La vie pirate et autres histoires de bretagne...
Day 2 of Piracy arrived with a celebration of DOM-TOM (Territoires et Dominions d'Outre Mer) -- i.e. former French colonies near to New Zealand and in the Caribbean. During a large-group language learning sketch the "Arrrrrr!" jokes came out, in French, and I collapsed to my bench and laughed and laughed and laughed and just couldn't help myself.
That's been happening a lot lately. Laughter from the bottom of my soul that bubbles up and leaves me "broken" and convulsing on the floor. It's a lovely feeling that causes much puzzlement in my campers and my fellow counselors. "Why is this so funny?" they all want to know. Often I can't begin to explain, but just shake my head and say, in the sage words of one Spaniard I know, "I'll tell you when you're older." or "Je te dirai quand tu est plus agee."
One of my campers with 6 years of CLV experience called me a "Swiss Army Mono" yesterday evening. I was styling hair, finding jewelry, applying eyeliner like a pro.
The camp nurse was thrilled to her socks to see me busily styling hair on the lawn during free time. She'd seen me a mere hour before in her office, cursing like a sailor, coated in bleach and shit because I had spent 2 hours with another counselor trying to unblock 4 difficult toilets (oh, septic system, how you cause me tears). She put up bio-hazard signs for me. *grin*
My cabin co-counselors are amazing. One is from West Africa, silent and sweet -- but she loves Amelie Nothomb and is working through my copy of Les Metaphysiques des Tubes (she'd read the inestimable Stupeurs et Tremblements). The other is like a blender version of my previous room mate and my best friend since forever. It's totally uncanny.
I confusedly asked my partner in crime for the day camp why I was a girl. I used to be such a big tomboy, I remarked, and I'd prefer to be in cargos and a t-shirt. We both concurred the the reason for our wardrobe issues (size of wardrobe is perhaps a more accurate way of putting it ... too big) and our copious amount of maquillage and hair styling product was a result of living in France.
I dressed as a post-modern punk goth princess for the dance. A bit of Chapel Perilous but with warm fuzzies. What did my campers call me? Avril Lavigne. There's no escaping that that girl has style BUT SHE TOOK BETSY MILLS AND MY STYLE! We we were wearing ties before she was cool in 1999! in 1998! ARgh! Then I had to stop for five years because every thought I was imitating Avril. *sigh* It was cute that she's the one they associate with a faux-gothique-lolita kind of style, though.
Confidential or not really to Sibyl and Miguel: I totally wore that silver - sequined tube top at the dance (though not to the dinner). Everyone loved it. It was the one you saved me from swap last October. It was perfect.
What did we rock out to for our best-est tekno dansing? Oh, Sandstorm. I knew it as DDR music, the rest of them thought high-euro-clubbing. And so we danced. The counselors have to dance to encourage the campers. Oops, like we need an excuse.
That's been happening a lot lately. Laughter from the bottom of my soul that bubbles up and leaves me "broken" and convulsing on the floor. It's a lovely feeling that causes much puzzlement in my campers and my fellow counselors. "Why is this so funny?" they all want to know. Often I can't begin to explain, but just shake my head and say, in the sage words of one Spaniard I know, "I'll tell you when you're older." or "Je te dirai quand tu est plus agee."
One of my campers with 6 years of CLV experience called me a "Swiss Army Mono" yesterday evening. I was styling hair, finding jewelry, applying eyeliner like a pro.
The camp nurse was thrilled to her socks to see me busily styling hair on the lawn during free time. She'd seen me a mere hour before in her office, cursing like a sailor, coated in bleach and shit because I had spent 2 hours with another counselor trying to unblock 4 difficult toilets (oh, septic system, how you cause me tears). She put up bio-hazard signs for me. *grin*
My cabin co-counselors are amazing. One is from West Africa, silent and sweet -- but she loves Amelie Nothomb and is working through my copy of Les Metaphysiques des Tubes (she'd read the inestimable Stupeurs et Tremblements). The other is like a blender version of my previous room mate and my best friend since forever. It's totally uncanny.
I confusedly asked my partner in crime for the day camp why I was a girl. I used to be such a big tomboy, I remarked, and I'd prefer to be in cargos and a t-shirt. We both concurred the the reason for our wardrobe issues (size of wardrobe is perhaps a more accurate way of putting it ... too big) and our copious amount of maquillage and hair styling product was a result of living in France.
I dressed as a post-modern punk goth princess for the dance. A bit of Chapel Perilous but with warm fuzzies. What did my campers call me? Avril Lavigne. There's no escaping that that girl has style BUT SHE TOOK BETSY MILLS AND MY STYLE! We we were wearing ties before she was cool in 1999! in 1998! ARgh! Then I had to stop for five years because every thought I was imitating Avril. *sigh* It was cute that she's the one they associate with a faux-gothique-lolita kind of style, though.
Confidential or not really to Sibyl and Miguel: I totally wore that silver - sequined tube top at the dance (though not to the dinner). Everyone loved it. It was the one you saved me from swap last October. It was perfect.
What did we rock out to for our best-est tekno dansing? Oh, Sandstorm. I knew it as DDR music, the rest of them thought high-euro-clubbing. And so we danced. The counselors have to dance to encourage the campers. Oops, like we need an excuse.
posted by Kari Stevenson @ 10:12 AM
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