Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Christmas Eve Eve

Do you hear what I hear? It's the magical sound of espresso beans whirling around machines in Dublin Starbucks as they await my arrival. And if you listen really closely, you'll also here the cocktail shakers being chilled in preparation for my martinis at the Octagon Bar (Bonjour Bono... make ready my bar stool).

Tomorrow we are off to Dublin to spend nine glorious days surrounded by English speakers where I can let my brain get all lazy as I turn off my internal translator. And as for speaking English, well I don't plan on shutting up at all. I'm going to talk, talk, talk. Plus I'll be aided by copious amounts of Gingerbread Lattes to help me on my chatterbox quest (Christmas in a cup... yum!). I'm sure for my family Christmas 2010 will forever be remembered as, 'that Christmas where Sara never shut up.' How very lucky for them.

Today I'm packing the suitcases, making the rounds to Le Villagers dropping off Rice Krispie Treats (this Christmas, I'm giving a taste of America), and saying au revoir to Le Petit Village...

{La Petite Notre Dame}

Because soon I'll be saying bonjour to Dublin...


Holiday wishes and kisses

 from The Husband, Fifty, and me.

See you next year! 

bisou

 

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

It's A Cheese Cheese Cheese World

I'm talking about cheese again. But it's not my fault. I live in a country with about 400 cheeses. We're all about the cheese here. This is what happened...

Friday morning we awoke to a snowy icy village. Too much snow and ice for The Husband to drive to work (the roads in and out of Le Petit Village can get real bad, real quick, and don't get salted). Snow day. Now last year The Husband had a snow day, and since that one drove me batty, I learned my lesson. I had a plan; as soon as The Husband starts to go stir crazy (which he will) get him out of the house.

The Husband was stir crazy by 8:30 (it doesn't take long). Time to put my plan into motion; I steered him in the direction of Honey Jr's next door (pretty good plan, no?). A few minutes later The Husband returned with his own plan. Brother-in-Law was also at Honey Jr's (I'm guessing he was stir crazy too and Child Bride and I have the same plan). The three of them put their boy heads together and decided that a snow day should be celebrated. And it should be celebrated with cheese. That's right, cheese. We celebrated our snow day with not only a Raclette, but Fondue too.

Fondue and Raclette? 
It's insanity I know! 
Here's me all bundled up with my bag of goodies. 
It's off to Brother-in-Law's I go. 
(That was a poem. Sort of)


On the walk past the snowy war memorial, 
I bumped into Fifty's girlfriend, Vicky, and stopped to say bonjour

 

We arrived at Brother-in-Law's, shed all the layers, and settled in for the cheesy cheese madness. 

Honey Jr toasted...


The Husband and Child Bride ate. A lot. 
Child Bride's La Petite is becoming 
a serious rival to The Husband's Food Whore.   

 

{half baked}

We drank some homemade pear digestif to burn through all that cheese. 

 

All the while chaperoned by Professor Python.

{he's not really a professor}

T.G.I.C.

(Thank God It's Cheeseday)

bisou

 

Sunday, December 19, 2010

chez husband


Because sometimes you have to put your husband on a Time Out.  


bisou

 

Friday, December 17, 2010

itchy feet

"And just out of curiosity, are you Irish or American who just lived in Ireland for a while?" Good question Shorty. It's probably confusing sometimes times with all my New York, Boston, Texas, Dublin talk. And to be honest, sometimes The Husband gets confused too and he tells people that I'm Irish and this gets on my wick because no I'm not, I'm American.

So I'm going to try to unmuddle everything. And this is great for me because it has been a slow week in Le Petit Village with nothing much to report (except; Monday night The Husband saw a dog get hit by a car, and then on Tuesday night he hit a deer. The Husband has needed a lot of cuddles this week). So unmuddle I will do. And there may or may not be a quiz later.
(There won't be a quiz. I don't believe in quizzes on Fridays)

Let's see... where to begin... to quote the Sound of Music (because that seems like a Christmasy thing to do) "Let's start at the very beginning. A very good place to start"... My mother. My born in Dublin, Irish mother hightailed it to NYC as quickly as her little eighteen year old legs could carry her (It should be noted that she didn't actually run to NYC, she flew, and also  technically she moved to New Jersey, but as soon as the Au Pair gig ended, it was nothing but the Big Apple for her).

