LE DINER ETRANGE (THE STRANGE DINNER)

A few weeks ago I asked FB what he wanted for his birthday and he said nothing but a nice dinner. Of course I had to turn it into something much bigger and more complicated than that so the idea morphed into what will be the first of many Le Diner Etrange. We are having a mix of people over tonight and the only rule is that you must bring a strange dish or a strange ingredient which will then be attempted to cook into a dish. "Strange" is totally subjective here. A friend of mine suggested a watermelon/feta salad with some grilled swordfish in it. I went to the fish market today and asked for swordfish, he didn't have any but suggested Requin. "Uh.....oui, d'accord!" Sounds great! I got home and looked it up. Requin is shark. Uh...ok. I will now be serving watermelon/feta/olive/shark salad. LE DINER ETRANGE!
My opening cocktails are supposed to be red and blue jello shots. Why? Duh....F-R-A-N-C-E is red and blue, U-S-A...ALSO red and blue. See the connection here? In actuality, I think it's because I selfishly just want to see French people suck down a jello shot at a Parisian dinner party, that's pretty much all there is to it.

I ran into a problem though. I cannot find Jello anywhere in this city. I even tried to find just plain gelatin. At my local market, if I ask for something, it is usually followed by a question of how I will be serving the item. As the French grocer asked, I choked down a laugh, cleared my throat and slowly tried in French to explain what a jello shot is as though I was explaining a delicacy. The perplexed look on his face told me it was never going to happen. How exactly do you describe a jello shot accurately? "Oui pardon, vous avez plain gelatin? I need to mix it with hard alchohol and some juice, freeze it and then suck it out of a syringe...or just some tupperware will do."
The French will be receiving a touch of REAL New Jersey CLASS tonight.....

ME CAN HAZ CHEEZEBURGERZ

Been a rough couple of days. Am in waiting mode while my album is shipped off to be pressed. I hate waiting. Waiting is unkind, cruel and should be banned from my life forever. Free moments to me are free moments to get bored and to really delve into the true enjoyment of being a broke, illegal alien who still can't understand a word anyone says. The French language took this opportunity to abandon me completely this past weekend. It sensed my fragility, waved a cruel goodbye and proceeded to build a brick wall around my fried brain refusing to let anything in or out. There is only one thing that can make me feel better in times like these...CHEESBURGERS. Last night FB worked late and as I rifled through my bag, I realized I had not one centime. Zero, nada. No cheeseburger. OK OK OK OK, DO NOT panic. Just wait until FB gets home, it's cool, it's cool. Tap, tap, tap..the time rolled by like a drunk snail while I sat and fumed...8PM, 9PM, 10PM....oh my god, oh my god.....

10:55PM
FB enters to find me pacing the living room, hair a mess, makeup stained eyes and the look of insanity.
FB: (smiling) "I'm hoooome!"
DB: (manic) "I need a cheeseburger. NOW. See the place across the street (points to Quick Burger)? It's open still. It's 10:55 and will probably close in 5 minutes. If you love me at all, you will take me to get a cheeseburger. YOU need to order. I'm not dealing with French anymore today. I'm DONE. Finis. Game OVER. I want you to order me the biggest cheeseburger they have and a LARGE fries and a diet coke, DIET coke, ok? And you have to ask for extra ketchup, OK? Got it? EXTRA ketchup, don't forget. OK let's roll!!!" (run to get bag)
FB: (sits down) "I was thinking on my walk home about the hard time you were having the past few days and...
DB: "Why are you sitting down????! I NEED A CHEESEBURGER RIGHT THIS SECOND."
FB: "OK sure, just chill out, we can get a cheeseburger in a second but I wanted to tell you some important things I was thinking about.."
DB: "If it doesn't involve meat with cheese between a bun, I don't want to hear it right now."
FB: "But we can sit for five minutes and I would love to tell you this thing that would make you feel good..."
DB: "YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. If we are not at that counter, the one I can see right there out the window, THAT counter that may close in THREE MINUTES, I WILL DIE. I will curl up in a ball and DIE HERE. I NEED A CHEESEBURGER. NOW."
FB: "OK, hang on for one sec and just let me say this ONE thing."
DB: (hyperventilating) "Just give me the money!"
FB: "Baby if you're hungry, I could cook you dinner right now, would you like that? That would make you feel better I bet!"
DB: "I DON'T WANT ANYTHING HERE!! I WANT PROCESSED BEEF AND FAKE CHEESE! (tears welling) Please, please for the love of God, pleeeeeease take me to get a cheeseburger, I am beeeeegging you..."

10 minutes later. I am happily dancing back home across the street, tearing into GIANT bag in hand containing GIANT cheesburgers.

FB: (looks at me) "Seriously. Is THAT all it took?"
DB: (smiling widely) "Yup."
FB: "Wow...maybe I want you to be more complicated than you actually are."
DB: (chomp chomp) "Yup. Love ya!"

p.s. It did the job but Quick Burger is TOTALLY inferior to McDonald's especially in the fries and ketchup department...just in case you were wondering.

ILLEGAL SALAD - DAY 136

BEAUTIFUL, SUNNY, SPRING PARISIAN DAY
10:00AM - FB leaves for work

10:02AM - Stare off into space

10:28AM - Get productive, get productive, look at my list, my list, yes my cherished LIST, must add to list of things to do. Let's see...get evicted...check. Eliminate all personal sources of income. Check. Become illegal alien. Done. Wow, I'm super efficient.

10:35AM - Stare into space some more and twist hair around while remembering that I used to have a real TV Executive day job. I used to answer my phone like all, businesslike and stuff. I don't even have a phone anymore. I had a phone but I lost it in London and it doesn't matter because no one calls me anyway. What do I need a phone for? I don't even know how to dial anymore. Stupid phones. Who needs a phone anyway?

10:36AM - My hair is so dry, it's disgusting how absolutely DRY my hair is. What is wrong with it? My hair has NEVER felt this dry. Especially when I twist it up here like this or maybe I should leave it down. No, I'll put it back up and that way I can't feel how dry it is. Oh but now it itches, maybe I'll....

10:38AM - Dump half a bottle of olive oil on hair, drop bottle and cover bathroom in oil.

10:39AM - Add to list Clean Up Oil Spill

10:49AM - Check.

11:00AM - Lunchtime. Yeah at 11AM, whatever. Stand at kitchen counter and shovel a pound of leftover pasta into face.

11:15AM - Sit down at piano.

11:16AM - Ok, good, good, sit down and write something. Get out of your head. Stop thinking about everything. Just play and write. Work it out, work it out.
"Maaaaan I wish someone would taaaaalk to me...." No no no. That's bad.
"Sure would be niiiice if I understooood what you saaaaaaay..." Horrible. Next.
"I smell like an illeeegal saaaalaaaaad...."

11:26AM - OK just forget it, I give up.

11:35AM - Surf the net doing "research".

12PM - Lunchtime again. Shovel more pasta into face.

1:00PM.....
OK, ENOUGH. Put the baguette DOWN, go wash the bottle of olive oil out of your hair you moron, take off that crappy shirt and PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. Put on a skirt and some heels and for Christ's sake, put some makeup on. Yes yes, poor you. So sad for you to live in Paris and how awful it must be to go wander around the city on a bright spring day. My heart burns with sympathy for you and I might drown in my own tears. Cut the Flowers In The Attic act and just get the hell out of the apartment, OK?
ENOUGH.

Where's my tiny, tiny violin?
"Oh blaaaaackness of niiight, why'd you have to maaaake me live in Paaaaaaaris...."

SUCK IT UP BOULE, SUCK IT UP.

