THEY GOT ME.

This is the bag of a total moron who doesn't know how to travel safely with belongings in a city.


The open bag is mine.
And the total moron is me.
I have carried it since I moved here nearly three years ago......until I got pick-pocketed last week in the St. Germain des Prés metro stop.

I never EVER thought that would happen to me in Paris what with me being so ninja and everything. I am hyper aware of my surroundings at all times, I mistrust everyone and I am fast on the street....WAY fast....like a CAT....a CHEETAH. Yeah, whatever, so I carry a canvas bag with no zipper. So what? I clutch it to my chest on the metro while giving everyone around me the hairy eyeballs. And besides, it says BROOKLYN on it which duh...screams YOU ARE SO F'IN STREET and should scare off any potential hoodlums and hooligans, right?


Wrong.
Maybe the lightning method works for hyperactive people who run through their life as if being chased by wild dogs which has safely spared me from pickpockets for the past 20 years of my existence in urban living. But then I got knocked up and everything changed. Everything. I went from cheetah to goldfish in 8 months. Two months ago I had to trade in my beloved 8 pairs of Converse for the only shoes I own with actual support in them which happen to be white ugly Mom jogging shoes. And yes, I wear them with dresses because frankly, I don't give a shit anymore and my back hurts. My once cheetah pace has slowed to a near crawl and my mind is perpetually absent or is thinking about way more important things like cheeseburgers and Pad Thai. I'm the perfect bait for any shark. A pregnant, slow, dopey goldfish with a giant, open bag. I may as well wear a sign that says HELLO. STEAL EVERYTHING I OWN BECAUSE UNLESS YOU ARE SHAPED LIKE A CHOCOLATE DONUT I WON'T NOTICE AND EVEN IF I DID I CAN'T RUN AFTER YOU ANYWAY.

The scene of the crime just fits so PERECTLY. I knew when I moved into this area, aka tourist CENTRAL, that I should watch my step because where there are large amounts of prey....there are also large amounts of predators......sigh....oh hindsight.....

I moseyed my way down to one of the ticket machines and bought a carnet of tickets using my bank card. I never think to cover my hand as I type in my code which is pretty stupid because the way the machines are set up, it's really easy to read someone's code as they type it in (I know this now because I have spent the last week reading other people's codes as they type them in). As I waited for the tickets to print, I took my bank card and put it in my open change purse in my open bag. I grabbed the tickets after they printed and as I walked down the steps, I reached in my open bag to put them in my open purse which.....quelle surprise!...had been dumped over and the contents were spread across the bottom of the bag. Interrupting my thoughts of Korean BBQ, I decided I must have accidentally spilled it....so I put everything back in and went along on my day.

It wasn't until that night at the grocery store with a cart full of Haribo, cheddar cheese and green bell peppers (weirdest pregnancy craving to date...I eat them like apples) and no way to pay for it that I realized my bank card was gone. Disappeared. Bye bye. And even THEN, I thought I must have just lost it until I looked at my bank statement the following day which informed me that I was now 600 euro lighter. I didn't even have 600 euro in my bank account to begin with. Thanks a lot, overdraft system. That was REALLY HELPFUL TO ME. I thought I left the whole "criminals stealing money borrowed on YOUR CREDIT" thing behind me......guess not.

To get reimbursed by the bank, I had to make a formal declaration at the police station. One hour later after an Oscar worthy performance dramatically recounting a detailed description of what happened in my shit French to the police officer "I descended the thingies...how do we say....shelves....no stairs....and OH LO LO....I look.....money bag it is not good, it is like this (miming upside down).....but I didn't think then that there is baaad.....I went to the grocery in the night and I have no money for candy and then I think OH LO LO, someone....someone in the day takes my things."

Hey, I'm progressing.
Signed, sealed, delivered.

8 more weeks left and I can begin my return to cheetahland (not to be confused with cheetOland).
Until then, this goldfish in white jogging shoes needs to get her mind off the donuts and back in the game.

THE WANDERER

Today was one of those perfect Parisian September days and as I have been stuck indoors for the most part since April either sick and knocked up or sick, knocked up and recording an album, I set out on a wander to remind myself that yes, there is still life outside your apartment......


Ohhhhh Paris....sitting in the park pondering your pretty face, I lose the disgust I have had for you these past few weeks that you are an unfriendly and unloving city. I'm just cranky because my best friend just moved away and I'm too knocked up to run fast right now or hit stuff or have dance parties and margaritas. But sometimes you DO make me feel a bit like THIS....


I wandered around and got caught behind a pack of 17 year old French boys. All smoking. All snickering. All cocky. All wearing the exact same jeans. And all under 5'7. This is my future, I realized, as I am going to have a French boy as a son in two months. Wait, how did THAT happen? Is he gonna smoke and complain about everything in a thick French accent? Maybe by then, I'll actually understand the language.....



Ahhhhh...my favorite English school has a new affront to my senses up in the metro..."A new language! A new job!" As what? A serial killer whose signature is to lick the flag onto his victims? Seriously. Couldn't they have found a model who doesn't have bloodshot wandering dead eyes?



And last but not least, the award of the day for most unfortunate clothing store name goes to.....Teenflo, who, by the way, sell business casual, not maxipads and zit cream.

DECONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM

I'm done.
It's over.
My patience has been worn thin and torn.

If one more person of French descent and more specifically, a Parisian, tells me I look fat, tired and/or red, I will unleash the New York apeshit that has flooded over the surface. Do you REALLY need to let me know I am "very very beeg"? Gee, thanks, I hadn't noticed THAT I AM ACTUALLY PREGNANT. Your helpful reminder was SOOOOOOO NECESSARY. Thank you also for making a point to tell me every time that I enter your store how red my face looks. It's called a motherfucking ROSY PREGNANT GLOW, OK? And I don't tell YOU how pasty your permanent grimace looks so lay off my face before I pound on yours.

(Taking a breath) OK, maybe it's the hormones talking but in the past two months, I've been pushed down the metro steps, consistently not offered a seat on the train, told by a local concert organizer he "doesn't kees zee pregnant women" when I went in for the customary bises, told by a Parisian musician "I hate zee sound of your instrument" (pointing to my piano) not more than 30 seconds after we finished playing a packed show, constantly asked if I'm OK because "I don't look so good"....all this in addition to daily reminders that I am big and red and apparently look like I am going to die at any given moment. WTF? Maybe I should just start telling random strangers here as I push them down a flight of stairs that "hey, by the way, your face is HUGE and you look like you're gonna DROP DEAD, you should really rest more....ARE YOU OK???"

I know this is a city of critics and the almighty "opinion", I've known it from the moment I arrived and for two years I have played it nice, patiently trying to learn the language and stay friendly while trying to make sense of the jokes of circular "wit" that abound here. And by "wit", I mean basically just insulting and critiquing everything around you in as many words as humanly possible.