And it was there in the Big Apple on a hot summer night she met my Massachusetts daddy. Two weeks later they were engaged and four weeks after that they got married. My mother with flowers in her hair and a white lace mini while Hey Jude played in the background. It was all very peace and love wasn't it? For the record, if I was to get engaged after two weeks and married after six I'd be in serious trouble and probably grounded no matter how old I was. (But like Mom, I did get married in a mini).

And then on a cold February day, I made my debut into the world in the glorious city of New York. Because I guess I figured if I could make it there I could make it anywhere. And I grew up in NY until one day, while looking out over Manhattan through the window of my mother's office on 5th and 42nd (an address that really might as well be the center of the universe) my mother uttered these crazy words, "We're moving to Texas." 
Hold up... What? As visions of cowboys and tumbleweeds rolled through my NY head.

So Mom and I moved to Texas and Dad stayed in NY and then the D I V O R C E happened. And then I flip flopped back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until the college years where I figured out that the stars at night, truly are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas so I'd decided to stay put.

And stay put I did, until my feet started to feel itchy and I wondered what else was out there in the big wide world. And I thought that maybe my mother who had returned to Dublin shouldn't be there unsupervised because lord only knows what kind of scraps she could get into, or maybe she was lonely and would really like my company (for the record she wasn't and she didn't) and so I sold my Cherokee, packed some trunks and away I went to the land of Leprechauns.

Meanwhile my Dad's feet had gotten itchy too, and he scratched them all they way back to Massachusetts, and then he met my step-mom. So he returned to his roots and now I'm always looking for cheap plane tickets to Boston. Because sometimes, a girl misses her daddy.

And it was in Dublin's fair city that I met The Husband and voila... now I'm in France. (One day I swear I'll post the story of how we met). So to sum up and cover all the places bases... Dad is in Massachusetts, my childhood belongs to NY, lots of my stuff sits in storage in Texas, I'm in France and Mom is in Dublin. Until next month when she moves back to Texas.

It's those damn itchy feet.

bisou

 

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Santa Baby...

Because I've been an awful good girl;

I'd like a bathtub. If I'm going to be picky about it, I'd like a huge claw foot tub with a chandelier overhead Mariah Carey style, but I'll take a regular old bathtub too. Just someplace where I can relax in bubbles and soak my tootsies.

My stuff out of storage in Texas and here with me would be nice as well. (I am planning on doing this myself sometime next year, but it would be really great if it kind of just teleported here on it's own. And preferably in time for Xmas so I can decorate with my Santa Claus collection).
And the bonus of not seeing my stuff for seven years; it will be like getting all new stuff. Except the stuff will be dusty and grimy. (Note to self, have multiple packs of cleaning wipes on hand while unpacking).

I'd like plane tickets from Nice to Boston to be really cheap (like really cheap) during the first three months of 2011. I promised my dad I'd be back by then and I really don't want to break that promise.

More, more, and more French lessons with my tutor Sophie. I'm thinking of calling her Annie Sullivan*, because she's a miracle worker.
*Helen Keller's teacher.

Because sometimes you need a Lifetime movie day, I'd like to turn on the TV and have Lifetime and Hallmark movies waiting for my viewing pleasure (in English please). They were always my lazy indulgence, to be watched alone. Preferably on the couch, under a blanket, while stuffing my face with ruffled chips and french onion dip (and here's a thought... you'd think I'd be up to my neck in french onion dip since I'm in France and all, but nope, none is sight... sometimes life is confusing).

The next time I'm grocery shopping at Hyper U, Intermarche, or E.Leclerc, I'd like for the store to magically transform into Whole Foods.
I MISS WHOLE FOODS.

And here's something feasible I'd like; The Top Chef Cookbook  (Hey Husband... are you reading this? hint hint)

A little bit more will power to put down the damn baguette, croissants, and cheese would be great too Santa. Just because The Husband comes home with those Nutella stuffed doughnuts doesn't mean I have to eat ALL of them.

Santa, we've already talked about the whole Starbucks thing and I'm still waiting. I appreciate that you put one in Marseille (I know that was for me so thanks) but it's not like Marseille is a hop, skip, and a jump.

And finally, I'd like a bun in the oven.

Thank you Santa

bisou

Monday, December 13, 2010

Sunday is Cheeseday

Just as last Sunday I was stuffing myself with the wonderful gooey goodness of the Raclette, yesterday we indulged in cheese again, but this time in the form of the Fondue.