I went to Savate class alone for the first time today. No friends to help me out this time, just me and my shit French, working it out together. During the warm up jokes were being passed back and forth between people but rather than laugh, I merely gave my best "vacant yet interested with a hint of confusion and a scent of nervousness" smile and hoped no one thought I was a deaf mute.
Warm up ends.

TEACHER: JDFHKSDHFE!
ME: Uh.....je suis la? (I am here?) Oops, I mean je VAIS la? (I go here?)
TEACHER: OUI. JDHSDFKHSKDHFU!
ME: Um, pardon?
TEACHER: KJGKJGSJHFDHGFD!
ME: Uh, oui d'accord. (Uh, yes ok...it's my staple standard answer for everything when I have no idea what was just said to me)
TEACHER: KJKJSBJDVHSGFS!

My teacher does not care that I don't understand French, he proceeds as though I do, instructing me the same as everyone else and taps me in my stomach with his glove to show me how I have let me guard down. He then taps me in my head every time I take my eyes off his. Dude, this is all getting vaguely familiar.
And then I feel it coming.
Oh no.
The tears have decided to make an appearance.
OH NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NOOOOOON!!, I scream to myself. You are NOT crying here. No fucking way. LOCK IT UP, BOULE. LOCK. IT. UP. Just WRAP those tears RIGHT on up because you are the middle of a SAVATE class in FRANCE and they ALL know you come from Brooklyn. If you cry right now, it will be NOTHING compared to what I will do to you after class when you realize you are now the "fake New York/I want my mommy" girl who was HUMILIATED by CRYING on her first day alone in class.
LOCK.
IT.
UP.

We move onto kicks.

TEACHER: KJSDHFKSDGFAJKHFGDFJSH!!
ME: Oui, d'accord.
TEACHER: JHSGJHGJSFDJHGSFDAFG!!!!!
ME: Oui oui, d'accord d'accord (crazily move arms around hoping something I randomly do is something he actually asked me to do)
TEACHER: LA MAIN DROITE....DERRIERE!!!
ME: OH MY GOD! WAIT! I KNOW THIS ONE! RIGHT ARM BEHIND ME!!! OH MY GOD! I UNDERSTOOD!

In my glee, I flew my right arm back and proceeded to smash it into the open window behind me which promptly slammed shut with a BANG.
"Um, pardon."

I feel like an oversized retarded martian playing Wheel Of Fortune French while simultaneously learning to kick box. Sweet. But everyone is so nice to me there and after working out, they all helped spell out the names of the kicks so I can write them in my notebook. They even correct my French.

Je ne pleurerai pas pendant le cours de savate.
Je ne pleurerai pas pendant le cours de savate.
Je ne pleurerai pas pendant le cours de savate.
Je ne pleurerai pas pendant le cours de savate.
(I will not cry in savate class.)

:)

AND THEN THERE WERE NONE

I got lost in Pere-Lachaise Cemetery today, by myself on a warm and sunny spring day. I knew of some of the notable tenants there but I just went with my camera and the intention to just get lost. The only ground I was truly excited to randomly find is that where Frederic Chopin was buried. To be at the resting place of one of those who most inspires the melodies that float around my head all the time...well, that would be something to make me smile that smile. Surprisingly, there were not that many people and I could wander without much human contact and just listen and look.


Mostly I saw old women, tending graves. Bottles of water sparkling in the sunlight, brought to carefully tend to the bursts of color through the moss. They move silent like ghost wives, laying down a rainbow of reminders that someone was loved.

Nothing is more devastatingly beautiful than flowers at a gravesite, even old flowers, long ago knocked over by the wind and faded with rain. I sat quietly by myself, listening to the sound of children playing in the schoolyard over the fence, the spring birds singing a cantata, and the wind through the trees that line the cobblestoned paths.



I thought about all the people gone from my life. And I thought of those who are left behind to keep the memory alive that yes, you were loved.

I stumbled upon a gravesite on my way out that made my heart jump into my throat. I held in a silent cheer as I looked closer. It said F. Choppin and the names below I did not recognize. The dates were a bit off and I knew it was probably not the grave of my direct influence but I stood there anyway and for a moment in time, I smiled that smile.

Rest in peace, F. Choppin. Someone loved you today.

AND IN THIS CORNER....DAY 132

I just returned from Savate class and on my walk back, I decided my new competitor/fighting name will be The Silent Vomit.
Disgusting, distracting and DEADLY.
All at the same time.
NOTE TO SELF: Satin red cape.

All morning my stomach was in knots about going to class today....I lost my appetite worrying about if I'll understand anything, maybe it will be just me, what if I have to speak French again, what if what if what if, blah blah blah blah. Even though I really liked the class last time, even though I spoke only French for the past four days straight and I am feeling more confident. Logic defies my frequent nerve flare ups but it is nothing new to me as it's been the same story my whole life. Whether it's a test in school, a performance of any kind, making cold phone calls, starting a new job, sport, etc. And in the case of France, add the following to the list...going to the grocery store, meeting new people or basically any activity that involves leaving the apartment in any way. They all follow the same steps, sometimes I'll mix and match them just to shake things up a little but here's what it usually involves:

1. Break out in hives
2. Freak out (internally or externally depending on who is around)
3. Tears (either cry profusely or in small whimpers)
4. Lose appetite
5. Silently vomit
6. Sudden fatigue

I am a master at making myself physically ill. I could never ever fake being sick, even as a child. I always have to subconsciously take it to the umpteenth degree for "believability". The flip side of this is that I can also make myself NOT sick and I am extremely good at walking off any illness or pain. It's a trade off, I suppose. These days I just treat my nerve explosions like an annoying tick...yeah, one that makes me cry and vomit, but whatever. If I repeat an activity enough, it usually gets better.
You know why?
BECAUSE THE SILENT VOMIT CANNOT BE STOPPED.
EVER.
What would The Silent Vomit do?
Duh.
Silently vomit and KEEP MOVING before you can ask "what the hell is that horrible smell????"
Let me tell you mi amigo, that was me.
Silently vomiting my way to the top....one day at a time.

DESTINY CAME CALLING = DAY 128

I found my future this week in a little room off the beaten path. I have one word for you....SAVATE. Mention to the French you want to learn savate here and chances are, you will get a quizzical look if you are a girl. I think it is just not that common to train, much less for women. But being the ninja from NY that I am, I have been interested in finding a martial arts school here since I moved to Paris. I just really like to punch and kick things. Beating the crap out of a punching bag fulfills so many unspoken desires. I think everyone can benefit from having a safe target to beat on when the going gets rough. So when a friend recommended a school she knew of, I decided to wait until my French was somewhat passable before trying it out. She agreed to come with me and therefore I would have a translator. One of my black belt ninja friends from NY was in town this week as well so we all decided to try out the class.

My NY friend and I found the school down a little narrow street and after having to ask for directions from the cute yoga guy downstairs who seemed surprised and intrigued that we were not actually looking for yoga but instead SAVATE, we made it past a little courtyard and up a hidden flight of stairs. I purposely came a little late so my French friend would be there already to translate. But something in me knew I was gonna have to fly solo.....

ENTER two giggling American girls. We open the door loudly and walk straight into a class which has already begun. Twelve French men (ranging from 9 to 70 years) abruptly stop what they are doing. They stare at us as though as though martians have invaded their school and then proceed to burst into laughter. I frantically look around and see that my French friend has not arrived.
Shit.
Shit.
Looks like it's French solo time pour moi.
"Um, hello, um, my French is so bad and we look for savate class" I manage to say. The teacher is an old school French man in his 60s whose father is a world renowned savate champion. This is a real deal school for locals. He looks at us for a moment and then motions towards the back where there is a changing room. We make our way back there amidst stares and I flub my question to him about my shoes which came out as "my shoes, ok, my SHOES, OK???". I quickly realized there was no English to be had here and it was time to just roll with it. He put us down front and center in the sea of boys and men who took every opportunity to smile at us. Two hot NY ninjas walk in to a bar......

