vérifier si vous aviez besoin de plus de temps pour choisir.”

“en fait oui s’il vous plaît”

"Ce caca va être...”
“RAMASSÉ.”

“Non, merci, je ne bois pas d’alcool.”

“Ce phrase n’est pas seulement grammatiquement correcte, il a aussi du sens dans cette culture.  Tu veux du jus?”

"Fang!  Fangy!  TU ME MAAAAANQUAIS!  FAIS BISOUS!"
"bof"

“Excusez-moi, avez-vous des toilettes?”

“Bien sûr!  Au bout du couloir à gauche, et là-bas à côté de la machine à Coke, et en bas, et en haut, et juste derrière vous, et en fait je suis assise sur une toilette maintenant!  Vivent les toilettes!”

Time for your Closeup

"Is this thing on?"

The Dog Who Cried Wolf

My family has a dog named Fang.  This is her real name.  I feel quite safe releasing her name on the Internet, because Fang has never responded to it.  (So if you're going to kidnap her and hold her for ransom, I have two pieces of advice:  1) read the rest of this post before deciding if you really want to do that, and 2) calling "Here Fang!" will get you nowhere.)  

Our relationship with Fang makes the onlooker question who is master of whom.  We think she's pretty smart, but she does not sit on command.  She refuses to do tricks.  She sheds fur so profusely that armies of fluffballs roll around our house like tumbleweeds.  Whenever she hears the orrrrp of foil tearing on a yogurt container, she's there, immediately, glaring at us until we share.  And of course we can't turn her down.  Puppy-dog eyes are the most persuasive cliché there is.

Fang has many adorable qualities, but her annoying ones just might outnumber them.  She often barks to be let out with such agitation that we fear imminent dog explosion--but when she gets outside, it's all, "Oh, what a nice day, let me sniff this leaf and perhaps gaze into the distance for half an hour."  Fang pulls this trick four or five times a day.  We have to leash her up and walk with her each time because if we let her off leash, she'll bolt for the woods in search of something stinky to roll in.

One day, my parents got tired of this charade and bought a dog run.  This is a wire stretching between two trees in the backyard, with a line that comes down and attaches to the dog's collar.  The line rolls back and forth on the wire as the dog frolics to and fro in the yard.  What a great idea! we all thought.  Instead of wasting hours wandering outside with the Dog Who Cried Wolf, we could simply attach her to the run and let her relieve herself on her own schedule.  Following are some drawings of our expectations:

Yes, these were our expectations.  But this is what happened when we set up the run, attached Fang, and stepped back, brimming with pride at our own ingenuity:

She didn't get it.  Even after my mother tenderly led the dog back and forth by hand, even after my gleeful father shot some film of the poor animal's confusion, Fang could not understand the basic purpose of the run:  that, once attached, SHE COULD STILL MOVE AROUND.  Was she afraid of the line hanging over her head?  Did she think we'd fixed her to the spot with dark magic?  Unless we find out, it's false-alarm walkies for the rest of eternity.