Thursday, April 28, 2011

tourner à droite numbnuts

Numbnuts. The Husband called me numbnuts on our drive to French Mommy's house. I don't remember why, or what I did,  but it was like Mozart to my ears to hear one of my favorite words come out of The Husband's mouth, French accent and all. But then a little later, he turned out to be the numbnuts, and here's why...

Anytime we drive for a bit of a distance, (which is every time we get in the car really since Le Petit Village is in the middle of back a** nowhere) I like to plug in the GPS and fiddle with it. Not that we don't know where we're going, it's just that I like to know exactly how long it's going to take for us to get there. So we're driving to French Mommy's and making the best time ever (1. because we left at 5:30 in the morning getting quite the headstart on the traffic and 2. Fifty only threw up once on the way. Only once, and not at all on the way back. Way to go Fifty) and I was fiddling with the GPS and seeing how long it would take us to drive to London if I so wished, when the GPS whispered "tourner à droite" (that's turn right to you and me). But that tourner à droite was to go to London not to go to French Mommy's and even though The Husband has driven the route so many times and knew exactly where he was going, he listened to the GPS and well, he tourner à droite-ed.

And I looked at him and asked why he tourner à droite-ed and he said because 'my toy' told him to. And I said, so? And he looked confused and a little irritated but I called him numbnuts anyway. Because really. You don't just go tourner à droite-ing when you know where it is you're supposed to be going.

It took us over a half an hour to get back on track. That little tourner à droite drove us all through Clermont-Ferrand where we hit every traffic light that was put in our way. But on the bright side, even though I didn't get to London, we did end up driving by Clermont's rugby stadium, and got to stare at it for awhile as we sat at the traffic light in front of it. So silver cloud, you know, but, Parra and Rougerie didn't walk by. That would have been like a diamond cloud dipped in fairy dust.

And there you have it. We finally made it to French Nana's bar, just in time for lunch (beef tongue for The Husband as usual... Y U C K) and had a wonderful weekend in the French Mommy manner, lots of relaxing and spoiling including this Easter cake...

And chocolate rugby boots for my numbnuts. 


Tuesday, April 26, 2011

they do things a little differently

who: The Parisian and The Husband
what: BBQing 
where: Chez Brother-in-Law
when: a couple of Thursdays ago
why: ? ? ? 

I can kind of understand The Parisian's use of the rake (allow me to reiterate...  I can KIND OF understand, but I don't really), but why The Husband is wielding an ax is beyond me.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

we've come a long way baby

I've been reminiscing about my furry little angel. I'm not sure if it's because we're headed to French Mommy's this weekend and I've been thinking about how small he was the first time we brought him (and how many times we had to stop on the way to clean up puppy vomit), or maybe it's because I haven't come home to find any evidence of puppy rage for awhile (chewed appliances, shoes, table legs, etc...). But either way, my little guy is all grown up, and since I'm feeling a tad nostalgic, let's take a peek into the not so distant puppy past originally posted 28 April 2010

First there was the original Baby. A wee white bear that came home with Fifty on his first day in Le Petit Village. A little present to make him feel comfortable and loved.

After about a month, Baby was looking pretty nasty (as you would if you spent a month coated in puppy saliva) and I threw him in the washing machine. From then on, Baby got weekly washings. He would be dried on top of the radiator with Fifty anxiously waiting. After he was dry, Fifty would walk over and I'd put Baby back in his mouth and he'd curl up on the floor.

It didn't take too many washes for the squeaky noise inside Baby to disappear. There was a whistling wheeze for a bit, and then nothing.

Sometime around January, I noticed that Baby had been gnawed on quite a bit. Every week when I retrieved Baby from Fifty's little house (Chez Fifty as we like to call it) he looked worse. Clearly Baby was no longer for cuddles. Fifty was slowing torturing Baby to death by chewing.

Eventually I made the shocking discovery; Baby was as headless as Anne Boleyn (I've been watching reruns of The Tudors lately). There was only one thing to do, lay Baby to rest in the trash can. It was a sad day. And I scolded Fifty and told him that he shouldn't torture and kill his friends.

{An innocent Fifty and Baby in happier times}

Next was 'the toy'. A braided circle of thick rope. It held up pretty well transitioning from a circle to a half circle with long bits of rope hanging from it. Fifty would put it in his mouth and whip it around. You didn't want to get struck in the leg while that thing was being whipped about. If it had little metal balls on the end it would have been perfect for a flailing (not that I've ever flailed, but I saw that albino do it in The Da Vinci Code).

Eventually the flailing toy went the way of Baby...

{Fifty. Caught Red Pawed
Flailing toy carcass and it's killer}

Because I'm a softy and Fifty was sans Baby and toy, it was time for something new. Last weekend, The Husband and I struggled in the dog toy section of the pet store. There was a cuddly looking cow that I wanted and a long eared doggy that The Husband liked. I didn't want The Husband whining on a Saturday so we came home with the doggy.