Throughout the warm up, the teacher kept insisting that we "take it easy", stop if we got tired, rest some more. We kept laughing because the school we both came from in NY would push you past what you thought you could humanly do and if you did not leave class drenched in 20 gallons of sweat, you just didn't work hard enough. And now this teacher is telling us to put our heads down while doing leg lifts.

What????

We were then told to watch for the rest of class while the other students practiced their fighting moves. We both sat on the edge of class, tortured, because all we wanted to do was kick some shit. I quickly sized up whose asses I could easily kick and who might prove a bit of a challenge. It is an interesting sport and I am going to have to unlearn some of what I already know but the students in the school seemed warm, friendly and happy to have some female blood there. Especially Martian NY badass chick blood. We were told there are two women in the whole school. Um, can we say BFF??? I have decided that I will learn WAY more French at this school than any formal French class could ever teach me. And it's harder to be intimidated when you have already sized up how you could take down the person with one blow. Conquer the fear and the language will follow.

Total immersion while kicking some ass.

That's my new system.

DESTINATION VACATION

The steady stream of visitors continues at Hotel Boulé. I was warned of this when we moved to Paris. I live in a destination vacation with a guest room. It's right up there with ocean side Caribbean resort. I adore all the visitors and am happy to receive all our friends but the pitfall is that everyone is on vacation and it's hard not to partake in the vacation festivities 24/7. This week we had three house guests, went out 5 nights out of 7, made fancy dinners and painted the town several coats of red. Spring Break Paris '08!!

The doorbell rang at 9:30AM a few days ago. I was in the kitchen and immediately went into Anne Frank mode. I naturally left the egg I was frying on the stove and went running in terror into the bedroom, dish towel in hand and a crazed look on my face.
ME (frantically whispered to FB): OH MY GOD!!! SOME MAN IS AT THE DOOOOOOOOOR AGAIN!!!"
FB: What kind of man?
ME: I DON'T KNOW!!!!??? How am I supposed to know what kind of man!!????"

As FB answered the door, I ran into the living room and frantically started cleaning while trying to look cool. It seems like that is my instinctual reaction to terror these days. If someone held a gun to my head, I'd probably start mopping. As FB returned from the door I could tell by the look on his face that the time had come. In his hand was the official eviction notice.

Hotel Boulé is closing for the season as we have six weeks to find an apartment and move. I am excited that the transitory period is coming to an end and I will finally have a home to unpack the 43 boxes we have in storage. I want my stuff. I want my blue lamp and my yellow cookie jar. I want walls I can paint purple and I don't want to run in terror every time the doorbell rings for fear of the police again with a search warrant.

The wind is a changin' and it's time to pick up the stakes and move along again.....happy trails mes amis, it's been fun.....

THE JOYS OF ALBUM ART

FB: "How about this one?"
ME: "No, my face looks like a fat chimp."
FB: "OK, this one?"
ME: "I look like a horse on sleeping pills."
FB: "OK, maybe this one?"
ME: "Yeah, if the title of my album was Triple Chins."
FB: "OK this? You look beautiful here."
ME: "Sure, if you're into giant bag eyes."
FB: "Where do you see any bags? There's NOTHING THERE."
ME: "If you truly cannot see the steam trunks of luggage under my eyes, then I don't know what to tell you. No way. This is NOT the album cover. NEXT."
Sigh.

My art direction for my album cover has been shamelessly narcissistic and simple:
Hot picture of me.

I don't really care what style, what colors, what genre, whatever. As long as I look smoking hot, it's AWESOME by me. I have picked apart at least 250 photos of myself, crazily scanning every inch of my face for the flaws. The major problem I have run into is that apparently in a photo shoot, my "sexy" look actually reads as "I hate you/die now/I am miserable and want to kill everyone."

Thankfully, before I had to resort to watching America's Next Top Model for clues (actually, I'm lying...I have already watched every episode of every season, who am I kidding?), FB found a treasure trove of photos he took of me in Coney Island before we left New York. The second I saw them, it hit me. These are the album art.
Score.

Coming soon, hehe.

JE NE TE COMPRENDS PAS. (I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU)

"You will learn to speak it better from women and children in three months than from men in a year." --Thomas Jefferson on the French language in a letter to T.M. Randolph, 1787

I thought by having a French husband, I would learn French easily. I mean, I have a native French speaker living right under my roof! PERFECT! I dreamily pictured the long, complicated, philosophical discussions we would have in French about art, religion, politics, love, life... And if I slipped up the French language, he is right there, gently correcting yet succinctly explaining the hows and whys of his mother tongue.

Sigh, oh how naive I was.
It simply does not work that way.

My questions about French are met with either silence, dead eyes or the "you can't touch me in my special place" look, or a mumbled answer too fast for me to catch one word of. Or, more often than not, a mumbled answer too fast for me to catch one word of that also has 25 parts, 46 subsections and a 34 minute explanation spiraling into another 65 unrelated topics, rendering everything he just said completely useless.
Why is asking what the plural is of a word so often painstakingly complicated?
I don't want 87 answers.
I want one.
Spoken clearly and preferably in slow motion with your lips moving like a cartoon.
I want black and white.
Right and wrong.
And some straight lines while you're at it.
I adore him dearly, but a French teacher he is not.

OK. After only four months, I KNOW I am low on the patience. I am frustrated and cranky that my comprehension lies below that of a two year old. When I am at a party like I was last night, where everyone is speaking French, I cannot make out one word above the white noise. Even though everyone I met spoke perfect English and I had a lovely time, I still INSISTED on making each person I met suffer through at least 5 minutes of my 2 year old talk. It's as though I am more embarrassed that I only speak one language. Who cares if all I can say is the equivalent of GOO GOO GA GA? At least it's in FRENCH.

How many languages would a Kung Fu master speak? More than one.
An international jetsetter? DEF more than one.
A dark haired woman of mystery who might possibly be involved in international espionage? AT LEAST FOUR. DUH.

So I will continue to ask as many questions as I have. I will continue to try and decipher the whispered/I'm speaking in code/Merlin riddle answers and I will continue to say "GOOGOO GAGA ME LIKEY YOUR CHEESE" to strangers at parties.

Why? Because one of these days, the airplane I am traveling on from New York to Moscow will emergency land in a small village in France. The passengers will all panic and the pilot will announce "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DOES ANYONE SPEAK FRENCH?!@#"
I will quietly rise from seat 1A in first class, gently set my my champagne cocktail down, brush off my black Chanel suit, flip back the hair from in front of my giant dark sunglasses and huskily proclaim while turning 3/4 to catch the optimal light...
OUI.
JE PARLE FRANCAIS.

BON BONS - DAY 113

Yesterday on my taxi ride to St. Pancras train station in London, the driver asked me where I was going. When I told him I was returning to Paris, he asked, "Do ya work in Paris then or ah you a lady of leisure?" I laughed when he said that as I suddenly got a picture of myself leisuring...giant pink house coat, feathery stilettos, stuffing my face with chocolate and drinking champagne straight from the bottle while watching French soap operas. "No", I answered, "I am not a lady of leisure. I'm a musician. I just finished my album here in London and am returning to Paris to launch it there."

SUBCONSCIOUS: "GET A REAL JOB DANA"
ME: "SHUT UP, SUBCONSCIOUS. THIS IS A REAL JOB, DICK."

