I think I'm too stupid for Thalassotherapy

I'm in Biarritz. Because I'm a lunatic, and I need a vacation. Since this was a surprise, M had everything booked under his name. Here, let me let that sink in for a moment. His name. So when I got to the spa, the woman at the acceuil looked at the ticket she had, looked at me, looked back at the ticket, and back at me again.

“There are two of you?”

“No, just me.”

“You are Madame.”

“Yes.”

“And Monsieur is joining you?”

“No. Just me. It was a surprise.”

“Oh! So you’re replacing him?”

“Yes.”

She gave me a schedule of all the sessions I would attend for the week and showed me where to go for the first one. Then, for some inexplicable reason, she switched to English. And I’m not trying to pretend I’m fluent in French (I do think with a solid three months of actually applying myself, I probably could be), but....

“You....bring...one euro?” She said, pointing to the lockers.

“Oh. No, sorry.”

“Ok. You give me...vos affaires...and...demain, you bring one euro.”

If anyone is wondering, this is probably what *I* sound like in Spanish. I sound even worse in German. I don't know why they gave me a passport. My French is marginally better. Short tangent: I don’t get insulted by the switching to English anymore. I really don’t think it’s meant to be an insult. I think they think it’s more comfortable for English speakers, who are often monolingual, and they get to practice their second (or third, or whatever) language. So I think in their minds, it’s win-win. I don’t really mind unless it’s obvious things would be faster if we just switched back to French.

The first session was actually pretty decent. It was “hydromassage sensoriel”. Basically, you lie down on a waterbed, and these massage heads run up and down the length of your back. After that session, I thought, “This is fantastically wonderful! I’m going to live here forever.”

Second session...bain multi-jets. It’s a bathtub. Like the ones at my grandma’s house. The woman in charge of that session said, “Take off your robe. And your bathing suit if you want. It’s your choice.” Oh, well, in that case, it stays on. I know some of you are going to think, “Seriously? Grow up!” Fine, fine, fine. When in Europe, yeah, ok. In one ear and out the other. I don’t really care what other people do. And conversely, no one should care if I’m clinging to my bathing suit like it’s the last post-Easter Cadbury egg.

So I climbed into this bathtub, thinking, “Whelp...this is a bathtub, all right.” I looked up at the ceiling, and I noticed one of the tiles was ajar. As in, I could see into the next floor up. I was really amused by it, especially in light of the mind-crushing and incredibly life-changing decision about whether or not to keep my bathing suit on. But, I’m easily distracted, and I was having an ongoing conversation with myself mentally that it was essential I got back to rightthatsecond, so I forgot about the tile.

Halfway through the glorified bath (it was with sea water, and my skin looks ridiculously incredible right now, I do have to say), I opened my eyes. The ceiling tile was back in place. So. There’s that. I thought to myself, “That must mean I’m not interesting enough to look at just in my bathing suit!” I agree. Smart move. And then I thought about how glad I was that I HADN’T taken off my bathing suit -- not because of the ick factor in having someone watch you, which yeah, that’s gross for sure, but WHAT IF THEY HAD PUT THE TILE BACK ANYWAY???!! How could I have dealt with that rejection? I think it’s better not to know.

I had an hour to kill after that session, so I tried the pool. It was just a bunch of people leaning up against the walls to take full advantage of the jets. And it was at that moment I realized what a child I am. Because I really had to fight the urge to do aquatic gymnastics. Like a child. So I settled for pretending to swim laps. That’s when I learned that I cannot swim like an actual swimmer. Why is my brain so detached from reality sometimes? When I decided to do laps, I had this image of myself doing long, elegant strokes, gliding through the water like a modern-day selkie -- no, the Queen of the Selkies (it’s always necessary). Except my legs are short, I trip over my own feet on dry land, the breaststroke is not elegant, and it’s impossible to do it on your first try without looking like a massive idiot and dunking your entire face in the water, which (remember) is salt water. So...guess who looked like a massive idiot? Honestly, you would think I would be used to this by now.

I managed to waste an entire 20 minutes in the pool. So I was sort of waddling around the edge pool (the realization of my lack of elegance in the water had reduced the size of my legs in my mind from supermodel-length 6 feet to about 1 foot each) when the woman from the first session approached me.

“Do you want to do your next session now instead of in 40 minutes?”