Well, not anymore.
Why? Because I ACTUALLY AM fat, tired and red and I've HAD IT with the deconstructive criticism from a bunch of whiny self appointed critics. I recorded an entire album in August. What did YOU do Paris? You closed down and took another month off and now everyone is oh so cranky to be back. Awwwwww so sad for you. If you don't have anything nice to say, KEEP YOUR TRAP SHUT. I don't need to know that you think my baby must have an ENORMOUS HEAD and that it must be hard to walk if you're like me. Just sell me my half kilo of fucking ham and MOVE ON. And yes, I KNOW MY LIPS ARE CHAPPED, you didn't need to point that out too.

I miss the USA right now with it's giant dose of friendliness and a big fat smile to go with a side of "HOW ARE YOU TODAY?"

Paris, you are my home but you are reeeeeeealllly trying my patience right now........

NOW I'M A FOLK SINGER.

Yes, that's real a real breeze at sunset in the country.
We should be a Prell ad.
Anyway.....
It's August in Paris.
And everyone is on vacation.
Everyone except me and Erica.
In the spirit of "finish every goal you have or may have in the future NOW before the child arrives", I am recording, mixing and mastering The Resident Cards album this month with Erica, le BFF and l'autre coté of our duo. I've never made a record with a girl before. Having spent the past 10 years in rock or punk bands with boys, I'm used to foul mouthed, smoking, farting, drinking, belching, totally inappropriate discussions about women and their lady parts, eye rolls, arguments, garbage, garbage, more trash and having a REALLY good time except when I wanted to throttle all of them.

Now I live in France and I'm in a folk duo with a girl where we have daily discussions that go something like this...

DB: You're so awesome!
EB: No, YOU'RE so awesome!
DB: BUT YOU ARE THE AWESOMEST!
EB: OK! We are BOTH so awesome!
DB: You look pretty today!
EB: Awwwwwww, so do you!
DB: You know what's really pretty? Our record is sooooooo pretty!
EB: It's AMAAAAAZING!!! This is soooo fun! Here, let me help you clean those dishes!
DB: Awwwwww, SO FUN!
BOTH: YAAAAAAAAAAY!

We work every day and night, cook vegetarian lunches and take "watch Weeds or True Blood" breaks and sometimes we are crabby and we cry and then we laugh again. And then we work more. Because we are ninjas. We mix and master in London on August 26th and after a year of working the minutiae of these songs, it's SO AWESOME to have them recorded properly.

Sometimes we get frustrated and have to take a dance break from the grind.....



One awesomely pretty record coming soon.....

BIIIIIIIIIIIIG SOLDES

Living in France, I often miss Daffy's (High Fashion Low Prices!)and Marshalls (Brand name fashion for the entire family!) and especially Loehmann's (Off price specialty retailer of designer fashons!). Ahhhhh.....the the thrill of the aimless wander through these stores on the hunt for a designer bargain, somewhere buried among the piles of ugly print dresses and Mom jeans. These stores were my Ativan, immediately calming and utterly satisfying.

I get my Ativan twice a year in Paris where YES, once again, this week ends the season of SOLDES SOLDES SOLDES (SALES! SALES! SALES!) I quietly sat out the whole month of the sales as I refuse to battle the crowds and for me, there is no point because at the end of the sales are the best prices and guess what's left? LOTS OF MY SIZE. LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS. It's the joy of being a big girl in Paris. All the size 0s, 2s and 4s have long ago been snapped up but me? I can wide load shop happily now.

Today is my time. SOLDES are ending and I have the crazed itchy fingers, heart racing excitement of knowing I will be spending the day wandering aimlessly through store after store. I also have a new card in play this year.....THE PREGNANT CARD.



It took me a few months to really feel comfortable using this one but as I waited sheepishly in line after line, I was scolded by at least a dozen Parisian women (all over 50) who would look at me with the most scornful and pitiful look and say incredulously, "WHY ARE YOU WAITING IN LINE?????!!!" as if I was the dumbest person ever to grace the planet. I'd stutter out a "welllll.....uh.....I don't know....I" to which they would respond "YOU ARE PREGNANT! YOU GO TO THE FRONT! IT'S YOUR RIGHT! IT'S THE LAW!" as if by standing in line, I was somehow messing up the rules for everyone else.

It took all of two times waltzing to the front of the grocery store line for me to realize....THIS ROCKS. I have four months left of this card, and goddamnit, I'm using every last one. Move over beeyatches, I got 12 items on a 7 item limit and I got giant a dressing room and I will happily push past your size 0 ass BECAUSE I CAN.

Happy SOLDES SOLDES SOLDES!!!!!

BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS

FB: (bursting through the door) I have a present for you!
ME: YAY PRESENTS! (jumping up and down)
FB: You're gonna loooooove it, they are sooooo good!
ME: YAY PRESENTS!!!

He opens a bag and presents me with this....


ME: Um...is this like sheep brain baked in veal eyes or something??(automatic sneer)
FB: No, it's an Oeuf en Gelée!
ME: A what???
FB: OEUF. EN. GELEE.

I pick it up and sneeringly examine it more closely.....



ME: Um...is this a JELLO cup?
FB: Delicious!
ME: Is that an EGG in the middle???
FB: Yup. SO good.
ME: Sooo...(putting the foreign object down)....it's basically ham and egg jello.
FB: Pretty much.
ME: Ham and egg jello cups....ugh (sneer turning to grimace)...That. Is. SO. GROSS.

My mind races back to various Jello molds I encountered as a child, with enticing names like "Ambroooooosia Jello Salad" all of which ended in a big fat ten year old EWWWWWWWW from me. I'm a fan of the Jello. I would happily rock a bowl of American over-sweetened cherry flavor Jello in a heartbeat. It's the putting things INSIDE the Jello that I find to be a horror show.

I am usually adventurous when it comes to trying new food but THIS thing presented in front of my eyes just takes the cake. WHY would ANYONE put HAM and EGG in JELLLLLLLO????? The ten year old takes control...

ME: EEEEEEEWWWWWW! I can't eat THIS!! I'm gonna BAAAAAARF! It's so GROOOSSSS!! EWWWWW!! What are you DOING?? You just plop it onto your plate like that??? BARF-O-RAAAAAAMA!!! HAM JELLLLLOOOOO....GROOOOOOSSSSSS......
FB: It's not JELLO. It's in ASPIC and it's AMAAAZING. TRY IT.
ME: (poking at it)...ugh....ok, fine.

I cut through the center and gingerly try a bite.

WHOOOOOOAAAAAA.
IT.
IS.
DELISH.