Last night FB brought me champagne and the best steak I ever ate, cooked to perfection. We sat on the couch and listened to the final master of the album and smiling ear to ear. It turned out EXACTLY like I wanted it to. Now onto the CD artwork so I can release this sucker asap before I become a Laaaady of Leeeeeisure (which is now the title of my next electro record).

ONE OF US...ONE OF US....

This is my personal nightmare on a plate. I once started hyperventilating and crying at a restaurant when the "seafood tower" my friends ordered arrived and I was visually assaulted by giant cockroach like bug creatures staring at me at eye level only inches from my face.
Apparently this is what I ordered for dinner last night.

I found myself at a large dinner with 15 French people in the Brittany area of France. I got my first glimpse of the French side of the Atlantic Ocean and was very excited to eat at the seafood restaurant we went to. I've gotten used to the surprise element when ordering food in a foreign language. I never get what I think it will be. It's actually best that I DON'T understand because I doubt I would end up ordering half the things I do if I really knew what they were. Half the time I just take the easy route and order whatever FB has. "Oui moi aussi" (me too) has become a popular phrase of mine.
Dinner went something like this....

FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH waitress asks for drink orders FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FB says "one" FRENCH FRENCH guy next to FB says "two" FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH I naturally say "three" FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH three giant gallon tumblers of beer arrived FRENCH FRENCH i don't even like beer that much FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH oh well FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH waitress asks for dinner orders FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH i say "uh, yea i'd like le panaché" FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH pretend I understand FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH

Bugs on a plate arrive.

ME: (whispered to JB) I don't know what to do here, I'm about to flip out.
FB: (picks up crab and moves it in my direction) eek eek eek eek, look, he likes you.
ME: (crazed whisper) Get that the hell away from me! Do NOT, I repeat, do NOT make it pretend move. I DON'T find it funny and I am going to seriously scream and you will be mortified by my loud American meltdown in front of EVERYONE. DO NOT MAKE THE FOOD PRETEND MOVE. THIS IS NOT A JOKE!
FB: ok, ok. (pause) But you know the oysters are alive.
ME: THEY ARE NOT ALIVE.
FB: Yes, they are. You don't eat dead oysters. (he goes to move one)
ME: DON'T TOUCH IT!
FB: but watch, if you pour this vinegar on them and..
ME: DO NOT MAKE IT MOVE. I SWEAR.....TO......GOD.....DO...NOT....MOVE...IT.
FB: ok, fine!

I quickly summed up the situation and realized that I was in the middle of the table and there was simply no escaping this one. I took a deep breath and decided for once, the sea bugs were NOT going to send me running. I decided to cross my eyes a little bit so everything went blurry. Better to look slightly retarded than to lose it crying on the floor in front of strangers. My best plan of attack would be to remove all the heads and the eyes as quickly as possible. Shrieking inside, one by one I tore off the heads while trying to think of happpy thoughts like rainbows and gummy bears. After strangling all the shrimp, I arranged them in a circle like the Pathmark generic shrimp cocktail circles. Uncrossed eyes a little. There. Much better. Crossing my eyes again, I moved on to the pretend alive oysters and just slurped them all down without looking to see if they were actually moving. DIE OYSTER, DIE!

After my eye crossing headache began to take it's toll, I focused my eyes for a moment to really take in the plate of destroyed bugs I had effectively disemboweled and sucked the guts out of.
Whoa.
I did it.
One step closer to actually eating frog legs....(cue the gag reflex)...baby steps, baby steps....

TREASON! OFF WITH HER HEAD!

Without really giving it much forethought, I did the unspeakable. The unthinkable. The UNCONSCIONABLE. In one sentence, I managed to summon up the ghosts of ten centuries of conflict...writhing demons from yesteryear, howling and shooting fire straight from the Battle Of Hastings directly into my living room.

Upon returning to Paris from London, I turned to my French husband and casually declared "you know, I think the food in London is way better than Paris."

Silence.
In the distance I hear a rumbling...
A sloooow sinking feeling that I have just stepped straight into a historical beehive.
Hmmmm, I think....don't think THIS is gonna go ooover so well.
The rumbling in the distance quickly approaches, black smoldering smoke as the fiery cannonball releases and aims directly for my American skull.

"ARE YOU FUCKING SEEEEERIOOUS?!!!!!", King Philip II Of France roars (now in the form of my enraged husband).

"Um...wull...yeah?"

"How can you POSSSSSSEEEEEEEEBLY THEENK the ENGLISH have better food than FRANCE??? THEES EES RIDICULOUS!!"

"Wull...um...I had a lot of sushi there and some uh...really good Indian food and...."

"EXACTEMENT!!! SUSHI and INDIAN food. NOT BRITISH FOOD! BRITISH FOOD EES DEEESGUSTING!" (as his face twists into utter disdain, he draws his sword and I see my reflection in the flames of his eyes, must think quickly)

"Wull...all I'm trying to say is that um, I ate a lot healthier food there and like, they have take out and delivery food, not like here. And like, I REALLY like the steak frites and paté and duck and headcheese and all that stuff here but I just haven't found the good Asian or maybe Indian restaurants here maybe and..."

"You want INDIAN FOOD? I'LL show you INDIAN FOOD! Passage Brady is a ten minute walk from here. That's IT. WE'RE GOING. NOW!" (he rears on his horse and reaches down to grab me violently and whisk me off to a row of Indian restaurants)

"No wait, it's cool, it's cool!! Yeah TOTALLY, I know what you're saying and that's like, TOTALLY what I'm saying TOO. I just need to LOOK HARDER here, you're absolutely right."

(He dismounts from his horse and stands, armor drawn so the full Hundred Years War effect will burn itself into my memory)
"You weel take thees back what you say and you weel say to me ze FRENCH food ees superior and you weel NEVER say eet again ze BRITISH food ees better. Eet ees NOT BETTER."

"Yeah dude, totally. French food is really tasty. In fact, I could go for a steak frites RIGHT NOW."

(I sense the retreat of the fire as he lowers his sword) "OKAY. NOW we are talking. You want steak frites? I breeng you right now to ze best Cote de Boeuf een ALL OF PARIS."

Whoa. I narrowly escaped the guillotine with that one and I know now to choose my words more carefully when comparing historical rivals. But as I chowed down my steak frites later that evening and listened to the list of restaurants and other food items we are going to try, I somehow think this worked to my advantage as I envision our impending food tour. I may have just insulted his nationality but he wants to prove me wrong and I am happy to eat my way across Paris proving him right.

Sometimes you just need to light a little fire. YUMMMMMMMYYYY.....

BARE BONES

Shot from the local taxidermy shop.

I had a dream last night in which I was trying to hide a grand piano from the police. I rolled it down the street at night in slow motion. All I could hear was the rumble of the wheels on the pavement, the swish of wind in the bushes and the quiet exhales of my own breath. Rumble, roll, swish, breath, rumble, roll, swish, breath...the dream seemed to float on forever. I finally rolled the piano into an open theatre but there was no place to hide it so I pushed it into the back of the darkened stage and stood in front of it, making myself as big as I could in an effort to hide it.
Curtain.
The End.

Not too hard to figure that one out. Tomorrow is our last day of mixing. The end is near and I am about to bare my most personal songs out there like a skeleton thrown to an audience of taxidermied dogs.

At least I know I'll have a rapt audience who are glued to their seats.

FREAKTIME IN LONDON

What the hell, London? SERIOUSLY. I've been cold since OCTOBER and I'm DONE.
Take your freakshow snowstorm and SHOVE IT.

You can't just dangle some candy, START springtime and then do a FULL ON TAKE BACK. But on a lighter note, Scotch Beef guy both disturbs and amuses me on so many different levels.

