Jobhunt Update

I have an interview tomorrow at 11 AM to teach 5-year-olds. Please lift up a prayer...

Fortunately, the weather is cooler now so maybe I won't sweat too much tomorrow in my "business" clothes!

Weather forecast

Toulouse sits in a basin with little to no wind, and at 36° celsius (96.8° fahrenheit) today, I don't think it's comparable to 96.8° on a beach in California!

I'm going to call the headmistress of this school I mentioned, and I am sweating bullets.

Bad news on the job front

I didn't get the job at the language institute, but at least they gave me feedback as to why they turned me down. The director said I needed some sort of training in education, such as the Teaching English as a Foreign Language or some other license for teaching adults. The funny thing was that she also said she might be able to hire me in September, independently of the additional training. So I question slightly how important the training is, as opposed to how much they actually have need of me. Perhaps like the other language institute, which went so far as to train me, they stockpile cv's for a rainy day. In other words if they don't have enough teachers one day, I might hear from them just so they don't have to refuse students.

Oh well.

There is a part of me that feels maybe I should stick to what I know. Maybe I should learn French to the degree I need to so that I can go back to work in an industry that better suits my experience.

There is still the other teaching position I've been recommended for, but now I'm not so sure I should bother. It involves teaching five-year-olds. I don't know a thing about how to teach English to a five year old. If they ask about experience, I can only stutter along in my bad French that I volunteered to tutor eight year olds for a season, nine years ago. Should I call the school anyway, and potentially make my friend look silly for recommending me? I think not. I'll let her know my doubts and see what she says.

When it rains, it pours

Yesterday I received word from one of the many language institutes I applied to, asking for an interview. It's tomorrow morning. I am hoping the interview will be in English. What if it's not? Eeek! I should memorize some key phrases in French so I don't sound like a total idiot.

Oddly enough, just this morning I heard of another potential job. A friend who works 7 hours a week as an English teacher in primary school told me she is taking a very long holiday (did she actually say 7 months?) and wants to put me forward as her replacement. If all goes well at the interview, it would start in September.

Is God trying to tell me that the waiting time is over, and I'm now ready to go back to work? I don't know, but I will soon find about.

"Chômage": Officially Unemployed

My husband always seems to need something in his life that causes him stress. One day it might be his health. Next day, the finances. Day after that, our two-year-old son's oddly concentric scribble patterns. One recurring stress is his job security. Sure, job security is a common worry because of the economic crisis. But it's all the more precarious since we've pulled up roots and moved to another country, using up most of our savings, and also since Hubbie pulled a career change out of his hat, in the middle of it all.

So in my effort to alleviate some of Hubbie's stress, or at least one of the excuses for it, and to offer a bit more financial security -- and let's face it, I have to go back to work eventually, as no one is going to pay me to write -- I resolved myself to finding a job. I started with English language institutes and universities. Then I tried Catholic schools. My lack of teaching experience/credentials wasn't helping. After a month or two of not-very-committed jobhunting, I also enrolled in the government unemployment program (aka the Pôle Emploi).

When I met another American woman who told me the Pôle Emploi gave her free French courses at a local university, I realized it would be a wonderful opportunity to fill in the gaps in my French (which were many) before I got back into the working world. I actually started to see the bright side in declaring myself unemployed.

After enrolling online, I received in the mail a convocation, or an appointment, at the Pôle Emploi. In preparation for the appointment, Hubbie ran through all the most horrible scenarios that could occur on that day, starting from a long wait to the arrogance stereotypically inherent to government workers, to blatant racism. So the big day came when I had to present myself. I did my hair and actually ironed a shirt for it. Hubbie dropped me off in front of the office on his way to work because it was in the middle of nowhere. Lulu in the meantime stayed with a neighbour.

Upon meeting the first consultant, which was only after a 5-minute wait, I was told I could not claim unemployment benefits (ie., I didn't have the right to get government payments) because I had never worked in France. The man who was telling me this was young and appeared very bored. He made it clear that if I could find a job for EVEN ONE DAY in France, I could "touch" money from the state, as I was made redundant in another European Union country. I would have to work only one day in France to get paid a portion of what I was paid in England? Well that was still good news in my book. God bless la France! I envisioned a one-day assignment at my local 8A8 (like a Seven-11 in so-Cal, or a Costcutter in London) and smiled.

Then he sent me back to the waiting room and I waited another 5 minutes for the next consultant, who would deal with the jobhunt -- eg., which job I wanted, where and for what pay. It turned out to be a woman who liked to make jokes. The problem was, I understood all of her jokes, or at least I laughed at the right times, which made her think I had a satisfactory level of French. So all my hopes and dreams of getting a free French course out of the government were literally laughed out of the equation. I couldn't even object, because my French was not good enough to.

So she gave me another convocation to meet with a career counselor-type person. After two weeks (there are a lot of holidays in May) came the appointment. I put Lulu in the garderie, took the metro, crossed a cemetery and walked up a very steep hill until I found the shoddy gray apartment building, on the ground floor of which, between bushes of weeds, peeked the office of the career counselor. I wondered if it was worth putting on my high heels, which I had carried in my bag for the whole journey.

I did, and I opened the door and walked into a shoebox.

Thankfully, this career counselor saw right away that I understood nothing she was saying. Maybe my constant look of bewilderment helped. One thing I did understand: I had achieved a good level in my career and my French would hinder me from getting a comparable position, or anywhere near it -- is what I think she said. She emailed the person I spoke to at the Pôle Emploi, saying that I had not mastered the language and that I needed to be put on a course. She gave me the email address of the person I spoke to, and told me to chase her as soon as I got home. What a relief! I have a chance to get my French in order after all! I have not heard back from anyone yet. But I do have an email address, and if I have to, I will abuse it.