It wasn't too bad. Not the original Baby by any means but it looked sturdy enough and made two different squeaking noises; a high pitched one when his head was squeezed and a low pitched one when you squeezed his little doggy butt.

Less than a day after having him, I found these, on the floor...

{Exhibit A. Doggy Eyeballs}

In case you are unfamiliar with the anatomy of a stuffed doggy, these are eyeballs. Clearly, Fifty's insatiable appetite for torture had returned. But this time, the torturer would become the torturee...

Monday morning, The Husband returned with Fifty from their morning walk.

"Does he look ok to you?" he asked (The Husband was asking, not Fifty).

"A little tired, but I'm sure he's ok."

He was ok until the noises came. Fifty was making cat hair ball noises. (Cat hair ball noises sound bad enough from a cat. Can you imagine them from a 50lb puppy? Gross) And then...
(feeling squeamish... now is the time to look away)

{Exhibit B. Regurgitated Doggy Innards}

It was the size of a fist but I wasn't sure what it was. Until I found doggy. Doggy too had met his demise...

{Exhibit C. Tortured, Eyeless, Disemboweled Doggy}

Doggy had been disemboweled and Fifty had coughed up the evidence. He was pretty sick for the rest of the day. I'd love to say he's learned his lesson, but you can't teach a Psycho Killer new tricks.

fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa


Monday, April 18, 2011

stylish happenings

(DISCLAIMER: There's supposed to be a Stylish Blogger Award button here, but blogger is being finicky and isn't letting me upload it and I really don't have the patience this morning so please use your imagination and picture that black square button with silver cursive here instead of this rambling note. Thank you.)

This Stylish Blogger Award is brought to me by The Many Colours of Happiness (thank you kindly Many Colours).

And to shake it up (as I usually do), instead of seven stylish things about me (not feeling very stylish these days... key word... tracksuit pants), this edition of the Stylish Blogger Award will be some of my  observations and some happenings in Le Petit Village this past weekend.

1. Saturday afternoon there were two horses tied up outside Le Petit Bar, which I have to admit made me think I was back in Bandera, Texas for a second (the cowboy capital of the world if you don't know... according to the people of Bandera anyway). Who rode their horse here? And why don't I have one? And who is going to clean up the rather large presents they left on the street?

2. I'm anxiously waiting for La Petite's left over umbilical stub to fall off. That thing is freaking me out.

3. Trees are being cut down in front of my house, and rumor has it it's to clear space to put up benches and picnic tables for tourists. This is not settling well. I appreciate that they will have a gorgeous view of the Provence countryside, but now I'm going to have a not so gorgeous view of them.

4. I've been feeding milk to feral cats hoping to make one a pet. I think Fifty could use a little buddy (and he's definitely going to need a distraction if tourists are constantly picnicking outside my house... non-stop barking).

5. The Parisian is getting married next weekend. We're heading to French French Mommy's for Easter and will miss the celebration so I'm a little bummed (not really, I'll be getting spoiled and stuffing myself with Bleu d'Auvergne, escargot and wandering around the wine cellar), but I am making Martha Stewart pompoms to decorate the bar for them before I go. No one here knows who Martha Stewart is but they will by the time I'm finished. How very lucky for them.

6. The Husband not only baked rosemary bread, but he also whipped up some mousse au chocolat which made him dance around the house shouting that he made moose ca-ca. Bless.

7. My old neighborMrs Curtainmaker has opened a little boutique in her house. I haven't walked in yet, but I will I soon as I can ditch Fifty. I'm really hoping the clothes are all made out of curtains, Sound of Music Style. I'm picturing an afternoon picnic; The Husband, Honey Jr, Brother-in-Law, Child Bride, The Parisian, and me, all in our curtain clothes, spinning around the Luberon. The hills are alive with the sound of lunacy.

La belle in France and American Girls Are...  are two stylish girls in France who I'm sure have seven delightful and stylish things to tell you.

(and haven't been living in tracksuit pants)



Wednesday, April 13, 2011

what i've been up to

{my moment of zen}
Normally I'm here more than this, and I know this, but I'm still not quite 'me' yet. I really want to be though, both 'me' and 'here'. And I'm happy to report that yesterday morning was the first time I woke up at 6 a.m., a 'me' time. Since being back, I've been sleeping until after 9 a.m. and waking groggy from the sleeping pills (not that I like pills, but they were the only thing that was stopping the tossing and turning because counting the sheep that are gazing outside my window hasn't even helped). And sleeping in until 9 a.m. messes with the head of an early bird, routine freak like me.

So let's see... I spent the first two days back sleeping. That was nice. I felt exhausted and so I slept, with ease. And then it was like I slept myself out, and couldn't sleep anymore, so the tossing and turning started, and then the groggy mornings. And the groggy mornings turned into strange wandering days.