SPRINGTIME IN LONDON

And just like that....SPRINGTIME HAS SPRRRRRRRUNG. The flowers apparently bloomed overnight in London and this morning's walk to the studio was a Snow White-esque jaunt through tweeting birds, butterflies and smiling faces. I feel a country-wide collective mood lift as everything and everyone looks better drenched in sunshine. I had the urge to burst into "Who Will Buy?" and wished I had packed a skirt and an old timey milkmaid hat. My fake accent threatens to rear it's head if this weather keeps up. I had a flare up of Madonna-itis when I answered the grocery store clerk yesterday with an affected "sorry" (came out more like sohrey). I wanted to punch myself in the face after I said it but I resorted to verbally berating myself internally during the walk back to the studio until I realized I was doing the berating in the fake accent.
Screw it. When in London....

R.I.P. AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN

Just call me a murderer.
Or better yet, an abandoner.
Or in reality, just another stupid idiot moron who loses her shit all the time.

Once again, I saved up my money to purchase something that I really really needed and once again, I had them in my possession for all of two weeks before they met their demise somewhere, somehow. I waited to travel all the way to the U.S. to purchase these "best $100 I ever spent" headphones and now they live in some other person's hands. Or most likely, they are rotting in a trash can somewhere. Either way, I promised myself when I bought them that THIS TIME WOULD BE DIFFERENT. DIFFERENT than the time I accidentally sold my passport for 50 cents because it was stuck in a purse I sold at a yard sale. DIFFERENT than the all times I dropped a wad of cash somewhere, DIFFERENT than the dozens of jackets, hats, wallets, books, CD players, ipods, plane tickets, scarves I have dropped, misplaced or thrown out over the years.
In fact, the day before I lost these headphones, I managed to drop my scarf somewhere on the street AND IT WAS TIED AROUND MY NECK AT THE TIME.
You tell me HOW exactly that is possible and I'll show you the high level of professionalism I bring to involuntarily donating my belongings.
If you lose something around me, check the trash can. My talent is not limited to my own things.

I wanted to believe this time would be different.
BUT IT IS THE SAME.
EVERY TIME....THE SAME THE SAME THE SAME.....!@##$%
I get pissed off every time, spend two days cursing before I kiss goodbye to another "thing". Sigh. At least this makes me less of a pack rat.

How am I supposed to stare out the window and play "I'm in a music video" while listening to my finished album on the train ride back to Paris next week?
HOW??????
GRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.........

LES ALPES PART 3

LES ALPES FRANCAISES EN CHANSON

POLLY JEAN + DANA CHRISTINE = BFF

Yesterday I recorded the last song on my album on the very same piano that P.J. Harvey recorded her whole last album White Chalk on (her producer's studio is in the same complex here at Kilburn Studios). Of course, my first reaction when told this was "well DUH, we are SO BFF". When I meet her I will breezily say..."yeeeeah, I TOTES recorded my last album on that piano TOO" or "Hey PJ, remember that time at that studio where we used the same piano to record our albums on? Remember that time? Remember?" or "Oh my god, we're like, the SAAAAAMMMMMMME!" or "Wow, your last album sounds SO MUCH like the piano I used on MY ALBUM..you know, the one I recorded in NEW YORK and LONDON. Did I mention I live in PARIS?"

Seriously, P.J. Come off it. I have brown hair and frown a lot too.
You KNOW we're BFF.

xo Dana Christine

CHICKY & BYRD

This is Byrd. Jeff Byrd but most people call him Byrd. He produced my album with me and we've been having a blast in London listening to each song come alive, one by one. This album has been in the works for almost two years now and hearing our hard work mixed into one big beautiful album brings tears to my eyes.
Byrd rules.

This is Chicky. Charles Reeves but a lot of people call him Chicky. He is the reason we came to London, to work in his studio. Chicky is a true master of sound and I would trust no one else to mix and master my songs. His ears are golden and he is taking each song to a completely new level.
Chicky rules.

I wrote this album but these two creative forces are making it come to life.
Work with talented people.
Always.
Especially with Chicky and Byrd if you're an air sign like me. :)

I SEE LONDON, I SEE FRANCE

Woke up at 5:15AM this morning to catch a 6:40AM train to London where I am mixing and mastering my album for the next two weeks (YAY). I am an ALWAYS on time person. It disturbs me DEEPLY to arrive anywhere less than 15 minutes early. I usually average 30-45 minutes early because I probably have some big issue I never dealt with somewhere in my past but I like to think that I just don't like rushing. Yesterday, I had even gone to the trouble of picking up my ticket from the station early and going to scope out where the gate would be.

With this in mind, it was especially perplexing to me that I left myself exactly 26 minutes this morning to drag two giant bags and a 40 lb. accordion on my back into the subway, take the metro to the train station, go through immigration, fill out customs form, push and cut to the front of the line and then RUN to the train while shouting "OH NOOOO!!!!WAIT FOR MEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!" as the departure bell rang. Sweating profusely and gasping for air, I practically hugged the steward as I literally fell onto the train. "OH MY GOD (pant pant)....OH MY GOD....MERCI MERCI MERCI"

As I loudly tripped over a passenger's foot and huffed and puffed my way into my seat, I saw the others on the train staring at me...hair a mess, visibly heaving, pained expression. Oh my god, I'm THAT GIRL. The one I always think is SO DUMB. The one I always say to in my mind "if only you had gotten up 30 minutes earlier...YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF, STUPID".

It's nice to see how the other team plays but I'll happily take my anal retentiveness over cardiac arrest any day. I did this to MYSELF. Next time I'm totally getting up at 4AM.

FISH HEADS AND ASSHOLES - DAY 90

Today marks my three month anniversary of moving to Paris. Between the mix of traveling and having a stream of friends stay at our apartment, I feel I've only dipped my big toe into this city.
Now I want to stick my face in it and open my eyes.

Yesterday, after a most annoying 7.5 hours spent yelling at my computer and trying in vain to upload the latest Les Alpes video installment (I have not given up), FB and I went to dinner. I had but one request. FISH. I wanted grilled whitefish. No sauce. No butter. Just grilled fish and vegetables. Having gorged myself on a mixed medley of red meats and cheeses for weeks on end, I yearned for a simple piece of whitefish sans le gravy, merci.

We found a nice place by Odeon and I smiled in anticipation as I ordered my grilled fish. Just as I was sitting back sinking into Frenchness, the aural missile entered my left ear like an unexpected A-bomb. "I THINK THAT A PRESIDENT OR A PUBLIC LEADER HAS A MORAL OBLIGAAAATION AND MUST STICK TO THE MORAL CODE THAT HE PREACHES!"
I whipped my head around to see who had launched the missile into the middle of my French bubble. And there they were.
AMERICANS.
BIG.
LOUD.
AMERICANS.
I quickly snapped my menu up to hide myself should anyone mistake me as "one of them". Blood boiling, I started my litany, spit flying across the table towards FB. I first tried in French so I could further separate myself from the apes but as "to speak strong, it's BAD...MUCH noise" didn't really showcase my wit or allow for the full expression of my deep disdain, I instead launched into an angry whispered "WHY does that guy feel it's necessary to YELL what he thinks about MORAL CODE to the ENTIRE RESTAURANT? IN ENGLISH! You know, they are EXACTLY the reason why people think Americans are loud and obnoxious. BECAUSE THEY ARE! THEY ARE RUINING EVERYTHING AND RUINING MY DINNER!"
Before FB had a chance to respond, another missile was sent our way, only this time in English with a heavy French accent, "I THEENK THE FRENCH AND ZE AMERICAINS HAVE SOMESING TO LEARN FROM EACH OTHER! SARKOZY FOR EENSTANCE!"
This was yelled at an even louder decibel than the American.
I was struck into silence.
Wait.
AMERICANS are loud and obnoxious.
FB gave me the look of "See? We have assholes here, too".