Clermont was playing Leinster in Rugby. And since The Husband's home team was playing my Dublin team we had to do something. Melting cheese seemed like the right thing to do. Voila... Fondue.
(And when is melting cheese not the right thing to do?)

But because I am without a fondue pot and Honey Jr is not, he scored an invitation to our teeny tiny fondue party. Plus he's a wonderful distraction for Fifty. In Fifty's eyes, Honey Jr is a big bonbon.

Emmental, Comté, and Beaufort cheeses were shredded into the pot, with a bit of flour, a pinch of paprika, and a glug of wine and then stirred stirred and stirred until it all blended together into deliciousness. Then a bit of baguette is stuck on the end of the fondue fork and dipped into the pot until covered and dripping with cheese.

 
{before and after dipping}

We cheered on the rugby sipping beer and dipping the bread until no more dipping could be done. Well except for The Husband. The Husband does not get full as quickly (RE: Food Whore). And because subtlety is not his forté, he picked up the pot and ditched the fondue fork.

{me like food}

Which totally reminded me of another adorable Food Whore...


But at least The Husband is wearing pants. 

bisou


Saturday, December 11, 2010

I'm Scared of Le Père Fouettard

In two weeks it will be Christmas. The year has flown by so quickly, I can hardly believe that soon, The Husband and I will wake up at my mother's house on Christmas morning in Dublin, sit down to a full Irish breakfast (hint hint Mother) and then be off to celebrate the holiday with the family.

This time last year, I was preparing for my first Christmas in France. Out of curiosity, I googled French Christmas traditions and this is what I found out (it's kinda scary).

(originally titled Nothing Says Christmas Like a Flogging and posted 15.12.09)
................................................................................................................

OK, this is weird. I was doing a little reading about French Christmas traditions. Figure since I'm here, might as well find out the happenings of the holiday, French style. And there is no use asking The Boyfriend, he is useless at relaying this kind of information.

Anyhoo...

In France, Santa Clause is Père Noël, nothing strange there, but Père Noël has a partner, and it's not Rudolph. It's an evil man named...dun dun dun....
Le Père Fouettard!


(sounds a bit scary doesn't it, thought it needed that dun dun dun).

According to my sources, the ever reliable Wikipedia,  Le Père Fouettard was a guy who kidnapped three little boys, robbed them, killed them, and then chopped them up and put them in a stew.

Holy Reindeer Droppings! How the Fudge does this guy end up having anything to do with Sugar Plums and Mistletoe? Apparently, Jolly Ol' St. Nick some how discovered the crime (maybe when Le Père Fouettard's name was flashing in red lights all over the naughty list) and magically resurrected the children (nice tie in to J.C. there - it is his birthday after all). Le Père Fouettard ends up feeling bad and becomes St. Nick's partner and goes around with him on Christmas.

But get this, Le Père Fouettard doesn't become all full of holiday cheer like Ebeneezer Scrooge, he's still sinister, so instead of handing out pressies, he punishes all the naughty children instead. Usually with a good old fashioned flogging.

Nothing says Christmas like a flogging.

Safe to say, I'm usually a well behaved girl, but after reading about you know who (don't want to type his name again in case it has some sort of Beetlejuice effect) I'm going to be on my best behavior this holiday season.

Don't want you know who coming to town.

bisou

Thursday, December 9, 2010

wifi panic

This is the story of what happens when I wake up in the morning and discover that my Wifi is on the fritz. Upon realizing that I am cut off from the world I automatically say, "f*ck" in a breathy, exasperated whisper, while rubbing my barely awake face. I then discover that the Wifi has decided not to work on the same morning that I have run out of coffee. 6am, no internet, no coffee. Not a fun way to start the day. Obviously this is some sort of conspiracy and for the moment, I'm blaming Fifty. He's been ignoring me this morning anyway.

I make a cup of tea in place of my coffee and while sipping it, I mourn the loss of my tea making skills that I have obviously left in Dublin. And since the tea is not cutting it, I decide that I will have to go to the bar with my Starbucks to-go tumbler and have The Parisian pour two cafés au lait into it. He always looks at me like I'm an alien life form when I do this but I don't care, for a brief moment I can pretend that I'm in a Starbucks (it's a rather active imagination I have).