At the time, I was thinking, “Thank goodness!” But if I had known what a “douche affusion” entails, I probably would have said, “No...actually, I’ll just skip that one.”

She lead me to this room with a stainless steel bed/tray/shallow water receptacle covered in plastic. Overhead was a shower column spraying out water at a very high pressure. The entire room -- walls, floor, door -- was soaking wet.

“Hang up your robe and bathing suit,” she said. “Lie down on the bed.”

Wait, what? “My bathing suit?” I asked.

“Oui, enlevez votre maillot de bain,” she repeated. Then she walked out.

I hung up my robe, very slowly and reached for the ties on my bathing suit. I have no doubt my face was a sight to behold. Then I started thinking. I did hear “enlevez”, right? Oh my God, what if I didn’t hear “enlevez,” and she said something else? WHAT IF SHE SAID SOMETHING ELSE? And I take off my bathing suit, and she comes in and is like, “Why on earth is this woman standing naked in the middle of the room?” I know they’re French, and Americans think French people just walk around naked all day, but still. I’ve got to see these people for the next four days. I don’t want to be the anecdote. Not for that.

At this point, I had taken so long, she popped her head in to see if I was ready. Then she was gone again. Like lightening. And I’m still sitting there wondering what on earth I’m going to do. I really didn’t want to ask her AGAIN if that’s what she said.

Yes, I am this big of a baby.

I would rather be under the table than on top of it at this point. And that’s when I realized  the dang doors don’t shut all the way. They’re not wide open, but yeah, they don’t shut all the way. And boy, I’m committed at this point.

She walked in and said something blah, blah, blah, you can lie on your stomach, too. I’m honestly not even listening. I’m trying to keep eye contact, because if she’s looking at my eyes, then she’s looking at my eyes, you know what I mean?

So now it was me and this contraption. It moves up and down, spraying your body. There are a lot of times being short has its disadvantages. This was one of them. Because I’m not sure this thing was hitting, um, where it was supposed to be hitting. Or maybe it was. Gah. I don’t know. All I know is, within 60 seconds (first rotation), I was not even remotely serious or relaxed. I kept thinking, “Did M book me into the French equivalent of a Thai massage parlor? What fresh hell is this?” This is seriously not my idea of a good time. After I raced out of there laughing like the incredibly mature person I am, I happened to think....she said something about me lying on my stomach as well. Umm....was that what I was supposed to do? A quick Google search tells me, yes, that is what I am supposed to do. Some people are on their backs, but the vast majority are on their stomachs.

I am an idiot. Hope they enjoyed the show.

There’s plenty more to say about that, I’m sure, but I’m just gonna leave it there. Like I said, my skin not only looks super healthy, but it’s also insanely soft. I am petting my calves like they’re a rabbit’s foot.

Looking at my schedule, my next session is another “douche affusion”. For the sake of amazing skin, I think I can sweat it out. On my stomach.

I don't blog when I annoy myself

So I've been sort of tired of living in my own head for the last few months. I complain too much and I'm generally pretty boring. I feel like I lack creativity and any sort of drive for anything in life. Depression? Maybe. But I think it's really that my alter ego is a really boring person, and when I'm trapped with normal me for extended periods of time, I irritate myself.

The house is coming along. And by coming along, I mean we haven't done anything to it other than rewire, and that wasn't even done by us. I have big plans, though! So I guess I don't lack in the ideas department. It's just the execution that needs work.

In front of some rocks in Wiltshire.....

We bought the ugliest kitchen cabinets. They're really, really ugly. I don't have a picture of them. I will soon. Before I transform them, I promise. I've promised M I will make an effort to finish the projects I start, which totally won't happen, but I have really good intentions. And I don't want half-finished kitchen cabinets. I'll just hold off on my desire to achieve ultimate laziness for another project.

Let's go back to these cabinets, though. I answered an ad on a local English (English language, English people...it's all the same here) website. The full kitchen was about €50. I didn't really care what condition it was in for that price. The only thing that would have been better is free. So early one Monday morning, M and I went to pick up these new cabinets.

When we left, the fountain in front of our house looked like this:


In other words, it was colder than should be legally allowed. (This is really amusing in light of what we had to deal with a few weeks later, but that's another story.) The lady of the house (I don't know what to call her) asked if I wanted to come inside where it was warm while the menfolk loaded the cabinets. I'm a cherry-picking feminist, so you can guess which option I chose. She ushered me inside where a hyperactive border collie was waiting to attack my face and upper body. And she didn't put the dog outside. I like dogs. Don't get me wrong. But I hate petting them or getting licked by them, because then my hands smell, and I become obsessed with the idea that I can feel dirt on my hands.