I scarfed the whole thing in three bites and it's official. I am a convert to the Oeuf en Gelée, or as I call them: Jello Cups of Champions. Some have a tomato in them, others have cornichons, a bit of parsley or estragon. I have no idea what time of day the French eat them but these are my new breakfast of champions.
YUMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

THE WOMEN MAKE LIKE WAH WAH

Today I went back to the 10th arrondissement to visit my favorite old men. First stop was my Savate teacher at my old boxing school. I hadn't called him since dropping off the face of the planet months ago and I missed being made fun of by all the old men at the school so I picked up some of my favorite tarts as a gift and paid a little visit. Upon entering, my teacher smiled a wide grin and said "PAS VRAI!!!!" (NO WAY!!!)
"OUI VRAI!!!" I replied wholeheartedly.

After giving him a giant American hug and explaining my giant belly, we sat down to catch up. When the topic of whether I am having a boy or girl came up, the convo went like this (in French...)

TEACH: Is it a boy or a girl?
ME: Almost certainly a boy.
TEACH: AHHHHHH, felicitations!!!
ME: Yeah, I am very happy. (pause) The women are difficult.
TEACH: Ah yes, very difficult.
ME: TOO difficult.
TEACH: Of course....
ME: I like boys.
TEACH: Clearly.
ME: The women make like WAAAAH WAAAAAAH (wild hand gestures)!!!
TEACH: (nodding seriously) Ah yes, ah yes.....

Apparently I suddenly hate women in baby language. Lately I have found myself saying things that makes absolutely no sense to me or anyone around me. I don't really know what I meant by "the women make like WAH WAH" and I am fairly certain my Teach had no idea what I meant either so we just let it go at that......

After catching up with all my favorite old dude boxers, I went to my favorite Indian market up the street to stock up on supplies. The owner Raj never remembers my name but instead calls me New York. He learned English while working on a Texan steamship from 1972-1978. He has three kids and still loves his wife after 37 years. He told me the key to a happy marriage is to tell your wife she is beautiful every day. (He's right.) As I was leaving, we had the following convo (in English)....

RAJ: WAIT! YOU WILL BUY MY MANGOES! (he declares with a raised finger and ushers me to a large stack of boxes where he delicately selects a box from the middle)
ME: (laughing) Oh really? I will?
RAJ: YES! YOU WILL BUY THIS BOX OF MANGOES, THE SWEETEST MANGOES ON THIS STREET, THE BEST MANGOES IN PARIS IN THIS BOX!!!!
ME: How much are they?
RAJ: 5.90
ME: How come the sign says 3.50?
RAJ: Oh no, those are for other mangoes. Those mangoes are BAAAD. You will NOT buy those mangoes. Very bad, VERY bad. (opens a box to show me some sad looking shriveled up fruit)
ME: Then why are you selling them?
RAJ: I am not selling them to you, YOU ONLY BUY THE BEST MANGOES!
ME: OK OK, I'll buy a box. But they BETTER BE GOOD. IF NOT.....
RAJ: Yes, yes, I know, New York comes to find me and finish it.

I laughed so hard that tears came to my eyes as I promised Raj that in my current state I wouldn't be hunting him down and that the only thing I would be finishing are his box of best mangoes (which, consequently, ARE the best mangoes I have tasted in a long time).

I so heart old dudes.

BUBBLESMACK

Spent a lazy Sunday at the inlaw's house outside a sweltering Paris. They had left on vacation the day before so I did what any normal person would do the minute they left the house.....raid the cabinets for snacks (as rifling through other people's kitchens is a favorite sport of mine).
Duh.

Past the rice, beans, soup mix...blah blah boring.....through the chocolate, cookies and confiture...eh....not in the mood.....dried pasta....blech.....weird packaged sauce....ew......my eyes widened as I found a bag of what looked like....YES IT IS.....WHOOOOOOOAAAAAA......my favorite candy in the whole entire universe.....BUBBLEGUM. A GIIIIIIANT BAG OF BUBBLEGUM.
WIIIINNNNNNNNNNNNNNER!!
DINGDINGDINGDINGDINGDING!!!!!

(yes, the slippers are also pilfered and are my new favs)

Trying not to get too excited because as I've learned, you never know what weird flavor French candy might come in, I let out a small yelp as I ripped open two pieces and popped them in my mouth. Chewing furiously, an oversized gummy smile came over my face.
OH MY GOD....IT'S COLA.
AND IT'S DELICIOUS.
(Spit out first two pieces).
NEXT.
(Rip open three more).
TUTTIFRUTTI.
AMAAAAAZING.
(Spit out, rip open three more)
CHERRY AND CITRUS.
AAAAAWESOME.
(Make my own mix of cola/citrus/cherry/tuttifrutti)
WHOOOOOOAAAAAA!
Chewchewchewchewchewchewsmackchewchewchewchewbubblesmackchewchewchewchew.

I have always been a gum fanatic with Bazooka cherry flavor in particular being my lifetime gum of choice. I could always roll with Bubblelicious and Double Bubble in a pinch of course, but I would inevitably return to the master of all gum, Bazooka Joe. In the third grade my mind got blown when I walked into the dime store to buy my usual handful of Bazooka and saw a new product calling out to me from the shelf....GIANT BAZOOKA GUM. "Whaaaaaaaaaaa?!!!!" my nine year old brain shrieked as I shook with excitement. 10 pieces in ONE???? It's GUM and more importantly, it's BIGGER???? IT'S BIG GUM????!!!! This oversized piece of sugar rush overcame all my senses as I yanked it eagerly from the shelf, ran to the cashier, dumped my change and proceeded to stuff the entire jackpot into my mouth.
(Insert nine year old crack high)
AAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHAAAAAAAA

I chewed that piece all day and into the night when I proceeded to go to bed with it still in mouth. At some point during the night the mangled wad fell out of my mouth and adhered itself to my face, then my nightgown, then my sheets and eventually my hair which resulted in large chunks of pigtail needing to be cut out the following morning.
Lesson learned?
I need more gum.

That same year I was doing my fleeting stint as a softball player on the presciently hipster named "Oakland Plum Sox". My father has a photo of me up to bat in mid swing during this time with gum in mouth, determined look on my face to kill the ball and the bat about two feet below where the ball actually is. Needless to say, I was never any good. My most vivid memory is during a game, standing in my out-outfield position, the snack bar perilously close to my right, my gaze is permanently fixed on it and my thoughts are HOTDOGS BAZOOKAGUM HOTDOGS BAZOOKAGUM HOTDOGS GUM HOTDOGS GUM.....when....
SMACK!!!
The ball knocks me on the head and rolls away as I realize I just added another notch to the "The Plum Sox SUCK" club.
Oops.

I spent the entire afternoon on Sunday chewing and bubble blowing my way through the entire bag of Malabar Bubble Mix while covering my body with the fake tattoos that come with each piece.

(**NOTE: ROCK ATTITUDE must be said with a French accent)


I AM famous.
Life is good.
Chewchewchewchewbubblechewchewsmackchewchewchewchewchewchew.....

CRACKED LOGIC

8:02AM THIS MORNING

RING! RING!
ME: (jolted awake) Who is ringing our doorbell this early????
FB: I don't know.
RING! RING! BAMBAMBAM
ME: WTF?
FB: I don't know....
RING! RINGRINGRING! BAMBAMBAMBAM RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!
FB: J'arrive!!!!! OK OK!