I turn on the television and the only thing on that looks even remotely interesting is a show called Enquêtes au Coeur d'une Prison de Femmes (investigations inside the heart of a womens prison). And then I ponder why morning television here is a little strange. Where in the world is Matt Lauer?

I reset the Wifi box every few minutes with my fingers crossed praying that it starts working before my French lesson this afternoon. (My lessons are via Skype, how Jetson-like is that?). And then I resign myself to the fact that I may end up cut off from the world for the day, and contemplate how much I can actually accomplish without the interference of the wonderful pesky internet to distract me.

But then I think; if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Like if a little American sits internetless in the middle of B.F.E. France, will anyone know that she's here? Anyone?

(Wifi came back on thirty minutes after I woke up. 

I can do a lot of panicking in thirty minutes)

bisou

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

I Heart Raclette

Let me tell you about my friend Raclette. Raclette is both a cheese and a party and it's all the rage in Switzerland, France, and probably loads of other countries too (because yeah, it's that good).

See, you take one of these grills...


And you put slices of Raclette cheese on the little plates inside until it's melted. When the cheese has melted to your desired level of gooeyiness, you scrape the cheese  on top of meats, potatoes, and any other goodness you'd like. Add some wine and voila... it's a party. Hence, Raclette Party.

Papa's Wife loves a Raclette, and when she phoned on Friday to invite us over on Sunday for her first Raclette of the season, I knew that she had been swept up in the Christmas spirit. And get this, besides partaking in the deliciousness that is the Raclette, Papa's Wife wanted us (us as in Brother-in-Law, Child Bride, The Husband, and me) to help build the little rock walls for her Christmas creche. RSVP yes thank you very much.

Raclette + Xmas creche building = holiday family fun time

So The Husband and I picked up Child Bride and headed over to Papa's House. Papa and Brother-in-law would be joining us later. After they killed a wild boar. Because apparently, Wild Boar Hunting > Raclette.

We were greeted by a smiling Papa's Wife and a table setup with all the Raclette goodness... meats, slices of the Raclette cheese; both natural and fumé, plump cherry tomatoes, potatoes, cornichons, pearl onions, and of course wine. I felt gleeful. I was picturing my stuffed self tipsily (but ever so deftly) constructing a mini Provencal rock wall for the creche. Like I said... holiday family fun time.

But then the Grinch that stole Christmas happened. Or more precisely; the Papa that stole my holiday family fun time happened. When Papa had heard that we were all to participate in the mini wall building, he threw a tantrum, and said that it was his favorite holiday thing to do and he wanted to do it all by himself. I guess Papa doesn't want to share his toys.
(OK, I don't know if he really threw a tantrum but it's fun for me to picture it in my head). I had to readjust my equation.

Raclette + wine = holiday family fun time 

And so we ate and ate and kept on eating. And Papa and Brother-in-Law hunted and hunted and kept on hunting. Which was really fine with me because I didn't want to share my food. (I was totally bogarting the chorizo).  

So the final math of this story is that four people (4 1/2 if we count la petite in Child Bride's belly) can eat Raclette for six. But I can't figure out that equation.

Math + Me ≠ Friends


And did you notice that I typed la petite and not le petit?

bisou


Sunday, December 5, 2010

Princess for the Day

{ho ho ho}

It started with this chocolate Santa. The Husband came home from the épicerie with it for me. So very sweet, but oh how I'd love him so much more if he was made of cheese instead (the chocolate Santa, not The Husband). And that brings up an important question; 
why are there no cheese Santas?

So The Husband came home with this chocolate Santa, which is like the sweetest thing ever, almost as sweet as when he came home with those Nutella stuffed doughnuts (Which he did again this week! I'm beginning to think The Husband likes his women a little on the pudgy side).  

And then he announced that he would be waiting on me for the day. I'm not sure why, or what for, he certainly wasn't in any sort of trouble (that I'm aware of) but if your husband tells you that you aren't going to have to lift a finger all day you kinda roll with it, no?

I became an island unto myself on the couch with my magazines while The Husband busied himself with the art of waiting on his lady (me). He started to make a fire, do this dishes, and make hot chocolate all at the same time. It was like the Tasmanian devil was whirling around my house. The path of destruction that was left in his wake was a thing of beauty

So what if the house smells like burned milk, Fifty has dish soap on his head (don't ask) and I had to find  'how to build a fire' instructions on ehow? 