The room looked like it would make a great candidate for Hoarders. I'm used to a decreased standard of cleanliness at this point, but this was crazy. Old electronics, boxes upon boxes of old papers, musty, torn carpets, desks in every corner....


I sat on the couch closest to the wood-burning stove. The lady perched herself on the arm of the couch perpendicular to me and stared. She started asking me questions. They were mostly harmless, general questions. We made small talk. It was really a pretty normal level of awkwardness. She seemed pretty interested in me. And that's also normal. I chalk that up to not actually being interesting, but rather, to looking about 10 years younger than I am and having fairly insane stories. I'm pretty sure most people think I'm a pathological liar.

I always feel like I dominate conversations. When I get nervous, I talk. A lot. So I turned the tables and asked how long they had been here. She responded that her partner had been here for about 8 years, but she had only lived here for 3. I asked if they had met in France then. She said no, they had met in Spain, where she had been living.

"That's nice," I said. "Was he on holiday?" (I also have a lovely knack for saying really stupid things.)

"Yes," she said. "We met through mutual friends. I was still married to my husband at the time."

"Oh. Ohhh...." Yeeeeah. So. Not really sure how to follow up on that one. Thankfully, she did it for me.

Pre-much-needed hair cut

"I lived in Spain for two years and it was miserable. I met D while he was on holiday there, left my husband of 22 years and moved here. We've been here ever since. I like it a lot, but I don't have insurance here since I don't work, and seeing doctors costs a lot of money. I've been ill with glandular fever since October, and I was finally getting better when we had guests over for the holidays. Guests are such hard work, you know. It was exhausting. They're always wanting things, and you have to keep the house so proper while they're here. You can't ever really relax. And now I'm feeling ill again." It was like the TMI floodgates had been opened. I was mental checking myself to Google glandular fever when I got home to make sure it wasn't contagious. I have this thing with infectious diseases. <---- understatement of the year

"That's too bad," I said. "I'm sorry you were ill. How many guests did you have?"

"Two," she said, and was thinking....two?! The way she was carrying on, I thought she'd had twelve.

"So..." At this point, I was grasping for conversation. And I'm naturally nosy. So yes, I went there. "Was your husband Spanish, then?"

"Yes," she said. "He still lives in Spain with our daughter."

She's only 4, and she's already getting birthday drinks from Frenchies.

"Are you fluent in Spanish? That must be helpful with French," I said.

"No," she replied. "My husband is a bit of a misogynist, and he believed a woman's place was in the house. I think he was a bit put off by how much Spanish I managed to learn while we were there."

At this point, the dog, who had been jumping from couch to couch and whining constantly, decided to use my face as a water bowl again. I was just about to stand up and say I should check on the cabinet-loading progress when she said, "Do you have many friends in Confolens?"

"Actually, yes, for only being there a few months, we've got quite a few already. It's really nice."

"Oh," she said. "We don't have any friends out here. It's so hard to meet people."

"I'm sorry," I said, because I really didn't know what else to say. It was quiet for a moment and I was ready to make my escape. I started to move my legs in that "I'm getting up now" way, which when she started talking again just made me look stupid like I was having some sort of body spasm.



"You should bring your children out here one night. We can have dinner. It would be really nice." Oh, dear.

Just then, M walked in with her partner. The border collie found a new victim and used all its might to reach his face.

"Wow, that dog can jump," M said, while leaning back as far as possible and shielding his face. I'm pretty sure the dog never runs out of energy.

"Mmmhmm," I said. The kitchen-cabinet people laughed. Don't laugh. Control your dang dog!

"Are you ready?" I asked M, jumping up off the couch and heading for the door.

"You wanted a glass of water," the man said to M. Darn it, I thought. Get some water in the car.

"There's water in the car," I said. "It's got ice in it from this morning. It will be freezing."

"That's true, but it's ok," M said. I wanted to burn him with my laser beam eyes. I don't have laser beam eyes, though, so my wants went unrealized.