We threw some clothes on and as FB answered the door and I heard him accept a package, my heart skipped a beat and I knew immediately what had just arrived.....

THE STETHOSCOPE.

It all started a few months ago after my perception of the world and how it works came to a grinding halt in 15 short seconds. Hooked up to a sonogram machine, I saw and heard for the first time a heartbeat not my own but instead from a small globular alien with a giant head and shortened limbs growing inside of me. Maybe for some, this is as natural an experience as could be, one to print out and send to everyone you know as the first glimpse of your oh so precious little cupcake.
No, I say.
Not for me.
My brain immediately went to THIS PLACE......

Straight out the window and into the world of space aliens and creatures from the beyond. I have just always assumed I was made of plastic. I have no tolerance for blood and guts and what goes on inside the body. I have no clue where any of my organs are and frankly, I have never really cared. I go about my daily business just fine, thanks. But now I hear this thumping sound over the monitors and it hits me like a Godzilla smackdown...THIS THING IS INSIDE OF YOU. AND IT COULD EAT YOU ALIVE. IN FACT, IT IS EATING YOU ALIVE RIGHT NOW.

I instantly fall in love with it.

It was at this pivotal moment I became obsessed with the daily question "is the monster still alive?". Having a creature from the lagoon living inside of you but not being able to hear or see it on a daily basis can drive a control freak like me off the deep end. Every day I meditated on "letting go"....basically, on changing my entire personality. One morning I caught FB online looking at medical gear...
ME: What's that?
FB: It's a home fetal monitor
ME: Oh nononononononononono, bad idea. BAD IDEA.
FB: Why?
ME: 'Cause I'll be that neurotic retard who ends up with it permanently taped to my belly wearing a pair of headphones all day "just to check". My OCD will LOOOOOVE THAT. No way. I'm trying to be a hippie instead and let go, ok?
FB: OK.

As the weeks progressed and I started to feel actual movement, my neuroses diminished and we had the "fun" idea last week to order a stethoscope off ebay. Why not? What a "fun activity" for us to be able to hear the heartbeat whenever we wanted to. As usual, all logic flew out the window and as FB tore open the box this morning, I jumped into bed and yelled "OK DOC! I'M READY!!" After a quick read of the directions, he set the stethoscope on my belly. After searching around for a few minutes, I felt my familiar panic starting. He can't find it, he can't find it, oh my god, oh my god. OK, calm dooooooown, he couldn't find his OWN heartbeat a few minutes ago. Relax, just relax. But with every passing minute, I felt my own heart rate rising until finally I couldn't take it anymore. "JUST GIVE IT TO ME". After a quick Google search of "hear fetal heartbeat with stethoscope" (which brings up about 100 other jackasses trying to do the same thing) and ignoring all the advice saying it is difficult to hear at home with a stethoscope , I laid down and started furiously pressing into my abdomen. Listening intensely, all I could hear was bubbles and water. Oh noohnoohnoohno....tears welling, I tore it off of me and threw it across the room. "WHY DID WE BUY THAT STUPID THING???!! I CAN'T FIND THE HEARTBEAT!! WHAT IF THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG?????" As I laid back down exasperated and in tears, I felt a sudden jerk of movements in my abdomen and the alien gave me good solid kick as if to say, "LISTEN YOU IDIOTS, LEAVE. ME. ALONE."

Oops. Sorry, alien. I'll knock next time....

ME: That definitely qualifies as most asinine waste of money EVER. WHO BUYS A STETHOSCOPE?? Why did we DO THAT??
FB: It's not a waste, I'll still use it.
ME: For what exactly?
FB: We can check its heartbeat after it's born.
ME: (rolling eyes) Yyyyyyeah, ok. Cause it'll love THAT so much, two crazed parents chasing it around with a stethoscope just to "make sure everything is ok". That sounds really productive and I'm sure its friends will love that...."Dude, why does your loser Dad keep trying to check you heart?"
FB: OK fine, I'll use it to check my OWN heartbeat.
ME: You mean the one you couldn't find five minutes ago? A little unnecessary...
FB: Why is that unnecessary?
ME: Because if you are standing there breathing and moving and thinking you need to check your heartbeat, chances are YOUR HEART IS DEFINITELY STILL BEATING.
FB: Whatever. I'm still gonna use it.
ME: Yeah ok, doc. ;)

BIGGER AND BADDER

Four months ago I unexpectedly dropped off the face of the planet. We had some house-guests from NY staying with us at the time and I was exhausted and feeling pretty ill.

After hosting a particularly boozy dinner party that included this....

my jambalaya or as I call it, Four Meat Frenzy, I awoke at 3AM and raced to greet the porcelain throne. As I slowly lifted my head out of the toilet, it suddenly dawned on me......the unexplained exhaustion, the coming and going flu symptoms......DUUUUUDE. YOU ARE TOTALLY PREGNANT.
(Blank stare at the toilet lid)
AND YOU JUST DRANK A BOTTLE OF PORT.
(Blank stare at the toilet lid)
Good job.
Off to a great start there, champ.

Whatever fleeting pregnant glow I got from the surprising but good news quickly faded as I settled into what I now call my Three Months In The Dark Ages. This was me on a good day.....


My exciting Parisian life now consisted of sleep, shuffle to bathroom, throw up, cry, whine, eat watermelon, sleep, shuffle, throw up, cry, demand cottage cheese, throw up, whine, sleep.....and on and on and on....

There were a few detours along the way, i.e. the "McDonald's Incident" about two months in. During one of the rare 45 minute periods in the early afternoon where I actually felt I could stomach more than water and fruit, I had the genius idea of giving myself and the growing monster inside of me a real "treat". A real congratulatory edible gift in the form of a Big Mac and some fries. So, under the guise of going birthday gift shopping for FB, I quickly threw on my first makeup in two months and headed out the door to the golden arches across the Seine, the whole way thinking fries fries fries fries fries fries fries fries......
Entering the restaurant and making my way to the front of the line, I was suddenly overwhelmed by all the pictures and blurted out "I'll have a Big Mac menu please, LARGE....aaaaaaand also a Fish Royale....no wait, make it a Fish Royale MENU....um, also a large but um, just one soda, thanks. Uh, yeah."

What possessed me in that moment to order TWO large meals for myself is beyond me. What was a bad idea in the first place was spiraling into a disastrous idea by the second. I slunk to the back of the restaurant feeling sure all eyes were on "that fat girl eating two lunches BY HERSELF". I quickly downed the Big Mac and got rid of the box evidence of my double lunch. Scarfing down two servings of fries and topping it off with one giant piece of fake fish smothered in fake mayonnaise, I let out a burp, sat back and enjoyed exactly two minutes of satisfaction my delusional binge had brought me.