I felt like a princess all day.

bisou


Thursday, December 2, 2010

my furry little angel

This very same weekend a year ago, The Husband and I set out to buy a Christmas tree and decorations. Somehow we found ourselves at the animal rescue center instead. 

Of course the rest is history. 

In honor of one year with Fifty, I'm re-posting the very first post I wrote about my furry little angel, when I was still oblivious to the amount of work that goes into raising a puppy. Before I became obsessive about vacuuming, thanks to his ever shedding fur. Before I knew the joys of coming home to a mangled appliance or de-stuffed cushion, or disemboweled stuffed animal. Before I began to question my sanity, because what type of crazy person gets a puppy in the beginning of December? Housebreaking a puppy in the dead of winter... poppycock!

It really was a lovely, innocent time.
..............................................................................................................

Something happened on our way to pick out a Christmas Tree...


...we picked up this little guy instead.

His name is Fifty, he's three months old, and he snores. Loudly.

And if you don't take him for a walk IMMEDIATELY after drinking water, he piddles.

And he likes to chew fingers.

But he's adorable and gives sweet sweet kisses so all that piddling and finger chewing is quickly forgiven.


And he's very smart.

He already understands 'NO' in two languages.
..............................................................................................................

And here we are a year later.

{I heart Clermont Rugby}

Fifty. 

Puppy child to The Husband and me.

Boyfriend to Vicky.

And BFF to Honey Jr.

We love you Fifty.

But this year I'm getting a Christmas tree.

bisou

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

more language barrier fun

I spent a deliciously lazy Saturday afternoon on the couch, sipping tea and reading The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest while The Husband watched Reportages on TF1 (it's kind of like a docu-feature kind of show).

I was doing an excellent job of blocking out all surround sounds when The Husband spoke and the language barrier fun began...

"This girl, she's a catcher."

Barely looking up from my book, "a what?"

"A catcher"

"Huh?" See, I wasn't really paying attention as I was pretty wrapped up in my book and my tea.

"A catcher" The Husband was getting more annoyed now.

"A catcher?"

"Oui!" With a little huff and puff popping out.

"You mean like in baseball?"

"No, like Hulk Hogan."

"You mean a wrestler."

"Yes, she's a wrestler."


It's all very exhausting around here.

(but funny)


bisou



P.S.  According to the ever reliable Wikipedia,  "Catch wrestling is a style of Folk wrestling that was developed and popularised in the late 19th century by the wrestlers of traveling carnivals." Huh. Interesting. I guess this is what The Husband was talking about.     

Monday, November 29, 2010

ode to skype

{disco Gayle}


10:00p.m. Texas


5:00a.m. Le Petit Village

bisou

 

Saturday, November 27, 2010

A Thanksgiving Miracle

{first snowfall}

A funny thing happened on Thanksgiving... it snowed!

There I was, in the middle of my French lesson (with my lovely, patient tutor Sophie), when I looked out the window and saw snow.

Holy Thanksgiving miracle!

And I felt happy. It was like the Thanksgiving Gods, Chief Massasoit and Pilgrim Winslow, perched at their big Thanksgiving table in the sky, looked down upon me and were sad that I was missing out on all the holiday fun. And since they weren't going to rain down turkeys and sweet potatoes (but how cool and yummy would that have been?), they blessed me with snow.
It was really nice of them wasn't it?

But then I felt bad. My friend Donkey has been minding the sheep and he probably wouldn't like the snow very much...

{Eeyore}


And of course the sheep might not like it either...



{knit me}

but at least they're wearing wool sweaters. 

bisou


 

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Talking Turkey

Today will be my seventh Thanksgiving outside of the U.S.
I love Thanksgiving. Of all the holidays, I love it the most. It's the warmest, happiest, fuzziest, fun time. And it's not wrapped in a big, red, commercial bow like Christmas. It's all about family, friends, and food.

Plus, since my grandmother was a Wampanoag Indian (the original Thanksgiving Native American), I feel that it's my holiday. Thanksgiving is my 1/4 birthright, the way St.Patrick's Day is my 1/2 birthright (I've got GOOD holidays flowing through my veins). And it's my duty to celebrate in anyway I can, even thousands of miles away and with people who don't know Thanksgiving from Columbus Day, I must.

But no matter what I cook today, and who comes over to eat with me, and how much I turn us saying what we're thankful for into a drinking game, it's not the same.

