Carol Callicotte

Author

Way to go So Cal! September 3, 2008

Filed under: Reading,So Cal — A French American Life @ 6:47 pm
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According to this month’s issue of California Westways, the magazine put out by AAA, Southern California is the number one book-buying market in the country. I guess that means we are more than just a bunch of dim wit surfer dudes and valley girls. We READ! The magazine doesn’t list its source, but I’ll just take their word for it. Who needs sources to prove that So Cal kicks ass? Boo-yah!

 

Can’t you read!? August 6, 2008

Filed under: Completely Off Topic,Crap — A French American Life @ 6:49 pm
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doggy

Supposedly, a picture speaks a thousand words, but this one, smack dab in the middle of our front lawn, apparently isn’t saying anything.  I just walked out to the smell of sun-ripened canine excrement, boldly laid at the base of this sign.  I’m about two stiff drinks away from turning into the neighborhood psycho, lurking behind my curtains and waiting for this miscreant pet owner to stroll by and pull the ol’ “I didn’t see anything” while his dog does his thing on my lawn.  Who does this?  Doesn’t anyone read Miss Manners anymore?

Actually, the French do it all the time.  You don’t actually walk down a street in France, you dodge all the merde.  But this is America, dammit, and we’re supposed to clean up after our own dogs.  Or you are, evil neighbor.  Beware, sloppy stranger, you have incurred my wrath one time too many.  And I put extra tequila in my margaritas tonight.

 

Something fun

Filed under: For Writers,Funny stuff,Writing,Writing World — A French American Life @ 6:02 pm
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I just came across this hilarious post on how writing a book is like falling in, and then out, of love.  Check it out!

http://libba-bray.livejournal.com/36896.html

 

My Most Recent Trip to France, AKA the Rose Colored Glass Wiped Clean July 25, 2008

Filed under: France,Travel — A French American Life @ 8:26 pm
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I’m back in San Diego after a five week stint in the south of France.  As some of you may know, I’ve spent a lot of time in France, and have devoted much time and effort to mastering the unmasterable french language.  This recent trip was a test for us.  Exam question:  Do we want to move to France?  Answer:  The jury is still out.


France, for me, particularly the south, has long been an idyllic escape, a locale I can long for when I’m away.  After all the time I’ve spent there, I still idealize the place, even if it means subconsciously denying its imperfections.


There is such joy in being in a foreign country – new sights, smells, sounds.  But part of that joy comes from not knowing what exists in its dirty underbelly.  In seeing only the glamorous parts meant for the tourist’s amazed eyes, and not having to deal with the day to day aspects of living there.  And part of that joy also comes from not knowing what is being said around you.


One afternoon, after hitting the beach, I was absolutely overheated.  On my walk home past the chic private beaches and touristy shops that spilled their postcards, film (people still buy film?), beach towels, and bikinis onto the sidewalk, I didn’t pass one of the many ice cream shops.  Instead, I stopped for some of that devine delicacy, a gob of gastronomic goodness, a jolt of gelato, yes – bliss on a baked waffle cone.  I got chocolate – chockfull of chocolaty cheer.  I’m a purist.  I’ll make no apologies.


As I walked away with my temporary treasure, it of course began to melt, so I stopped in front of a shop window to eat some of it and ensure that I didn’t arrive home covered in telling chocolate drips.  An older man, short and stocky with a genial smile, walked by and said something to me.  It took a minute to process what he had said, so enraptured was I in waffle cone wonderland. So, for a brief moment, I existed in that blissfully unaware state that always occurs when I’m traveling in a country where I don’t speak the language.  I saw a sweet little old local, probably flirting with me judging by the way he was smiling, or perhaps recommending a pair of shoes from the window I was absently eyeing.  He stopped to watch me, and then my brain finally processed what he’d said:


“You’ll get fat if you keep eating like that.”


Jackass.  I liked you better when I had no clue what you were saying.


Snappy comebacks aren’t my forté – they come to me later in numbers, hence the characters I write are witty geniuses, I’m sure.  When offended, I revert to a wordless, helpless little girl.


But perhaps my actions in that moment spoke louder than words.  I shrugged and took another big lick.  Did that translate, monsieur?