And then our fish arrived. As the waiter set the fish down in front of me, my first thought was "Houston, we have a problem". It was the whole fish. Tail, head and charred eye staring straight at me. I have a history of not eating food that can look at me but I didn't want to come off as amateur or unworldy so I carefully set a piece of lettuce over the eye and got busy with the middle of the fish. Digging straight in, I filled my mouth with a hefty bite and then....
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH
OK my mouth is filled with fish bones. Shit. I've heard people die from this. OK just keep chewing like it's totally normal. Alright, just nonchalantly slip that bone out of your mouth, ok, next one, ok number 3, 4, 5...no one noticed, keep going.

But when I got to 8 bones picked and spit out of my mouth, I gave up and looked at FB's plate. With surgeon-like skills, he had neatly spread his fish apart, extracted the bones and was happily and precisely eating just the meaty parts.
My plate looked like a murder gone bad with a lettuce cover up. I decided to come clean.

ME "Um, I have never actually eaten a fish like this before".
FB "Never? As in, never in your WHOLE LIFE?"
ME "No, never in my whole life. I never liked things looking at me while I eat them."
FB "Ahhhh, I was wondering about the way you were cutting into it! Do you want me to help you?"
PAUSE
ME "Um....yes."

I quietly sat like an embarrassed five year old while FB reached across the table, cleaned up my murder victim and cut him up correctly for me. He explained what the different parts of the fish were and as he cut the slimy egg sac out, held it up and asked me if I wanted any, I was able to hold my gag reflex down while muttering a "no, no, no, I think that's enough for tonight."

Lessons learned after three months in France: There are assholes everywhere and fish have lots of bones. Maybe I'm actually getting somewhere.

SHOCK AND AWE

This is by far the most dramatic example of a public safety image I have ever seen. In addition to the universal lightning bolt sign, it includes the addition of the dramatically bent over backwards victim, head arched to the sky as if to say "MON DIEUX, why oh WHY hast thou forsaken me?" Be warned, my friend. If you touch this box, YOU WILL BE STRUCK DOWN BY GOD IN HEAVEN and this is EXACTLY how you are going to DIE. So get that Shakespearean speech out and do it with FEELING this time!

I found it yesterday on the train station platform as we waited for our train back to Paris. I found it particularly appropriate as we had just come from FB's parents house where, yet again, I attempted to set something on fire. How was I supposed to know that the U.S.A. 8-plug super-sized extra wide power strip would not be magically converted by the tiny adaptor I had but instead would make a large hissing sound, followed by a loud pop, a small flame and then permanently shoot the lights out of my in-laws living room? They happened to be in the living room while my dual attempt at self-electrocution/familial arson occurred. I managed to mutter a quiet "oh shiiiiiit" as they rushed over to inspect the damage. My remedial French could only muster a "I am sorry for fire. I don't know. I am sorry. Fire so bad."

Fortunately, they didn't care so much about the lighting situation or my "Chaka hungry" explanation and after opening a door to let the smoke smell out, the incident was left alone. I am grateful to have such understanding in-laws and as we left, I looked them in the eye very seriously and let them know in earnest..."A promise. The fire. The light. It is last time. I no make the fire in the light."

LES ALPES PART 2

LES ALPES PART 1

Ok ok ok ok, I can do this, I can do this. So what that my legs are shaking and I feel like vomiting? It's just a mountain. A really really big mountain. That looks like, way bigger when I stand on it. At least there aren't any bears. I think. OK. Three year olds are passing you. You have officially been passed by a class of preschoolers. So quit crying like a baby, you idiot. STOP IT. You CAN get down this mountain...without your pride and your self worth in shambles but maybe also with no broken bones. Stand up straight, stand up STRAIGHT! WATCH THE TREE! OK, ignore the guy that just yelled at you, what does he know anyway? He's been born with skis on like apparently everyone else in this stupid country. IS THAT A TUNNEL? WTF??? I'm gonna rip his face off when we get down this mountain for talking me into going to the top.

I'm not gonna die, I'm gonna live, I'm not gonna die, I'm gonna live...




Coming soon..."SLOPE COP"

UNSETTLED - DAY ????

There's nothing like a good police raid of your apartment to take whatever little sense of belonging you have and throw it out the window. And did I mention it was in French and I did not understand one single word? Fun times yesterday morning, fun times. More on that later.....(and we're fine, I'm just psychologically traumatized and my paranoia has reached disproportionate levels and I've developed an eye twitch and night terrors but whatever, it's all cool).

Hmmmmmm.....I'd say it's the perfect time to get out of town and THROW MYSELF DOWN A MOUNTAIN! Today we leave for Les Alps and YES, I found an outfit.
Tragically, it is not inappropriately tight.
Ironically, it has fake leather patches and looks like a police uniform.
(Hmmmm it seems I was psychically tuned in when I purchased it last week).

I'll be busy patrolling the slopes for the next week, video camera in hand but with no internet connect. Be back soon. And by the way, never answer your door.

xo

YO FRANCE - TU ME MANQUES?

Yo France...I'm back! Did you miss me?

Sure France, I missed you too but I spent 2 1/2 New York weeks of kicking ass really loudly and it RULED. I ate bagels, pizza and Mexican food every day, walked around slurping a ginormous coffee and most importantly, I finished my recording my album. FUN.

But now I return to you, France. I always come back, don't I? I had a good two week run of the mouth but hey, it's silent time again for this compadre, France. No problemo.

And I have to say France, you are looking GOOOOD. You are WAY prettier than New York and the pretty girls always win. So let's just have a second go at this, OK? I don't need to understand everything you say anyway, I'll just nod my head smiling and you keep looking all pretty and we'll do ok in the end, you and me.

My heart is here with you, France. I ain't goin' nowheres, baby.

WHAT IS THE PROBLEM?

This is what I want. This. As a ski outfit. WHY DOES THIS NOT EXIST?? It is 2008. There is NO WAY that technology has not come up with this. As a ski outfit. For me.
There is no suitable ski outfit in New York City. I know this because I have been to every ski store, sports store, whoever the hell sells skiing clothes store in the ENTIRE city. And there was not one thing I would ever even CONSIDER throwing myself down a mountain in.
Not one.
So I stepped up my game.
I ordered some online to deliver on Monday. A friend sent me a link to a couple of snowboarding jumpsuits that are closer to what I want. I mean, they are still way too padded and everything but I ordered two sizes and two colors to see which looks cuter with a sparkly gold belt.
I guess I have to get a ski hat and gloves and lip gloss and whatever special socks or whatever things you have to wear under your ski outfit. Gave up on the light up goggles. Could wear a headlight but that'd just be lame. I feel this coming together...I got my nails done today and everything.

MOTORMOUTH

I have been running my mouth off at 120mph like a runaway pickup truck on a chase for two weeks straight now to anyone who will listen. I will HAPPILY listen to ANYTHING you want to talk about. ANYTHING. In as MUCH detail as possible, start from the beginning and use as many words as possible.
I am listening and understanding every word you say to me.
And after you are done speaking, I want to discuss every possible aspect and angle of what you just spoke to me about, in as much detail and using as many words as possible.
And when you wake up in the morning, I will be on your couch, wide awake and smiling since 6:43AM and I will say to you "Good morning!" and then we will talk FOR AN ENTIRE DAY WITHOUT STOPPING.
PAR-LEZ MOI.
JE SUIS LA.