And since I am feeling a bit blah because I miss home today more than any other day, and I miss my friends, my Dad, and college football, and the whole Thanksgiving kit and kaboodle, I'm making a list of what I'm thankful for today:

The Husband (kind of an obvious). Last night he brought me home doughnuts stuffed with Nutella. Now I'm not normally a chocolate person, but fried dough oozing Nutella! Sweet Georgia Brown that's good stuff!

Fifty (when he's being good, and, calm and not licking). I'm listening to him snore right now and it cracks me up.

My new French tutor Sophie. Bless her.

Skype and my friends who Skype me.

Lapins Cretin. I'm loving these little guys.

(I really want a stuffed animal one but I'm scared you know who would eat it)

And many more things, family, and friends, that I'm lucky to have in my life.
..............................................................................................................

But something I'm not thankful for:

North Korea being buttheads and bombing South Korea. Not cool.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my American friends!

Turkey bisous

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

super stylish


My friend Valerie who blogs all about her life in Italy learning Italian (and soon her life in France learning French) at Living Out of the Box has been so kind as to pass on the Stylish Blogger Award to me.
Thank you, grazie, merci.
..............................................................................................................

And for the seven saucy secrets....
(a warning... none of these secrets are even remotely stylish)

1. My father always told me that I would regret quitting piano lessons and he's right, I do.

2. Showering in the morning gets on my nerves. I'm sure it would be different if I had a steam shower with a rain forest shower head (ah, the good old days) but I don't.  I have a shower the size of a phone booth. And not one of those fancy London phone booths either, a NYC phone booth. Nothing luxurious about showering in a phone booth.

3. I used to have dog named Bono (after U2 Bono, not Sunny & Cher Bono). Lets go ahead and run down all the pet names... the german shepherd, Penny, Scratch the beagle, Happy the mutt, Rainy Day the pony, Mister the black lab, Leroy the chihuahua, and currently besides Fifty, there is a lizard in my dining room (or there was yesterday, I'm hoping that we are in a was situation and not an is situation). What should I name him?

4. I secretly think that Michaele Salahi is really Heidi Montag 20 years in the future and she has travelled back in time with a new name. It's true.

5. When I was twelve, I moved from New York to Texas. On one of my first nights living there, I woke up to find two scorpions under my nightgown, sitting on my chest. Nothing says you're not in NY anymore like scorpions.

6. Currently I have possessions in three countries; at my mother's in Dublin, a storage facility in Texas ($50 a month for seven years. I've recently done the math. I'm not happy), and of course, in France. I am very happy to report that on 29th of December the last of my Ireland stuff will be shipped to France. And I have vowed that in 2011, me and my Christmas decorations and scrap books that have been living in Texas all these years will finally be reunited (and it will feel so good).

7. I'm at a point in my life where a large majority of female friends and relatives whether in Ireland, America, or France are pregnant, or were just pregnant, or will probably be pregnant (again) very soon. Any good vibes you could throw my way would be greatly appreciated, because regardless of what I say, I am not actually aging backwards.
..............................................................................................................

Now technically I'm supposed to pass this on the 15 bloggers, but 15,  that's poppycock! I'm going to go with seven.
(and I'm including their taglines in their own words)

...dailee tidbits... Thoughts, creations, and frequent adventures

A Beautiful Life A blog about my life, the good, the bad, and the beautiful

Bourbon & Pearls And a life in between

du jour So why can't a 50 year old woman pack up and move to France?

Em Dickson (Emily doesn't have a tagline but her blog is stylish, trust me)

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Elegance  (no tagline here either but Justin can seriously rock a bowtie)

Our Transatlantic Love We'll always have Paris...
..............................................................................................................

bisou

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Perfect Strangers

Here's the thing about my French... it's coming along.
It is. I swear it is.

It may not sound pretty and be 100% correct (more like 72%) but I'm speaking it. And I probably sound like Balki from Perfect Strangers, but in French, but who cares, it's happening.

Some conversations are easier than others... like when Papa's Wife and I hang out, I'm conversing and laughing and I feel awesome. And with M, we can talk, and more importantly shop. Brother-in-Law, Child Bride and I do OK. Just last week The Husband and I had a great evening with them, and I understood all off the jokes.

But I still have one leap left, one major hurdle in Le Petit Village...
Mr Honey.