Before the 5-minute walk to school, which is too much for Mini-Minion. She asks to be carried halfway there. :/

"Oh, it's no trouble," the man said. He picked up a glass of Perrier. I saw it. M did not. I smirked vindictively to myself. We are Americans. We do not drink sparkling water. It tastes like carbonated wrong to us. I smiled sweetly at M as he took the first drink. He glanced at me. So much communication without saying a word. He finished the water, because that's how M is.

As we left, the lady followed us out to the car. She had this look of sad desperation. I'm surprised she didn't pull out a white handkerchief to wave at us as we left. We drove off, and I said to M, "I'm not trying to be weird, but I think she really liked me. She must be terribly lonely."

We got home, and there was an email waiting for me. It said I had hit it off so well with kitchen-cabinet lady and she'd like to invite us for dinner, which would be vegetarian, so we'd have to pick from a menu of various pizzas. He also said to bring the kids because the dog needed new chew toys (ok, he didn't say that) and if we had a VHS, he had some kids videos to sell to us, as well as an old UK television and a gas stove.

I'm buying lots of furniture. It mostly looks like this.

I haven't answered an ad on that English website since.

And the lesson is....never try

I'm tempted to walk through here singing, a la Belle from Beauty and the Beast.

I know, I know...I fail as a casual blogger. I think I've gone over this before. When you spend a huge chunk of your day writing and editing, the last thing you want to do at the end of it is write some more. The ideal end of my day would be rocking in a dark corner somewhere, but that's not working out for me either.

Look! I ripped off all the wallpaper. It still looks gross, though.

And besides, I pretty much so fail as a parent these days, too. Halloween came and went. We saw costumes here, and they had Halloween candy. Why, I'm not sure....because we got a grand total of TWO (yes, that's whopping TWO) trick-or-treating families. Next year, we're having a party. I do have to laugh at the people here who say, "Well, Halloween is such an English thing." No, no, it's not. Halloween was invented by people whose idea of fun involves more than staring at mounted animal heads and discussing William Deerborne-Buckminster's latest fox hunt tally, thankyouverymuch. The English wish they were cool enough to come up with the fantastic fun that is Halloween.

Alex as a zombie. He's really into zombies right now, so he was happy.

I failed so thoroughly at Halloween that I slapped together costumes at about 5pm. Then, we wandered the streets of Confolens for a bit, decided it was completely dead, and then piled up in the car to go for....Chinese food. We brought the kids back to the house and let them knock on the doors of our house, which, to be fair, could easily provide the backdrop to 28 Days Later. My kids have low expectations in life. This makes them easy to please.

Ava as Tiana. Most unoriginal costume ever. I suck.

Ah, but we still had Thanksgiving. I was determined to get a working stove/oven before the 24th. So it was providence that we walked into Carrefour and found this little guy for €150 off (missing timer button). It's not white. Check. It looks retro. Check. I can carry it out of the store and into my kitchen. Check.

I haz oven!

Getting it up our stairs was an adventure. Halfway through, M (who had lost his shoes in the process of moving said oven up the stairs) said to me, "I'm sorry. I think you've actually got the hard end." I think I grunted more than actually formed a coherent response, because I had a large metal appliance pinning my neck against the wall at a not-normal angle.

Alex found a tail-less lizard. It was cause for much excitement.

But we got it up, and I was so happy. Five days before Thanksgiving. We'd have it up and working before then, no problem. M even said our oven was electric (the stovetop is gas), so we just needed to get a plug (they don't sell things with plugs here -- it's very, very strange), and we'd be in business. Turkey, get in mah belly!

The As on Armistice Day.

Our electrician put a plug on it the following Tuesday. He also made vague indications that he was going to hook the gas up to it. I was ready to commit bigamy with this 70-year-old Frenchman with absolutely no sense of humor whatsoever. He didn't connect the gas, and I reconsidered my illegal thoughts. Well, at least we had the oven.

The As even made the Charente Libre blog. :)

M turned the oven on. The house smelled like it was going to burn down. He turned it off. "Oh, by the way," he said casually, "the oven isn't electric. Just the broiler is." The broiler? The broiler?! I don't even know what a broiler's function in life is. "It's no big deal," he continued. "We can just boil a pot of water on the camping stove and put either a chicken or a turkey in there." Or we could not do that, because that sounds absolutely disgusting.

Mini-Minion, her sweet little grubby hands, and her new "friend."