And then it started.....the burps, the unidentifiable stomach sounds....uh, I don't feel too good. Oh no....I REALLY don't feel too good. I have to get out of here. Have to get home. NOW. Hot sweats starting. Heart beating faster, gotta get home, gotta get home, get home get home get home get home....

I half ran out of the restaurant in a panic, up the stairs and outside. OK fresh air, fresh air. Across the Louvre and to the river, ok, ok, ok I can make it I can make it. Overcome by a wave of nausea, I had to stop half way and lean over the side of the bridge....NOOOOOOOOOOOO, I WILL NOT PUKE MCDONALD'S INTO THE SEINE, I WILL NOT PUKE MCDONALD'S INTO THE SEINE, I AM NOT THAT PERSON, GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF. I forced myself upright and somehow made it home without losing my cookies, crawled back into bed and spent the next five hours paying DEARLY for a two minute binge. FB IM'd me and asked where I had gone..."to buy you a present"....I left out the part about ripping my insides out with chemically treated beef and partially hydrogenated oil.
Some things are best kept to oneself.

8:30PM FB arrives home, upon opening the front door....
FB: OH MY GOD....WHAT IS THAT SMELLLLLLL???????!!!!
ME: (from the bedroom) Huh? What smell?
FB: IT SMELLS LIKE SEWAGE IN HERE.
ME: Sewage? Huh? I don't know, I think I'm a little gassy from the pregnancy...
FB: (enters the bedroom and is immediately thrown back two feet by the stench, covers his mouth) AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH, OPEN THE WINDOWS! (races to windows and throws them open) What is your DEAL???!
ME: Oh, uh ok, yeah I don't really know what's happening.....strange....
FB: What did you EAT today?
ME: Oh, you know....just the usual....watermelon, some toast, cottage cheese....
FB: That's it?
ME: Yup, that's all. Pregnancy, man. (pause) Crazy what it does, ya know?
FB: (furiously lighting matches over the bed) Are you sure you didn't crap in the bed or something?? Seriously. That smell is HORRIFIC.
ME: (lifting sheets as a new wave of stench is released) Yeah, um, I'm sure. I'm just...ya know....a little gassy....from uh...pregnancy...
FB: (fleeing from bedroom) AAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!! (from other room while opening the rest of the windows) Oh my GOD, you're blowing me out of the apartment with this.
ME: (innocently) Yeah I know, I'm reeeeeeally sorry. Stay on the couch tonight....I'll get a grip on this....it won't last long I promise....it's just....what comes with being pregnant.....

The next morning I fessed up to what really happened and vowed never again to set foot in the golden arches. After I spilled the beans, FB got a smile on his face...
FB: Guess what?
ME: What?
FB: I did the same exact thing two nights ago but I didn't tell you about it because I knew you'd be mad that I didn't bring you any.
ME: Huh????

Apparently, he was working late and went into McDonald's to get a late dinner, got overwhelmed by the pictures and ordered the exact same thing I had....a Big Mac menu and a Fish Royale.
:)
I guess we're in sync after all.

p.s. Now in the middle of the second trimester and having traded in the McDonald's for quinoa salads, I am back in the world of living laaaaaaaaarge. One baby rocker is on the way.....

photo courtesy of Naomi White

THE RESIDENT CARDS

I knew that Erica and I were real friends the moment she came over and gave me a pair of her jeans that didn't fit her.
Clothes trade = automatic BFF
It was further sealed the night I got a giant care package from the states and we pored over US Weekly and InTouch Magazines together while eating peanut butter sandwiches with bags of Cheetos washed down with giant glasses of milk.
Guilty pleasures are way more fun when shared.

Now we have a folk band together called The Resident Cards and we throw a fantastically fun monthly party and bake cookies.
If you're in Paris, come say hi.
And have a chocolate chip cookie.




(photos by Elena Usacheva)

SERIOUSLY. REALLY?

Yes, the English language school with the unfortunate name of Wall Street Institute has come up with yet another genius ad campaign. I really don't know what their original intention was but the first thing that comes to mind when seeing three people lined up with half baked smiles and flag tongues hanging out at me is "LICK MY BAAAAALLS".
I imagine the following conversation each time I see these ads on the metro.....

BRITS: 'Ello! You therah! Yes, you French people! Terribly sorry to distuuuurb you but we would like to inquire if you might be up for a good old fashioned ball licking, perhaps this evening? A right proper slap and tickle if you will! You see, we've brought along our cheeky little American ally heeeah and as we've most CERTAINLY been licking HER balls for AAAAGES, we thought it might indeed be a jolly good ham shank to lick some French balls or perhaps vice versa...

AMERICAN: Hi! I'm Janet! Let's lick some Wall Street balls!! Yaaaaay!!! Gimme all your money!! Yaaaaay!!! Oops you lost your house but I bought a new Ferrari yaaaaaaaayy!!! Lick my Ferrari yaaaaaaay!!

The following ad reads "How much more does he make since he speaks English? +35%!"
Wow.
Does he also make a lot more since making racist Chinese eyes?


And last but not least.....
AMERICA.
YOU.
LICK IT.

Great job, guys.
I imagine students are lined up around the block to get in on this.
(cue eye roll)

RATATOUILLE

Last October, a NY friend of mine recounted a story to me that sent chills down my spine and lumps into my throat. Every city dweller's worst nightmare had actually happened to her. The story began with "I heard scratching in the wall" and ended with "and then a giant rat ran across my face while I was sleeping."
Cue vomit.
Yes.
Urban paranoia?
No.
These things ACTUALLY HAPPEN.

I left the conversation feeling terrible for her living in NY and grateful for my vermin free Parisian apartment. I thought about all my previous apartments....Los Angeles where I used to see cockroaches the size of small cars that would send me into screaming fits of madness as my two fat cats just sat and watched with feigned looks of interest.
FAT OVERFED CATS: "Oh...you didn't expect US to chase that thing, did you? Look, can you just open another can of Sheba please cause your screaming is REEEEALLY making us hungry."

New York where my band rehearsal space was on a street we called Rat Alley because everyday at dusk like some horror film, the vacant lots on the street would fill with a swarming mass of giant rats, an ocean of vermin playing among trash cans and broken children's toys. Terrorized by the horrific squeeking sounds I pretended NOT to hear, I used to sprint to rehearsal down the middle of the street as though I was running from my death.

New York where the lack of bug size was made up for in sheer numbers when each summer rolled around and the 24 hour cockroach party would kick into full swing in my kitchen and where the occasional mice passing through were met with the same look of disdain from my lazy cats.
FAT OVERFED CATS: "Hey Dana, I think I just saw something scurrying all over the apartment. I don't really know what you are doing screaming with that broom but I'm just gonna sit here and squint at it while I lick my ass, ok?...sigh....this is soooooo boring.....oh hey, do you have anymore of those Friskies treats?"

