The End of My Rope

 This is the closest I've come to throwing in the towel and leaving France behind. 

Everyone is healthy. No crises. It's my own personal Achilles heel that drives me to the edge, tempting me to put it all behind me and return to the States. 

Taxes. French taxes are  currently the bane of my existence, but only for about 12 more hours because they are due today. 

These horses aren't bothered by taxes. 

I realize I'm being unreasonable. I put off doing US taxes, but I got them done while we were visiting friends and family during our five week trip. And on Monday, May 17, the official tax day in the U.S. this year because of COVID, the government promptly removed the $5,400 we still owed in taxes. 

I didn't worry about French taxes, which I thought were due in June. Then I saw that they are actually due on May 26th. I'd better get moving. But since we don't have a tax number, we have to file a paper copy. The paper copy is due on May 20th. That's today!

I joined a Facebook group that helps English speakers figure out taxes, but truthfully, they could be speaking French or Bulgarian. The helpful files are called things like F2041E or IMPOTS deduction for pensions alimentaires. 

Earl and I jumped in our car and went to the tax office half an hour away. We were outside a few minutes later slightly stunned. The man was the most helpful federal worker I've ever run into in France or the US. He gave me two forms and a phone appointment, saying his colleague will call me Thursday at 3:30. 

My hopeful feelings died bit by bit as I struggled to understand where to put the numbers in the two forms I'm working on. I just get so agitated, either because it's about taxes, or money or budgeting, or my own inadequacies. Whatever it is -- I hate it. 

I went for a run this morning, hoping I'll be able to calm the beast within. Derrick is coming over to look at it with me, but really just to offer moral support. 

Whatever happens, I'll have a chance to ask a few questions this afternoon when the tax worker calls -- preparing for a telephone conversation in French, another stressor. 

I'll turn it in and see what the French government thinks. Then I'll start preparing for next year. Maybe we'll pay someone to do our taxes in France. 

What a Week

Today is a day for some deep breaths because this week has been a sprint, an emotional sprint anyway.
On Monday, Earl had knee surgery. They hoped to just do one of the three chambers of the knee, but when they began surgery they realized the entire knee needed to be replaced.
It kind of gives me the shivers to imagine a metal part in the knee. I don't know why.
We had to be at the hospital at 5 a.m. But at the last minute, we had two house showings, one at 10:30 a.m. and one at 12:30 p.m., so before we left early that morning, we had to prep the house, everything pristine, lights on, essential oils of peppermint and rosemary dripped onto light bulbs.
I stayed at the hospital until 7:30 a.m. Grace showed up to sit in the waiting room while I ran over to teach an hour and a half class. Then I rushed back in time to meet with the surgeon who explained that Earl had an entire new knee and that all had gone well.
Pshew! What a relief.
I hurried back to teach three more classes.
Grace and her boyfriend, Jack, headed home to make themselves presentable but then Grace got a call that Earl was awake. She returned to the hospital and spent time with him in post-op before he was moved to his room.
When I finished teaching, I arrived at the hospital to see Grace knitting in the corner of Earl's room.

Meanwhile, the entire time of waking up in the dark, preparing the house for the showing, I was worrying about Mom and Dad.
I knew that Hurricane Irma had passed over them during the night, might still be over their Florida home. They live in Central Florida, so aren't in danger of storm surges. They also are hesitant to get on the road with long streams of traffic sitting on the highway headed north, unsure of where they might be able to find gas again. Dad is 80 and Mom is 79 -- luckily, they are both healthy and active.