Especially shopkeepers. It took me a few days to realize what I was doing. I am just working off all the internal fear I have in Paris when approaching a shopkeeper....my internal monologue usually reading something to affect of "for the love of God PLEEEEEEEASE DO NOT SPEAK TO ME...PLEASE OH PLEASE I will do anything, I will become ANYTHING if ONLY you will NEVER EVER NOT EVER SAY ONE SINGLE THING to me....DON'T LOOK AT ME, DON'T EVEN LOOK AT ME! DO...NOT..LOOK...AT....ME!!!....oh my god she is looking at me. SHE IS LOOKING AT ME. WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME???!#$! RUUUUNNNNNN!!!!!! etc etc etc."

VS.

This morning. Wandered into a bodega, spent 15 minutes leisurely looking at every bottle of juice available. Man walks by and bumps into me. I cheerily respond with an "Oops! Hiee! Excuse me!" with a smile. Saunter up to shopkeeper, place juice on counter with a huge sigh.

ME: Hi. I just LOOOVE blueberries.
SK: (half smile)
ME: Blueberries are my FAVORITE.
SK: Uh huh. (ringing up total)
ME: I think this juice is new. Like, I haven't seen this juice before I moved away. I used to live right down the street from here but now I live in France...
SK: $3.99.
ME: ..cause my husband is French and I decided to move there but I haven't tried any blueberries there yet. (handing him a $20) Sure is colder here!
SK: Uh huh. (handing change back)
(pause while I measure conversation potential, decide to drop it as the response has been lukewarm at best so far, will stop at bagel store on the way home as chances are better and there are always at least three people behind the counter)
ME: Well, it was nice talking to you! Have a great day and hey, stay warm! (said with my finger pointed at him and clicking noise made with tongue)
SK: Blank stare.

As I left the store, I thought to myself...stay warm? Since when have I EVER told ANYONE to "stay warm"? I think I am just panicking before I go back to retardation land on Monday. Gotta get all my well wishes in now.
NOTE TO SELF: Must get "stay warm" translated asap.

MOUNTAIN MAMA

TWO MONTHS AGO....

FB: "Wanna go skiing in the Alps for a week in March?"
ME: "hahahahahahahahahaha"
FB: "I'm serious. Do you want to go?"
ME: "The last time I was on skis I was 11 and it was on a small bump on the earth called Vernon Valley in Jersey. OF COURSE I'LL GO TO THE FRICKIN' ALPS!"

TODAY....

If you ever want to listen to the most annoying conversations of your life, hang out in a ski store where lots of loud rich people make stupid comments, like the woman who I could hear from across the store screaming to her husband "I DON'T KNOW WHICH LOOKS BETTAH AWN ME, THAH BROWN OR THAH BLACK!!?" to which he bellowed back "JUST BUY THEM BOTH!" (price tag on those $349 fyi, thanks for unsolicited advertisement for overt consumerism, Mr. & Mrs. Jerkoff).

I need a ski outfit. Fast. And in my naivete I thought it would be easy to find...all I want is something inappropriately tight in leopard print or fuscia where I could zip the front down after I effortlessly breeze down the bunny slope and whip out my chapstick. Oh and I want light up goggles too. What is so difficult about this???

STORE #1:
SALESLADY: Can I help you?
ME: Yeah. I don't know JACK about skiing but apparently I am going to the Alps in two weeks and I need a super hot outfit. Do you have anything more sparkly or like, WAY tighter than what's out here?
SALESLADY: No. Not really.
ME: Why is everything BROWN?
SALESLADY: (brightening) Yes, brown is VERY IN this season.
ME: I guess if you want to look like a turd rolling down a mountain. Weird.

STORE #2:
I find a one piece white snowboarding jumpsuit. I try it on and now I look like a pilot for Antarctica Air. Or an astronaut. But not a hot astronaut. Why does everyone need so much ROOM in ski clothes? I just want to look HOT. Upon exiting the dressing room:

SALESLADY: How did it fit?
ME: Really bad.
SALESLADY: Oh, I thought for SURE you would look like a a million bucks in that!
ME: Well, I looked like $1.89...
SALESLADY: That CAN'T be true.
ME: ...in a Hazmat suit.
SALESLADY: (blank stare)
ME: I'm gonna go to decontamination now, thanks anyway.

I'm running out of time here....one more store to go to tomorrow and then I might have to pull the big guns out and hike it to Jersey. They MUST have inappropriately tight leopard print there!

WHO'S THE FOX?

My mother has passed on many things to me in my life...namely....
1. All her disco dresses
2. Her cackly laugh
3. Her "I can drill a hole in your head and set you on FIRE" stare
4. Fantastic hair genes and general FOXiness

Have been in New York for a few days now and spent one night with my Mom. After showing her the above picture of me in her dress, she then found the above pictures of her taken at the same age.

Yes, I know our hair is a genetic wonder of the world (said while flipping hair back dramatically). Thanks, Mom!

LATER.

Tomorrow morning I leave for NYC for two weeks to finish recording the vocals on my album. Was just informed that the title I was planning on using (Walk It Off) is the title of the new Breeders album.
Great.
Thanks Breeders.
Why you have to rip my goods?

Yesterday was my last day of French class until April when I return from mixing/mastering in London. It was sunny outside and French Interrogator was in rare form today. I just rolled my eyes the whole class as she berated and said stuff I don't understand anyway. All I could think was, "um, aren't we supposed to be having a pizza party or something?"
Whatever, lady.
I'm OUTTA here!

Stay sweet,

Dana
(I'll be posting sporadically for the next two weeks...)

CHEDDAR MAKES THE WORLD GO 'ROUND - DAY 49

My favorite shop in Paris and my most favorite store I have ever been in my life EVER - past, present and probably future is La Grande Epicerie. I know I know I KNOW, it's the "expensive/bougiiiieeeee" place to shop but every time I walk through those doors, I have the hyperventilation of a 5 year old entering Chuck E. Cheese. Despite my rudimentary cooking skills, food has always been my favorite thing/past-time/obsession in the world. I could and have spent hours in the grocery store, looking at every jar, inspecting every label, every pretty picture, imagining what's inside every package. I go at least once a week now and spend about two hours inspecting the goods and stocking up on foreign labeled goods. Just slap an "old timey" label on something and I am the idiot/sucker spending 11 euro on some butter cookies. But they are filled with REAL BUTTER. And a picture of A REAL OLD TIMEY girl with BRAIDS on the label. And it's EUROPEAN too which means it's like, WAY REALER.

The one thing in my life that I have mourned since moving to Paris though is the death of yellow cheddar. I don't know if you know personally the magic and the glory of yellow cheddar, but it can make anything taste a billion trillion zillion times better. I have heaped and melted yellow cheddar on just about every dish you can think of and it's absence has been a real blow to my innermost soul. I mean, a tuna melt with brie? Ew. A hot dog covered in roquefort? Gross.

The other day I was meandering my way through La Grande Epicerie when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the old familiar fake orange color. My heart skipped a beat and before I could convince myself it was only an apparition....there it was. Right in front of me....
YELLOW CHEDDAR COCKTAIL BITES.
THE REAL DEAL.
JACKPOT!
"OH MY GOD!" (hyperventilating) I exclaimed and actually teared up as I hugged the little container and promised to love it more than anyone could ever love it EVER.

In the privacy of my own home for the past week, I have been adding my little precious cocktail cheddars to every single meal. Did you know that yogurt tastes awesome with cheddar? How about a salad? Did someone say a CHEDDAR salad? Hmm, this steak tastes great. WITH CHEDDAR! Today I made the most delicious creation ever known to humankind and maybe even the martian world too.....