Ahhhhhh, the good 'ole days. How very lucky I am here in Paris, living on the 7th and last floor to have never seen anything close to vermin in my living quarters, not even a cockroach. Nothing. I don't have cats anymore but it's ok because there's nothing to fake chase anyway.

So with that, I shrugged off her story along with my nightmares of Rat Alley and went to bed. The next night I had a friend over to play some music. As she opened the front door to leave, we both saw it at the same time. Something black came scurrying inside and into my kitchen. Praying it was just my overactive imagination, I was utterly shattered to see my friend's face curl into a "wow, that is really gross" grimace...meaning.....it was real. This was happening.
Cue jump onto chair followed by screams of "FB!!!! FB!!!!!! A RAT!!! A RAAAAAAAT!!!!!! KILLLLLL IIIIIT! OH MY GOOOOOOOOD!!!!!"
My friend calmly looked at me hysterical on the chair and merely said "aw, that's so cute. You're doing the cliché jump on the chair thing. OK, I'm going home, byeeee!"
Exit.

While I stood on the chair hyperventilating and crying and marveling at how my NY friend's story was seemingly just a precursor to my own horror, FB tried to root out the....THING. He couldn't find it and I quickly realized that it was not going to die tonight. It was going to live. In my apartment. Somewhere. And that sleeping on top of a chair was not an option for me. I'd have to eventually make my way to our bed.
Our futon bed.
ON THE FLOOR.
Where we sleep eye to eye with whatever crawls around ON THE FLOOR.
Oh God, I wish I had a Xanax.

I made it through the night and the next few nights without seeing any more signs of...the THING. I refused to call it a rat, instead trying to picture a little black mouse with cute eyes and who talks and says cute little things in a French accent like "si'l te plaît, may I have a bit of fromage?" When in doubt, delusion is the place to go. We mouse-proofed our kitchen the best we could and tried to figure out where this little French fellow came from. Reverting to my knack for fantasy storylines, I decided I knew EXACTLY where he came from. We had just been in the countryside and had brought back with us a giant box of apples picked directly from the field, loaded into the box and packed into the car to bring back to Paris.
THAT'S IT!!! It's a little field mouse!! Of course!!!! My very own little Ratatouille, probably scared, alone and wondering why there is a 5 foot 9 monster with a broom screaming "DIEEEEE!!! DIEEEEE!!!!" at him. Maybe he even plays a little country mouse banjo at night to remember his time in the fields.
I suddenly felt sorry for it.
And with that, I left for NY on a three week trip with not a thought about mice.

FB is a friend of the vermin. He grew up in the country and they don't bother him in the slightest. When I first met him, he had a family of mice living with him that he had named things like Newton and Matilda. He got rid of the mice only after I refused to come over anymore. So it should come as no surprise on my return from NY, he announced "oh....uh.....so.....the little mouse is still with us, I've seen it a few times and it seems to really like your music studio area." OK. OK. ENOUGH. Listen, you little poor country mouse. I KNOW you must be terrorized but I am NOT sharing an apartment with you and my keyboard is NOT A MOUSE LITTERBOX so CUT THE CRAP. Just pack your shit and GO, ok? GO.

I went into a cleaning frenzy, upending every corner of my apartment and finally I found it....his food stash. Under my stereo speaker. He had been picking berries off a flower arrangement in the apartment and had stacked them all very neatly in little piles. Eaten, half eaten, and ready to eat. Hey, at least he is organized. After dumping all the berries in the trash and vacuuming every corner as loudly as possible, I pronounced to the mouse "MAMA IS BACK AND MAMA DOESN'T LIKE MICE OK? TIME TO MOVE OUT. NOW."

And I never saw him again. I occasionally pictured little country mouse with his little kerchief tied to the end of his little stick, making his way through Paris after being thrown out by a cold and heartless me. Maybe he was playing a tiny violin on the subway somewhere and had made new friends. At any rate, he was out of my apartment and I had my own cute little Ratatouille story. Oh ho ho ho, how absolutely adoooooooorable!

Last week I was in Burgundy spending a week with my mother in law. As I wandered through the field where my little Ratatouille used to live, I sighed and said "I'm sorry little one for taking you away from your home. I hope you are ok wherever you are." I phoned FB that night. At the end of our conversation, he cleared his throat and said...
FB: Um, I have some bad news.
ME: WHAT???
FB: Well....it seems as though....well....I've seen another mouse.
ME: WHAAAAAAAAAAT?????WHAAAAAAAAAAAT????!!!!
FB: Yyyyyeah, he was in the kitchen last night. A very cute little brown one and he looked so scared and....
ME: WHAAAAAAAAAT????WHAAAAAAAAAAT?!!!!!!!
FB: Look, calm down, I'm just as upset as you are about this and..
ME: YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW UPSET FEELS!!! WHY IS IT EVERY TIME I LEAVE OUR FRICKIN' APARTMENT THE VERMIN MOVE IN? WHAT DID YOU DOOOOOO, SEND OUT INVITES FOR ANOTHER MOUSE PARTY???
FB: ME? I didn't DO ANYTHING!! We have mice, OK? I will deal.
ME: KILL IT. KILL IT NOW. KILL EVERYTHING.
FB: Yeah, ok. I'll kill everything.

My delusional field mouse story came crashing to a grinding halt when I told my mother in law about it and she simply replied "oh, no, that wasn't a field mouse, a field mouse doesn't eat apples like that". But.....but.....

Upon return to Paris, I marched into my apartment and yelled to any vermin within a half mile earshot.
GET.
OUT.
OF MY SIGHT.
You DO NOT want to meet me.
EVER.
I HATE YOU and I will KILL YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY, OK??
ARE. WE. CLEEEEEAR?

It seemed to go ok for a few days until night before last when I was sitting on the couch and I heard a noise in the kitchen. My blood ran cold, my heart stopped and my eyes widened like saucers as I saw something fly across the room and into the wall behind the radiator.
Pick up phone.
Dial FB.
"Get home. NOW. I am going to DIE."

We searched in vain. No mouse. Nothing. Our traps are empty but my heart is full of anguish and rage. The most delusional story can't save me now. In bed last night I awoke at 3AM to the sounds of scratching. I thought of my friend in NY whose story began with "I heard scratching in the wall".

I know how this story ends.
And it's not good.

IT NEVER ENDS

2 years and some change later.....I've made a rule for myself to get over my phone calls in French fear so I have made myself pick up EVERY phone call. Every last one. Known number or not. Doesn't matter. Face the fear. ROCK the fear.

TODAY
5:21PM

Cell phone rings.
I look.
Private number calling.
Gulp.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
Crap.
Crap.
OK, OK OKOKOKOKOKOKOK.
DO IT.
PICK IT UP.
YOU CAN HANDLE THIS.

Feeling particularly ballsy from my triumphant return to my French Savate school today.....I OOOOOOOWN THIS LOCKER ROOM! RAAAAARRRGH!