We had spent the past few days trying to determine the safest room in their house where they should shelter. In Florida, there aren't basements because of the high water table. And the houses are made with big expanses of windows to let the sunshine in.
Mom had taped the sliding glass doors that stretch the length of one wall.
As the sun set on Sunday evening, Mom had texted to my two brothers and me, "More wind and rain. Still have power. Don't know how much worse it will get. The next 10-13 hours will be stressful. Love."
And then, after I had crawled into bed Sunday night, ready for my early awakening on Monday, I received one more text from her: "No power now. Wind is really bad. Prayers."
It just had an ominous tone, like something you would read in a journal founds years later when an explorer didn't make it home.
So, even as I showered and prepped the house Monday morning at 4 a.m., I texted Mom that I didn't want to wake her, but I wanted to know that she was okay.
I don't guess they got very much sleep anyway. "We are still alive. Storm is horrible. Can't see damage yet. I'm in the laundry room. Dad in the recliner. More later."
I texted back, relieved and asked if the interior of the house was intact.
"I guess. Still blowing about 100 miles an hour and dark," she replied.
When the sun rose and the winds finally subsided, she could confirm that the house had held. Some gutters had blown off, including one into the top of a massive tree. The screens enclosing their swimming pool had blown out. Their yard was strewn with broken limbs. But they had made it.
When I talked with them later, they both voiced their concern during the night. They had ridden out other hurricanes in Florida, but this one was different.
"Did it sound like the roof was coming off?" I asked.
"It sounded like the whole second story was coming off," Dad said.
I urged them not to overdo it trying to clean up, but they did. They sent photos of the branches stacked in the front of their yard as they dragged them toward the street. They had no electricity from Sunday night through Friday. The thing they missed most was the air conditioning. That first day after the storm, there was a nice breeze, but then Florida's heat and humidity returned soaring into the 90s.
When I heard about the nursing home where eight people died of heat exhaustion, I called my parents again. Of course, they weren't hearing the news because they had no electricity.
Someone who had power back had loaned them a generator. They were able to hook up a fan to help keep them cool, plus they had the refrigerator plugged in to preserve some food.
When they got too hot, they climbed in the pool and spent time pulling leaves and twigs from the water.
Friday they got power back. Saturday, they were able to play a few holes of golf as the course across the street continued to clean up.
I'm thankful they weathered the storm without too much damage, but with a lot of stress.

Meanwhile, Earl spent two nights in the hospital. On Tuesday I didn't teach until the evening, so I stayed with him from 9-3, talking to doctors, nurses, therapists, social workers. He hoped to get out on Tuesday but his knee wound had too much drainage.
On Wednesday, I had to teach from 8-2, and Earl's cell phone had died. I got hold of him in between my classes. He told me he was in a lot of pain and the nurses were not being responsive. He waited over an hour and half for pain medicine. He needed to get up to use the bathroom but the nurse didn't show up for 30 minutes after his request.
I felt so bad, knowing I wasn't there to advocate for him.
Grace had planned to go, but she woke up with a sore throat and I didn't want her to spread her germs, or get any other germs, at the hospital. Both of my sons were working.
I sent out a message looking for a sub to take my classes so I could go to the hospital but didn't get a response.
I debated a list of people close enough and with a schedule to help out. Finally, I decided to ask Earl's sister. She's an occupational therapist, but she works a varied schedule. She had just finished a home visit and was on her way home to babysit her granddaughter, but her husband could do that. She went to the hospital and helped make sure Earl's needs were met.
The nurses and therapists told Earl he would have to stay another night because of the continued drainage. I ran home and got some things he needed before getting to the hospital at 2:30. As I walked through the parking lot, he called.
"They're letting me go home!" he said.
I turned around and returned the things I was carrying to the car.
So Earl came home Wednesday evening and he's doing really well. He has moved from the walker to using a cane. He's had visits from a home-health nurse and a physical therapist. The physical therapist says he's a couple of weeks ahead of where he should be.
When I went to teach on Friday, he ran the dishwasher and unloaded it. He's not supposed to be up and about that much, but he never has been good at sitting around.
We spent Saturday watching football and vacated the house for an hour for another showing, even though the house is technically off the market while Earl heals.
The pain was worse Saturday night, but I have to remember that it is not a straight line to healing but an ebb and flow with setbacks and great waves forward.
I'm grateful that he's getting better and just dream about the mountains we'll be climbing in France a few months down the road.