I was still cheerful, though, because we have a microwave/convection oven. Sure, it wasn't going to be great, but it would be ok. One of the apartments we had in Paris only had an oven like that, and I made Thanksgiving dinner on it. It was okay.

All made in a convection microwave oven. Except the drinks. And the plates. And the utensils. Everyone looks happy enough.

The day came, and Mr. A was freaking out over pumpkin pie. So that was the first thing I made. I was so excited to use the gigantic squash I found at the market. I made my own pie crust. It fell on the ground. I should have quit then. I'm stubborn. That's an irritating trait to have. So I kept on my fool's errand.

Meet Stinkytoes. We cannot dissuade her from that name. We call the cat Belle.

The pie was in the oven, and I was sitting downstairs with M, feeling quite full of myself. I am awesome, I thought. The electricity went out and came back on. I walked to the bakery to get a baguette. When I came back, I thought, Gee, that's funny. Why can't I smell pie? That sucks. That's most of the fun of baking a pie anyway. I climbed the stairs, and noticed the oven said 0:00. It's done already? The electrician jumped in front of the doorway, exclaiming, "I'm very sorry. I hope it wasn't ruined." The electricity. It went off. I had a pie in an electric box. That electric box went off when the electricity went off, and it did not come back on. The pie was mostly cooked. Mostly.

Because I am a wicked person, this sign makes my life. I imagine people infested with plague crawling out of their houses.

When I've decided I'm going to be in a good mood, it takes a lot to get me down. (Conversely, if I'm going to be in a bad mood, nothing will change that until I've decided I'm not going to be in a bad mood.) So this pie thing only made a minor dent in my optimism. I had other things to make!

But the kids had to be picked up from school. They were so excited about dinner. We walked inside, and the first words out of the electrician's mouth were: "We have a very serious problem. Very serious. Your wiring is faulty, and it's EDF's responsibility. This is very dangerous and is probably going to start a fire tonight if it's not taken care of immediately. You must call them and have them come NOW."

Out in front of our house. I like it.

I'll spare you the boring 4-hour wait for EDF. We gave the As their mostly cooked pie early. And we ended up at....the Chinese restaurant. It was a fairly quiet dinner. At least our wiring isn't going to kill us in our sleep now. Think positive.

Besides, there's always Christmas.

Are You Really Moving?

1. Yes.

2. No, really. Yes. In 7 days, actually.


In a nutshell, M and I were talking a few months ago, and he said he'd really like to go back to France. We mulled over the idea of moving back to Paris, and I even contacted a few agencies in the city about places in the 11th and 19th. Then I happened to look at rentals in Normandy, and I realized it was possible to get a house (a HOUSE) for €500 a month. It was only a short leap to looking at fixer uppers.

We bought this car. Yes, it's hideous, but it runs well, and until you find a car for £600, mouth = shut.

"Too bad we can't just buy a house," I told M.

Too bad, indeed.

Enter an interesting conversation over a drive back from Scotland with someone who is in the same boat.

Oddly enough, crying children don't make for fun camping trips.

I came home from Scotland and said to M, "Let's try to do this." I think he has just given up on rationality where I'm concerned, so he just sort of shrugged and nodded. I started researching furiously, and came across the Poitou-Charentes region, and a highly recommended estate agency with all sorts of decaying houses. I was sold.

So we planned a trip to the village, Confolens, to look at a few properties. We really didn't know what we were walking into. As it happened, THIS is what we were walking into:


Well. That certainly needs a bit of work. So we kept looking. The third house we viewed needed work. I'm not going to lie. . .it does need a lot of work. But it was fun, and the village was cute, and it's cheap, so why not?

Why not, indeed.

So we put an offer on it. That offer was accepted, we put down our deposit, and the rest will work itself out.

I know you're probably at least mildly curious what we got ourselves into. So, without further ado, the Great Townhouse Wreck of Confolens:

Hint: It's the one with the green "Le Rasoir" shop. That's ours, too!

Not so bad from the outside. . .And the shop is in pretty decent condition. We're going to convert it into a living room/guest room.


The shop area even has its own toilet, which we're going to convert into a bathroom. It, erm, needs a little work. Because right now, it sort of looks like a toilet for dead people.


But that's ok, because there is a fully functioning bathroom upstairs. Isn't it lovely? Just look at that wallpaper!


But the bones are pretty good, and there is a lot of potential.


Alex gets his own room, which is huge. . .