Mr Honey's accent is difficult, it's a hardcore south of France accent. And according to The Husband, if anyone in France listened to Mr. Honey they would know exactly where he is from (think southern U.S., Boston, Glasgow and Cork accents... distinct and completely unmistakable). He doesn't sound anything like my French podcasts. Mr Honey and my podcasts sound almost like different languages altogether.

So last night, after a long day shopping in Aix (bonjour Zara!) The Husband and I stopped by The Honey House for a quick hello and apéro.

Mr & Mrs Honey had been out foraging for mushrooms and since they had collected more than enough they asked us if we would like some.  With memories of The Mushroom Incident flashing through my head, I turned my French ears on and decided to pay extra close attention as Mr Honey took the mushrooms out of the sack and told us how to prepare them.

Maybe it was all the Merlot Mr Honey had drank, maybe it was all the Merlot I had drank, but as he spoke and picked up the mushrooms showing them to me, this is what I heard;

"These mushrooms, the sheep kick them and brush their teeth."

Now that's not right.

"uh, répétez s'il te plaît"

"pied-de-mouton"

The mushrooms are called sheep feet.

And I'm pretty sure that sheep do not use them to brush their teeth. 

I hope.

bisou

   

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

The Bee Team

The Honeys driving off to tend to their bees...

{The Honey Truck}

{bzzz}

Loving the bee.

bisou


Monday, November 15, 2010

A Few Words From Fifty

{I give free hugs}


Bonjour tout le monde!


Fifty here. I just wanted to say a big thank you to all of my friends out there that thinks that man wasn't very nice in calling me a mean name and saying such a horrible thing about me. 


It's true, I am part Staffordshire, (or so the lovely woman at the rescue center thinks and that not so nice lady who gives me my shots), but I'm not too sure. I never knew my father or my mother. My two sisters and I were found next to a dumpster when I was really little. But don't feel bad for me, everything turned out OK, and now I have a real mommy and daddy who are both human, so I guess that makes me human too. 


But just because I'm part Staffordshire doesn't mean that I'm bad. That's plain dogism. Staffs were  booted out of France long before Sarkozy booted out the gypsies (I think that man needs a cuddle). Maybe because the government has been mean to some of my ancestors, that man thought it was OK to be mean to me too. 
(And if they want to kick any dogs out of France, I wish they would start with my cousin Python. He may only be a Jack Russell, but he's meaner than any dog I've ever seen!)


The thing is, regardless of what my father and mother were, I'm a nice dog. I've never bitten, growled, or snapped at anyone (but I have licked... a lot!). My mommy and daddy raised me to know better. And I love people. People give me cuddles, and snacks. I'm a happy dog. 
And if that mean man had been nice to me, instead of being a dogist, and understood that it was those awful church bells that were making me bark, I would have given him a cuddle too. 

OK, I gotta go, I can here my mommy coming. And please don't tell her that I sent this message. If she finds out that I was using her laptop again, I'll be grounded.


À Bientôt!

Fifty
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Sunday, November 14, 2010

them's fighting words

Saturday afternoons are Fifty's favorite time of the week. He gets to run around outside and play with his BFF, Honey Jr, and The Husband.
(I also love this time, I get some quiet, and The Husband gets a little cardio).

Fifty was happily chasing the football when Le Petite Notre Dame's bells rang out. Church bells scare the bejeezus out of Fifty. He looks panic stricken and barks, running wildly around like he's mentally unbalanced.
(I think they hurt his ears... they hurt mine, so they must hurt his).

Right around the time Fifty began to go nutty, a tourist comes walking along and actually said,

"He's aggressive, no? I think he's a bit of an a**hole."

(Fifty may look aggressive but he is the sweetest of the sweet. He approaches people, tail wagging, and if he could speak human, I just know that he would say, "Hi. My name is Fifty, want to be my friend?" 
And then in case you can't tell by the frantic tail wagging that he loves you, he gives you a big ol' lick. He is the opposite of aggressive. And what kind of a person walks up to complete strangers and calls their dog an a**hole?)

Back to, "He's aggressive, no? I think he's a bit of an a**hole."...

The Husband calmly said,"No, I think you're the a**hole" as he and Honey Jr walked closer. 

The tourist's facial expression quickly changed to, OOPS, and he turned and scampered off.

And all the while, Fifty stood there, tail wagging, happy that the bells had stopped and he could get back to his football game.

(And probably wondering why that nice man didn't stay to play).

bisou

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