It's a weird space in time. It's like, my world stopped because my daddy died, but the rest of the world keeps spinning, and if you don't find away to hop back on, you get left behind. So that's been me, trying to hop back on, I feel like I'm the girl next up on double-dutch. I'm watching the jump ropes spinning spinning spinning, and I'm pacing the rhythm, and ready to jump in, but I can't quite get my timing right, so I stand watching, and waiting.

Most of my days I've spent walking in circles around my house, not able to sit still and let my mind rest, but not able to focus on any one task. Except for ironing and vacuuming, that's been easy (how very fun for me). It's been warm here and the wrinkly warm weather clothes have all been unpacked and  ironed while I re-watched seasons one and two of Real Housewives of New Jersey (that Danielle is coocoo for cocopuffs isnt' she?). And since Fifty has decided to take off his winter coat, the non-stop vacuuming has been keeping me busy. It would be really nice if he would just unzip it and hang it up instead of taking it off in furry pieces and leaving it all over the floor. We'll have to work on that for next year.

But I haven't been a complete walking around in circles hermit. Le Petit Village has come out of hibernation so there was a BBQ at The Honey House where Mr Honey tut-tut-ted at the Spanish wine I brought (only French wine for Mr Honey you know) and a BBQ at Brother-in-Law's where I got to give La Petite her bath, which definitely has been the highlight of the last few weeks. And guess who she looks like... Papa! That's who.

And that's me right now. 

I'm here, but I'm not really 'here' if you get my drift. 

Soon though. 

I hope. 


Sunday, April 10, 2011

Fifty Meets La Petite

Fifty: What is that little loud thing? 

Fifty: It's so small. I better take a closer look.

Fifty: And Mommy says I'm stinky. Gross. 


Thursday, April 7, 2011

feels like a lifetime ago

Do you see the rainbow in this photo? Me either. But trust me, it's there. The rainbow was in the sky hovering above us as we drove to Lyon. I took it as a good omen, and it was. My anniversary weekend in Lyon was as close to perfect as perfect can be.

If Paris and Dublin had a baby, that baby would be Lyon. It's hard to explain why, but that's what it felt like. And when I was having beers with 365 Things I Love About France, Charley, she agreed with me so it must be true (Yes I met up with Charley while celebrating my anniversary. I take English speaking opportunities when I can get them).

We checked into the Sofitel and The Husband busted out the map and got his tourist on...


Actually, he was planning the route from our hotel to Starbucks. And he succeeded (Only a five minute walk away thank you very much, I may or may not have planned this. I'll let you decide). A few minutes later, I had my vanilla latte, Lyon City Mug, and a new traveler tumbler, perfect for when I pop into Le Petit Bar and ask The Parisian for my cafés au lait to go (I love how it freaks out the villagers when I do this). 

After strolling around we found the perfect spot for lunch. You know how when you stumble onto something and it's so perfect that you couldn't have planned it if you had tried? Well that was the spot we found. It's called l'Hostel and if I lived in Lyon, it's exactly where I would pop in for a drink after work. Doesn't The Husband look handsome there? And dig the baroque decor...

And because our trip to Lyon was all about the food (it is the gastronomic capital of France you know), after lunch we headed to Les Halles to ooh and aah at all the delicious goodness. There was fromage and saucisson as far as the eye could see. But we decided to have a little nosh on these instead... 

Next was more walking around. Which of course made you know who cranky. Observe cranky pants face...

Because of the cranky pants face, I had to use the old carrot and stick method. Except the carrot was a pint in an Irish pub, where they would be showing the last Six Nations Rugby Match (England vs. Ireland... oh yeah... on like donkey kong). And that's when we met Charley. And Charley ordered a Guinness and The Husband fell in love with her a little bit (The Husband digs chicks who drink Guinness). 

So we watched Ireland spank England and it was pretty much the best anniversary present I could ever get (even better than my taste of America in a cup at Starbucks... the spanking was that good), and we bid adieu to Charley and headed to dinner at Brasserie Georges (more food!) which is the craziest busiest restaurant I've ever seen... 

Look at all the people! And that's only half of the restaurant. It was awfully nice of everybody to come out to celebrate my anniversary, wasn't it? 

After all that food, Guinness, and fun, my little cranky pants was all tuckered out... 

And that was that. 


Sunday, April 3, 2011

Ode to Le Petit Village

Some weeks ago, Andi at Misadventures With Andi, asked me if I would write a post about what I love about life in Le Petit Village. With spring in the air and the lavender looming, I was only too happy to oblige. Alas, my life took a sad detour and Andi shelved my ode to Le Petit Village until today.

It's perfect timing really, because here in Le Petit Village, the sun is shining and I've just spent a perfect Sunday lunch barbecuing at the Honey House. Smiles all around.

You can check out my ode to Le Petit Village here.


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