......I pick up the phone and for some reason decide to go with an exaggerated shrill American accent about two registers above my normal voice...
"HEELLO?"
Silence.
"HEEEEEEELLOOOOO????? HEEEEEEEELLLLLOOOOOO?????!!!!"
Silence.
I realize that I just screamed into the phone which would be startling no matter what country or language this was in when I hear a voice clearing and a quiet woman's voice says...
"Ah, bonjour Madame, je....."
And that's about as far as I got before my listening skills clicked to the OFF position, my conversational French really kicked in as I interrupted her by shrieking in English "I DON'T KNOW! I'M SORRY I DON'T KNOOOOOOOOW!!!"

Dial tone.
She hung up.
Gee, I wonder why.
Sure hope that wasn't important.
Sigh.
Two more points for team IDIOT.

GREY

February is the best month ever in Paris.

WHAT? WHYYYYYY?, you might ask....it's cold, rainy, snowy, wet, and the days last roughly 3 hours....what about the beautiful springtime breezes and the sunshine and the flowers and the little children who laugh and frolic in the green, green parks? Or the early fall with the days still long and the leaves begin to shed their green for golden shades of red and orange while you sit in a bustling café with a steaming hot chocolate carefully mulling over your book of poetry...and oh, isn't it WOOOOONDERFUL to be in PAAAAAAAAAARIS?

No, it's not.
I prefer February. Why? Because I live on the beaten path of tourists in the center of the number one tourist destination in the world. In fact, the street I live on may as well be called BEATEN PATH and I guarantee if they opened a TGIF on it, it would THRIVE. Beginning in early spring, my neighborhood is descended upon by the 15.6 MILLION annual visitors per year (World Tourism Organization) and does not let up at ALL until January when my spirits rise as it fizzles out mid month. Then comes the month I have been waiting for all year. My precious, beautiful, adored month.....FEBRUARY! YESSSSSSSS.....




I can walk along the Seine without meeting anyone and play pretend it's olden times, like, before 1950....sometimes I try and pretend it's WAY OLDEN TIMES and what shoes would I wear if it was like, 1700 something and would I smell bad? And how would I be moisturizing? Could I drink the Seine then? Would I still be tall with teeth? Would I walk like THIS or like THAT...the possibilities are endless when no is around....


The tourist boats are empty....


I can walk the five minutes to the Louvre and enjoy the art minus the throngs of commentators.....


But mostly I like the low grey sky that rolls in and out like a never-ending ocean. It makes me feel dark, pensive and somewhat dangerous. Then the city belongs to me in my own pretend olden times way, with my own pretend dagger in my own pretend shawl as I pretend dance along a very real river.

TWITTER THIS

I got sucked reluctantly into technology by having a band and a blog.
I actually hate my cell phone.
I hate iphones.
I hated Myspace then I hated Facebook (although I keep checking it).
But most of all, I despise Twitter.
Twitter is the Grandaddy of useless.
I never understood the point of telling the universe when your last crap was (although isn't that what I'm doing here? Busted.) Seems to me the world is too busy updating what it is they are doing instead of actually DOING SOMETHING without looking at a computer screen or small gadget while doing so.

But then I went on Twitter and found something I never expected in the sea of inane 140 character life updates and spelling mistakes........
THE MOST INCREDIBLE LYRICS I COULD EVER HOPE FOR.

So, my Twitter song series was born......

BAND CAMP

Band camp in Paris reopened yesterday with the arrival of Matt, my bandmate from Brooklyn and the other half of The Sobs, our folk-punk duo. I love hosting band camp. It's become clear to me that my dream life is to have a music venue of my own in Paris where musicians can stay over and where I can throw parties all the time.
The Musician Madame.
I'm dreaming it.
I will be it.

It's no secret that most musicians are crackheads. While in NY the last time, I gave Matt some new white t-shirts to print up some Sobs shirts to sell here. As I was ironing them before our show last night, I pulled out the following pit stained gem....

"Um...Matt?"
"Yeah?"
"What's this?"
"Oh....one of the shirts you gave me got messed up so I replaced it with one of my own."
"And you actually think we could sell this dirty, wadded up old-ass shirt of yours that smells like B.O.?"
"I dunno."

Ladies? Any takers? Real live pit stained shirt from a real live touring musician. Highest bidder can own this beauty.

We're off tomorrow for three concerts in Brussels with our dear friend Erica Buettner. Band camp goes on the road to the land of the Belgian waffles and Belgian beer! We'll be back in Paris for another concert 14 janvier.

All aboard campers! Use your buddy system.... :)

TWO YEARS OF GREAT PROGRESS

TODAY.
Via Gchat...

ME: I'm shitting my pants here.
FB: Why? What's going on?
ME: OK so here's the deal...hold on...I have to stop typing...
FB: Why? (pause) HELLO?
ME: OK I'm back. You HAVE NO IDEA. The woman from 5 1/2 (downstairs apartment) is outside our front door talking to some guy and all I could pick up was...renters.....problems....oh la la..then..OH LA LA again...REALLY LOUD....they're talking about me, I KNOW THEY ARE TALKING ABOUT ME!
FB: Don't worry about it, we are legitimate renters there with a contract, stick your nose out and ask what's going on if you want to..
ME: STICK MY NOSE OUT??? WHAT???? (typed from under covers in the bedroom after manic rush to turn off all music, nosedive into bed to pretend no one is home) It's just THAT EASY for YOU. I'm not gonna STICK MY NOSE OUT so they can talk at me and glare at me and hate me and speak French to me that I WON'T UNDERSTAND. Do you have ANY IDEA of what foreign terror feels like??? ANY IDEA??? NO. NONE. You have no understanding of terror at ALL.
FB: OOOOOOOK....just ignore them and I'll deal with it if it gets to that level.
ME: It's AT THAT LEVEL. We have to get out of here.
FB: Really.
ME: Yes! They are making war every time they pull this shit on me. Standing complaining outside my front door, making me all paranoid, upsetting my stomach, I can't even go into my own kitchen now. We have to get out.
FB: Ok, I have to get back to work.
ME: Yeah, yeah....I'll see you later if they haven't torn our door down to get at me...

December 27th marked my two year anniversary in Paris and I'd like to think the foreigner terror has subsided but all it takes is some strangers outside my front door to send me right back to Anne Frank's house.
Sigh.

I was in Bourgogne with my French family over the holidays so on December 27th to celebrate the honorary occasion of my two years in France, I decided to do something that has terrified me too much to try since I arrived. I would enter their well worn French kitchen where many a perfectly cooked French meal has been prepared for me....and I would cook for my French family for the very first time.
On the menu?
Chocolate chip cookies.
American deliiiiiiciousness.
Simple YET complex.
Chewy AND crunchy.
I've made these a million times in the US of A.
Easy breezy.
Until the cookie chain quickly started unraveling....