Christmas Complete

I'm not good at preparing -- preparing for parties, preparing for Christmas. I'm always stressed about it. Once a party or Christmas starts, I'm fine, but the prep makes me grumpy.
This year, between traveling to pick up kids in college and trying to throw a 75th birthday party for my mother, I was extra harried. Well, the party was cancelled due to a stomach virus that passed through my parents and brother's family, but we still got to celebrate Christmas.
I think this pic of the cat amidst the debris of Christmas summed it all up pretty well.

And the kids looked pretty satiated afterward too.

After we celebrated at home Christmas morning, we were headed to Earl's sister's house and there we would see little Caroline. I had planned to sew a princess dress for her, and Christmas morning it wasn't finished. Grace helped me put elastic in the puffy sleeves and I ironed, pinned and hemmed the dress as I watched the clock tick past the time we were to arrive. Earl and the boys went on without us as I continued to work on the dress. Finally, we finished and, although it's far from perfect, Caroline loved it.

Hope your Christmas was magical and created many fond memories, like mine did.

Teetering Ego

I'm in the middle of a perfect storm -- for me. A triage of circumstances have gathered to increase my stress.
The first prong in my perfect storm consists of being annoyed and snapping at everyone -- friends, family, students. I'm beginning to suspect menopause, although I haven't had any of the other outward physical signs.
The second edge to my perfect storm comes from the fact that I can't run right now. Running is obviously a stress reliever.

The third corner to my triangle of stress comes from watching a second kid getting ready to go to college -- but it isn't the departure that worries me; it's the bills that have already started piling up -- senior pictures, senior grad party, college deposit, college payments. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I have to avoid thinking about money or I'll never get back to sleep.
I'm so vulnerable right now to falling over the precipice, that when I received an observation report from work, I didn't open it. I just feel like any "constructive criticism" might be too much for me. I'll wait til I'm in a better place.
So, already feeling at risk, I opened my email yesterday and found a rejection from an agent. Gulp. But this was such a positive rejection. (Is that possible?) Here's the part that assuaged my prickly emotions:

You appear to be a talented writer and I admire the dedication and energy I could sense from your letter.

And this was just a query letter, not even my novel. Yes, in the end she didn't accept my novel, but I appreciate that she took the time to build me up a little first.
I got another ego-building email from a man I met at the writing conference this weekend. My husband would probably say I'm naive and the guy was flirting with me, but I like to think his flattery was genuine.
As we ate lunch at the writing conference, he told me he was a retired psychologist and wrote thrillers. He asked for advice on query letters -- those are letters that writers send to agents seeking representation. I told him I had some notes from a previous conference that I would send him, so he gave me his email. After I sent the information, he emailed back a thanks along with these kind words:

I hope you get to do a pitch face-to-face; you come across so great in person: winsome, so likeable, but quick-witted and assertive. I'm terribly curious about your book and wish you could write full-time!

I don't think I've ever been described as "winsome." It seems young -- like anything is possible. So maybe I'll forget about the whole menopause thing and concentrate on being winsome, even if it's only retired psychologists who think so.