CHEDDAR SMOTHERED QUAIL EGGS


I don't care what anyone says, especially food snobs. This was, by far, the most delicious meal I ever made and I savored every last bite, crying with joy by myself in my kitchen watching French soap operas.
With cheddar.

CE QUE TU DIS

This is the first installment in a series of short films we are making entitled "CE QUE TU DIS". Inspired by my prowess in French class and my general language domination skills, it explores the uncharted territories of the great language divide.
Enjoy.
More to come....

INTERVENTION

I am happy to report there's been a food intervention in my kitchen. Before the flames were able to engulf ALL who enter, my friend Corey showed up in France with a mission to teach this girl some cooking skills. We went exploring to some random neighborhoods and much to our delight, stumbled upon Chinatown and all the Asian markets. Corey spent a month in Thailand last year and got an amazing recipe for Tom Kha Gai soup from a family she stayed with so we gathered all the ingredients, came back to my incendiary kitchen where I stuck a video camera in her face and made her explain the whole thing from A to Z. Visual guides are KEY. When FB got home, I could see the look of relief in his eyes. It's called hope.

The next day we picked up a blank art book and Corey spent the next two days cutting out pictures from magazines, pasting and coloring to make me THIS.....
MY VERY OWN COOKBOOK. There's a new rule in my apartment. If you come to visit me, you have to write a recipe in my cookbook along with a visual demonstration of some sort.

And in return, I'll teach you how to look trés francaise.....merci, Corey....xoxo...bon voyage.

PIANO HANDS - DAY 45

Somewhere across the ocean or on a boat in the the middle of the ocean are my beloved accordions along with all my music gear, floating their way over to me from New York. Sometimes I think about them and try to imagine where they might be, if they are cold and if they miss being played by me. Instead, I have been playing an inordinate amount of piano lately as there is a grand piano in our apartment. I have not had a real piano in 15 years as my apartments were always too small to accommodate one. The ability to sit at this piano and stare out the window while playing for hours on end has been the best gift I have received in a long, long time. Actually, maybe EVER. While I work on finishing my album in these next two months, I am learning some random obscure songs to add to my ever-growing set list and I am also brushing up on my classical repertoire.

I have been given the gift of TIME and I plan on savoring every last moment of it. Slowly letting the manic New York way I spent my life escape me and falling gratefully into the circle of Parisian time instead....lala.....merci....

I feel something waking up in me as I wrap my head around the concept of focusing only on what I love and what I am the best at...music. I am not stealing time from someone else's day, I am not trying to live two lives being exhausted after a 12 hour day at a corporate job and starting my creative life on a fixed schedule from 10PM-12AM. I don't have a boss to answer to or work email to constantly check anymore. I have had a "job " since I was 12 years old and pioneered my first company, Babysitter's Inc. (ever the capitalist, I made t-shirts, took out an ad in the local newsletter and acted as the booker for my "girls").

All this freedom is new to me and I still fight the guilty feeling, as though it will be taken away from me any moment....but it won't because now that I have it, I am going to make it stick. I'll just make some t-shirts and a newsletter, get some new girls to work for me and make this last forever.

RODIN + JETLAG

I am a firm believer in impulsive behavior. My friend Corey decided on Monday night she would fly to Paris on Tuesday to come see me. ROCK. She arrived Wednesday morning after a no-sleep flight and we decided to go the Rodin Museum. It has always been my absolutely favorite museum in Paris and after wandering through the amazing old house surrounded by incredible sculpture everywhere, I had one thing to say....HOT.
His sculptures are so incredibly erotic and beautiful, it took all my will power not to reach out and touch every single one.
Corey, on the other hand, had a slightly different reaction.....

OPPOSITE DAY - DAY 41

Some people move to Paris, take up smoking and learn how to cook amazing meals. I, on the other hand, moved to Paris, quit smoking and promptly became the worst cook on the face of the planet. This is what I accidentally made for breakfast today.

It's supposed to be toast.
Sigh.

Yes, just another day in my delicious kitchen adding yet another dish to my ever growing list of fiery disasters. I'm getting really tired of the mad dash to the kitchen window to let the smoke out but whatever. I never said I was a good housewife. Time to find out where the Chinese take-out is.

RETURN OF THE NINJA

I'd been waiting for this moment since I arrived in Paris....maybe even for my whole life. I was starting to think it would never come. But I waited. Quietly, patiently, diligently and with the unspoken confidence that eventually....it would come.
And come to pass it DID. Yesterday the opportunity presented itself in more glory than I could have EVER hoped for.
I compared myself to Bruce Lee in the same sentence.
In French.
In conversation.
To a group of strangers.

Kung Fu Dana is BACK!
SHAZAAAAAM!

PLACE: French class
CHARACTERS:
Beaten down American girl, 30s, with Ninja roots, angry, alone, nowhere to go but UP, looking for any opportunity to pounce.
French Interrogator, woman, 50s, with balls of steel and a mouth to match
15 foreign witnesses

I have gotten used to things changing at the drop of the hat here due to the great language divide. I'll feel like the queen of the world one moment but it doesn't take much to send me reeling down in a fit of confusion. I call it the retardation roller coaster and I never know when the next giant hill is coming. Sometimes I understand a lot of what my French Interrogator (aka teacher) says, other times I come up blank and just give the vacant stare look right through her. Based on her reaction to me, I'm pretty good at the "special place" open mouthed stare. She usually calls me the American fish in an aquarium then.

So yesterday I was swimming along in a particularly low wave of understanding when the class subject turned to sports. We had to go around the room and say what sport was common in our country of origin. And it clicked. I couldn't WAIT until it was my turn...yes yes yes, Italy and football, NEXT, England and rugby, OK OK, NEXT, Australia, India, Spain, GOT IT...NEXT.....finally my turn comes and French Interrogator seizes the opportunity to make a very sarcastic statement about Americans and their "own" football.

MY TIME HAS COME.

I look her square in the eye and say loudly and confidently "Oui...mais non pour moi. Je joue LE KUNG FU. Je pratique LE KUNG FU. Je suis comme BRUCE LEE."
BAM! REVERSE HEADLOCK! HA!
"Tu connais Bruce Lee?" (You know Bruce Lee?) I innocently demand, driving my point home and turning the interrogation around. French Interrogator rolls her eyes but I read a shred of fear in them. I know what fear looks like, I happen to be a master of it. I decide to throw her another curve ball and further prove my point.
"J'aime donner un coup de pied.....BEAUCOUP." (I like to kick.....a LOT)

Game over, France.
Two points NEW YORK.

She leaves me alone for the rest of class and though I still don't understand what she says, I sit there with my victory smile for this one small battle won. After class the Italian guy in my class leans over and asks "ees thees Kung Fu thing true?"
"YUP" I say. And with that, I close my books and waltz out the door.

IT'S NINJA TIME.

Superboule

I have never, not once EVER in my entire life voluntarily watched a football game. It has never interested me in the slightest and though my entire family is full of REAL fans (my Dad happens to be king of the NY Giants tailgaiting), watching a game has always elicited a giant "this is sooooo booooooooring...whateeeeeeeeever" sigh from me.

I have no idea what happened to me last night, but apparently I channeled some kind of ancestry and watched the Superbowl at 12AM here, complete with French commentary (try THAT on for weird sometime). Maybe moving to Paris has made me nostalgic for anything "New York" but last night, I heatedly turned into a real, die hard NY Giants fan. Complete with a tear in my eye for the national anthem and outbursts like "BABE, I'm trying to watch the GAME HERE!" and "JESUS CHRIST PEOPLE! PICK UP THE BALL!!"

Maybe there's hope for me yet, Dad. I am a GIANT NEW YORKER after all. You can get me the beer tumbler for my birthday, ok?