And Ava gets her own room, which is not so huge. . .


They even get their own bathroom, which isn't really much of anything yet.


Best of all. . .we have a gigantic attic! It's going to be a playroom! When it doesn't look like a breeding ground for tetanus, of course.

That's only half of it.

Are we crazy? No, that's silly.

That would be the other half.

For all of this grand luxury, we're paying a total of €200/month, or about $275, including property taxes.

I'm told this is a kitchen. I have my doubts.

Yes, it's a bit random, I guess. I'm sure it seems unexpected. But if you think we're going into this blindly. . .well, then you don't know me very well. ;)

So the third evolution of the never-updated blog is taking place. Now you get to come along as we fix up our house in France and I commute back and forth to London pretty much so once a month (for less than a monthly tube pass). Questions? :)

The One Where M Broke Mr. A's New Bike

For Mr. A's birthday last month, he got a new bike. After continuous comments for the better part of six months about how great a new bike would be, he was beyond excited to have finally gotten what he wanted.

After a few weeks, being able to ride the bike around the courtyard wasn't good enough. He started begging to be able to ride it to school. "How are you going to do that?" I asked. "I can think of a hundred things I'd rather do than run behind your bike, trying to keep up."


"You can get a bike, too," he said. Point taken. And I probably will, but who knows when that will be. Probably late one night in December, when I'm overtaken by some sort of manic urges to buy something. Or next month, when my travel card expires. But we'll see if I feel like riding a bike around then. In any case, I told him I'd think about getting one next month with the money I saved by not buying a travel card.


One morning, M decided to be nice to me by letting me sleep in and taking Mr. A to school. Mini-Minion wasn't having any of that, and she woke up as soon as they walked out the door. So I was curled up on the couch working when M came rushing into the sitting room.


"You're never going to believe what happened," he said. "I was riding Alex's bike back from his school, and--"

"What?" I asked.

He sort of waved me off, as if I had just asked the dumbest question. Of course it's perfectly normal to be riding a child's bike. :/



"I let him ride it to school, and I had to get it home somehow," he said. Or he could have just chained it up and let Alex ride it home later.


"Whatever," he said. "So I was riding by Mortlake Road and Lower Richmond, and I had to get back up on the sidewalk. I lifted up on the handlebars, and I got the bike up, but the handlebars kept coming and lifted completely out of the tube. But I kept going and had nothing to steer with, so it looked like one of those cartoons when they rip the steering wheel out of the car. I almost crashed into the brick wall, but I got my feet down in time. The worst part is, there were two workmen and a long line of cars down Lower Richmond who saw everything."


"I sat back down, but the bike seat was twisted 90 degrees, and I don't even know how that happened," he continued. "When I readjusted the bike and turned it around on the path, the tube inside the tire completely popped, so I had to carry the bike home. I turned to the workers and said, 'Wow, that could have been really bad.' One of them said, 'Yeah, it could have. Mate, I think that's a child's bike, and you're too big for it.'"

Blank stare.


"You broke his bike?" I asked.

"Well, I'll fix it," he said, throwing up his hands and rolling his eyes in response to the terribly offensive suggestion I didn't make.


"Yeah, but you broke his bike because you were popping wheelies on it when you probably shouldn't have been sitting on it at all," I said. "Just a hunch, but I don't think he's going to be thrilled about that."

"It was kind of funny," he said, "because my knees were practically to my chest while I peddled, so I'm sure I looked really stupid anyway."


I scrunched up my nose and turned my head to the side. "Maybe that should have been your first indication that you shouldn't have been riding it, yeah? The handlebars came out? Weren't you the one who put it together? Did you not tighten something?"

"Oh, I'm sure the problem is just that one of their parts sucks," he said. Of course. Totally logical conclusion to draw.


The afternoon came, and I was the one who had to pick up Alex from school. "Where's my bike?" he asked almost immediately. "Why didn't you bring it with you?"


"Ok, Alex," I said, "I'll be honest. Daddy broke your bike, but it's actually a really funny story, and when you hear it, I'm sure you'll think it's hilarious and you won't be mad anymore!" I sort of pumped my fists horizontally in the air to get him superwayjazzed about this fun and exciting story. Yeah! Your bike's broken, but your dad did it in such a stupid way, how can you not laugh?


The fact that in the end he actually did laugh about it should make his father eternally grateful that he has such a chill child.