It started when I forgot to buy the key ingredient before I left Paris...packed brown sugar. Eh, whatever, I thought. I'll just use the regular sugar and they'll be cakey or whatever. It'll be FIIIIIINE.

As I entered the kitchen, I asked my mother-in-law for some flour. I was handed a package and my heart dropped...it wasn't the right kind of flour....you know, the white Gold Medal stuff I never ever thought about when buying. This is like....yellow stuff and like, a totally different texture.....it dawns on me suddenly that I have no internet here to research this yellow substance and now my aunt is in the kitchen asking me what she can do and how she would like a cookie lesson from me and now I am starting to sweat and my throat is closing and I'm gonna freak out in just a couple seconds and I wish I never offered to do this and....PULL IT TOGETHER. YOU HAVE WATCHED TOP CHEF, OK? YOU WATCH TOP CHEF. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO.
MAKE IT.
FUCKING.
WORK.

Controlling my breath, I put my aunt to work on chopping some fresh walnuts from the tree in the yard, that should take her a little while so I can figure out what to do with this new flour. Change is bad. Change is bad.

Blow two comes swiftly. To the face. The vanilla extract I thought I saw there is actually coffee syrup. Omg...omg....okokokokokokokokok...substitute it or not? Substitute it or not? Coffee cookies? Well, it's still in the same syrup family but....but....make a decision make a decision.....yes, no, ok yes...but maybe the vanilla extract does something scientifically to the batter that you don't know about because now it's really clear that YOU DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW HOW TO COOK, JUST HOW TO READ A STUPID RECIPE AND NOW YOU ARE TOTALLY FUCKED AND WHY DID YOU EVEN TRY THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE THIS IS SO STUPID SO STUPID.....PULL! IT! TOGETHER!
OKOKOKOKOKOK deferring decision, deferring decision, asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness, strength not weakness...

Interrupting the card game in the other room as inconspicuously as possible (as in, not making eye contact with anyone seated), I quietly ask my MIL in French
"Uh....yes...sorry....but I see this bottle, I think vanilla but now I taste coffee. It's not vanilla and I..."
WHOOSH! She's up faster than I can finish my sentence and into the pantry. She whips through the spices and upon exiting the pantry she apologizes saying she has no vanilla when my aunt bursts out "J'ai de la vanille dans mon sac!" with triumphant conviction and WHOOSH! out she goes and up the stairs to get the vanilla.
From her bag.
Where she apparently keeps a spice rack.
Huh.
WHO CARRIES VANILLA IN THEIR PURSE??? Apparently, French women do. I suddenly have the vision of what's in French purses everywhere....foie gras, vanilla, a wheel of cheese, sprigs of rosemary and thyme, white wine vinegar, leeks....

Back she comes in a jiffy with some handwrapped fresh vanilla beans.
Handing them to me, she looks proud for providing a missing ingredient as I swallow hard and pretend I know what to do next. 'Cause it's not syrup.
It's the bean.
Not syrup.
Bean.
So.....um.....(putting it on counter and fake cutting it open while I try and decide what to do next......yyyyyyyyeah....uh......uh.......YOU ARE A TOTAL SHAM OF A COOK, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO USE A REAL VANILLA BEAN, YOU ONLY KNOW A BOTTLE MARKED SYRUP FROM THE GROCERY STORE YOU IDIOT AND NOW YOU ARE FAKE CHOPPING?? WHAT ARE YOU DOOOOOING???....ok think think.....I got nothing here. Nothin'. I stop fake chopping and slink into the card game again where my MIL has resumed her cardplaying...."um....sorry...haha....um....yes so....I could see you in kitchen?" WHOOSH! She herds me into the kitchen before I can stutter out "so....um....do you maybe have that thing you grate things with?" She gently takes the bean and shows me how to cut it in half and scrape some out.
Oh.
Yeah.
I KNEW THAT.
YOU KNEW THAT!
I swallow my pride and say "so....um....how much do you think?"
MIL: Oh, about a spoon will do, it's stronger than syrup.
ME: (bright red and half smile) Of course..thanks.
GREAT JOB.
YOU'RE MAKING AN AMAZING CULINARY IMPRESSION.

As I mixed all of this into a batter, it became crystal clear I had one giant, extraordinarily heavy chunk of a hot mess. Frantically, I poured the rest of the flour in which just made it worse and worse.
OK.
Screw it....just throw it on the cookie sheet and bake it, it'll be FIIIIIIIIINE.

I wanted to die when I took them out of the oven....crawl up into a corner and just DIE. Instead of the delicious goodness I planned, THIS is what came out....


I walked into the card game and announced (a little too dramatically) that the cookies were horrible, all the ingredients weren't what I planned and I am terribly terribly sorry but I am throwing it all out and just forget I ever said anything about cooking. "MAIS NON!" cried my aunt and MIL, "it can't be THAT bad!" I knew in my heart it WAS that bad but I couldn't let them down so I skulked back into the kitchen alone and tried a second batch, this time turning the oven down, putting very small balls of dough on the sheet and sticking a half walnut on top of each one out of sheer desperation.
They were still not very good but at least they were edible.
"Delicious!" cried my father-in-law.
"So good!" cried my aunt and mother-in-law.
"I love your cookies!" cried my 6 year old nephew.

I didn't believe them but they did eat the entire plate.
That night, I pushed my "Top Chef Fails Miserably" aside and made dinner for the whole family. Butternut Squash Risotto which I have made a million times in France and for which I brought every ingredient with me, including a sprig of fresh sage.
From my purse.

Bonne anniversaire to me.
Maybe I am more French than I think.
:)

TOURIST!

I just got back from a hectic New York visit where, for the first time, I felt like a tourist. I don't know....maybe it was the guy who pushed me and yelled "GODDAMN TOURISTS!" but I have never felt like such a stranger in my former home. As I got off the bus and walked down 8th Ave. pushed from all sides, I couldn't help but think "maaaaan, you people need to CHILLLLAAAAAAX". For reals. Have some wine and a baguette, take a load off. I stood in Times Square looking up at the 42nd floor of the building I used to work in and it feels like it was a different person who worked there. One who doesn't eat sticks of butter and giant bowls of fromage blanc.

I did manage to do all my favorite things while there.....

THE SPAAAAAAAAA


THE MAAAAAAAALL


Teaching my nieces that louder is ALWAYS BETTER....




But in the end, I got back on a plane, thought "I'm going home" and smiled as I thought of Paris and my life here. It's taken two years but I'm finally starting to call it home. Chillaaaaaaaaaaaaaax, man. You're back in Fraaaaaance.

MILESTONE

I did a radio interview in French this week on Radio Campus Paris.
A real, live interview on the radio with French people and French questions and French answers from me. As I was walking to the station hyperventilating, I just decided to LET IT GO and have FUN. It's so tiring be an anxiety ridden person all the time. Sigh. It helped that the folks at Les Disques Bien were reeeeeally nice and fun. You can listen to the program in it's entirety here....EUPHONIE #34