If you're happy and you know it...

What is our 23-month old son Lulu doing these days?

Motor skills:
- he taught himself how to skip a couple months ago
- he likes to climb up and down the ladder at the playground, rather than go down the slide
- but he still loves the slide, which he calls "bagon" (short for toboggan). He should actually say Boggan for short, but early on I incorrectly taught it to him as "tobAgon".
- he dangles himself from any bar he can reach, and he swings like a monkey
- he tries to somersault but falls to the side
- we have started potty training (kaka only), because he can't enter preschool in September unless he is propre (clean)

Eccentricities:
- he likes to rub the nub in the middle of his upper lip, when he is thinking, daydreaming or falling asleep
- he often comes to me while I am cooking/washing up and tells me something in a strange gibberish-language, with few recognizable words, and laughs hysterically at what he said. It's hard not to laugh with him.
- he loves to pretend to make tea and coffee and make me "drink" it, and to cook, as he says, "poisson" (fish)
- he blows on his pretend food and drink before I taste it and says chaud (hot)
- while pretending to use the phone, he says the names of everyone in Hubbie's family, his favourite being Memere Monique

Food and Drink:
- Lulu still uses a sippy cup
- he likes his milk warm and his juice watered down
- his favourite food is poisson (fish), as cooked by his Papie Dèdè (grandpa)
- he loves kiwi fruit and strawberries, and in the winter he loved litchi but he struggled to digest them
- when he is tired, he is more likely to play with his food and put it in his hair. Hubbie and I have a drill now for when that happens: We pull his chair away from the table, I grab a hand, he grabs a hand, and we hope there are paper towels nearby.
- he reeeeeally likes Maman's moroccon tagine -- yay! (anytime he can eat what we're eating, it's a big win)

Sleep patterns:
- Lulu takes a two hour-nap after lunch
- he sleeps about 11 hours at night
- he likes to have his Lumilove Panda near him at night
- we play Bach concertos for him whenever he sleeps; but if he doesn't want it he says, "No tiano" (piano), in which case he gets soothing French comptines (like lullabies)

Eating my words

A popular question I used to ask people was whether they lived to eat, or ate to live. Ie., is eating pleasurable for you? As a student, it was easy to answer that. If anyone else did the cooking (and of course, if it did not cost me much), eating was certainly pleasurable. Then as a young upwardly-mobile professional with expendable income, I found my answer becoming more and more a function of how good the chef was (because I always ate out or take-away or delivery). I still remember that era with fondness. My favourite delivery service in 2001 was Afghan House #5. Being single in New York and having neither the time nor inclination to cook, it was on my speed-dial. I comforted myself with the thought I might be keeping their business afloat (plausible, as this was just after 9/11).

After getting married to a Frenchman and having resolved to save money for the future, the question became a function of the taste-to-cost ratio. I have to admit, even if he had just thrown together what was left in the fridge, it seemed like everything Hubbie cooked turned out so very nice. After all, he was born and bred in la cuisine ! Okay okay, morelike in the same house as one. But me, on the other hand? In uni, I had been guilty of stealing my dorm-mates' food to survive because I (literally) couldn't cook to save my life. I was able to cook spaghetti bolognese, but you can't survive a semester on that. I was a one-dish wonder relying on students for food!

It's true, early in our marriage, I tried as much as possible not to cook. I tried to get Hubbie to cook all the meals because I hated cooking, and I hated what ended up on our plates when I was done.

It was only after I saw Hubbie cook a 4-course dinner for our friends, that cooking started to look interesting. And challenging. It looked so challenging that I swore I would never cook for guests. Especially not French guests.

You see, a 4-course meal takes a lot of preparation and timing. Two things I'm not good at. In the kitchen, Hubbie becomes a tornado (Tasmanian Devil-size), well before the guests arrive, and you don't want to get in his way. "What is he doing in there?" "Oh no, he's cursing at the sauce." It all appears to be going horribly wrong. But at the right time, out comes the steaming entrée, and it tastes divine. Then the main dish with a flourish, then the salad with a cheese platter, finally the pretty desserts in glass cups. And he still somehow finds time to follow the conversation and, well, to eat.

After the guests had gone home, Hubbie was typically pleased with his efforts and wanted me to critique his cooking. I marvel at his ability to watch the time and cook most things "live" during an evening. Cooking "live" means cooking the dish just before eating it, rather than simply re-heating something that he already cooked.

So I was inspired to learn, because I knew timing was not my thing and also to take some pressue off of Hubbie. What helped to a large degree were the British cooking shows on Saturday mornings. Yes, it's true! Through them I learned why some foods were better grilled than pan-fried, why you had to fold egg whites in rather than squash them in to a mixture, and just general basics. It was a brave new world of cooking that would bring me back to "live to eat" rather than "eat to live".

So I finally cooked for real French people a couple months ago. However, it was a bit of a cop-out because I cooked Moroccan food rather than anything close to French. I made a Harissa soup a la Nigella Lawson ahead of time and re-heated it for the starter. For the main, we had lamb tagine with apricots over couscous with an orange relish on the side. One of our guests brought a galette for dessert, to my relief, so it wasn't in fact a 4-course show, or even a 3-course one for that matter. But it was a start, and now I've had to eat my words.