Childish Adults

"I am the only adult on this campus!" Grace huffed into the phone today as she trekked across her college campus.
I'll have to agree that she was getting some pretty bad advice from the adults at her college. Grace has been struggling with class load and swim practices. She practices 15 hours a week. She had the sprained ankle and now has rotator cuff problems, plus a perpetual cold and sometimes fever in the cold, rainy weather where she has transplanted.
Her major is conservation biology, which requires taking a biology lecture class with a three hour lab and a peer component. They meet five times a week. She's struggling with the class, partially because of the math and the fact that she is not allowed to use a calculator. The instructors banned calculator use because they are so advanced that students can hide information in them and cheat on tests.
Today, Grace met with her advisor who isn't in the biology field. He's in the Communications department and is in charge of her performing arts "house." His wise suggestion: She should drop her biology major. He doesn't think she can swim and major in biology.
Then she had a meeting with the swim coach who had noticed she was struggling. I thought he might offer suggestions to help her deal with all the hours of practice, offer her some sympathy.
He wanted to know why she wasn't spending more time with the swim team when they aren't at practice. He thinks she has social issues. Truthfully, from the first night she got there, the swim team has been drinking heavily. Grace has chosen not to drink at college (Earl and I don't know where that came from, but we admire her decision.)
Grace did not rat out the partying swim team members, including the fact that the 21-year-old captain collects money from the younger students and buys them alcohol. His ultimatum, commit 100 percent to the swim team. Start hanging out with the swim team members.
So that's what she got from the adults in her life today: Drop the major that you have planned on for years and start hanging out with people who get falling-down drunk every weekend.
Grace may change her major before the end of college, but it seems like a choice between spending more time studying or more time swimming should be directed to the academic side.
Neither biology nor swimming are making her very happy any more. She gave up playing on the Quidditch team. She just dropped swing dancing. She may not get to travel to the Rally for Sanity in Washington, D.C. Biology and swimming are asking a lot from her.
What does make her happy these days? Her crazy performing arts friends who sing, dance and laugh. Learning how to do makeup and costumes at the theater, including some pretty cool stick-on wounds.

Chewing My Leg Off to Escape...

I knew I might be hitting a wall when I woke up several times last night and went over what I should have said, what I should have emailed to the unsupportive dean, to the complaining student, to the full-time faculty member who stood me up for a meeting.
When work begins to infiltrate my sleep, it may be time to bail. I feel like I'm stuck though.
The University where I teach pays by contract. I get one pay check two weeks after the end of the 8-week session. My thought was that this would be a good way to save for college. Big checks that could be squirreled away for college. I'm not sure how much longer I can last.
Thanksgiving interrupted our class and things have been in turmoil. I've caught three students plagiarizing. The one immediately began to revise his ways. The other two, originally from Africa and with a bit of a language barrier, looked at me blankly. Yes, they submitted their essays to turnitin.com and it shows that 89% of the essay was not their work. Was there a problem with that? One went back and put 89% of his essay in quotation marks. Would that work? Not so much.
Then I had the student who sat through class with his arms folded across his chest and refused to join in any group activities. When I asked the students to evaluate their peer reviewers, he ended with the comment: "But what do I know? According to you, NOTHING." So now I'm afraid he's going to bring a gun into class and shoot us all down, especially me.
Last week, after class, about eight students waited for me to complain about the grades they'd gotten on their evaluative essays. Most of them had the same problem they had gone off topic. Rather than evaluating the articles, they ventured into their own lives. One student in particular (OCD) said, "I am very concerned about this class."
Now, I'm thinking, okay the class has jumped the shark. But I asked: "What do you mean exactly? That you're worried about your grade?"
"Well... yes," she said.
Oh, well. That's different. I explained again why she received the B rather than an A. Then yesterday, I had an email from the Dean and from a "Success Counselor" asking about her grades.
The grades are posted online. She can just click on it any time and see that she has 90% in class, which is an A. In this college, an A is an A, whether it's 99% or 90%. What about learning something? Does anyone care about that any more?
Meanwhile, I've spent the past three weeks working on a new training course that takes about five hours of work per week. I still have the final "exam" to take which is scheduled to take two and a half hours. I haven't even had time to think about grading finals for the other college where grades are due Monday.
I set up an appointment at the "University" with a full-time faculty member to discuss the plagiarism issue. I drove the 15 minutes to campus and she wasn't there. Knock, knock, knock. Nothing. I left a snarky note then found another faculty person to talk to about my frustrations. She told me another adjunct teacher had left, saying he couldn't put in the amount of hours they needed. His time was worth more.
I wonder now if my time is worth more. I know what the "University" is offering and it's my choice to accept it and shut up, or quit. I plan to avoid rash decisions while I am so stressed. I'm going to focus on getting all of my papers graded and giving a little speech in class tonight about the value of what they are learning. Then I may visit the Columbus Zoo and Aquarium because aquariums are supposed to lower the blood pressure, and I may need it.