Sunday, January 31, 2010


I... have a dream.

That one day I can walk into my office without having to kiss the cheeks of every last god damn mother fucker in here.

I used to love it. "La Bise" had its charm at one point, but this frogdition is forever spoiled for me now.

In America, this just isn't done. If you move in to plant one on my cheek, my response will involve two things: your ass, and my shoe. While you're on the ground wincing, a single tear escaping from your eyes as you try to dislodge my Coq Sportif, I'll wave my diamond in your face before leaving a hand-mark on your cheek. C'est la vie, buddy.

But over here, a we play by a different set of rules. Pretending to kiss on the cheek is not just allowed, it's obligatory.
The kiss must go on, no matter what, no matter if I'm sick, no matter if you're sick, no matter if we're both sick, no matter if I have Ebola... you get the idea.

For some reason, sickness doesn't factor in to people's thought process when it comes to "La Bise". They apply the Nike motto, slightly modified:

Just do it...

or I'll assume that you're an anti-social
FREAK and forgiveness will be virtually impossible because you will have insulted me beyond all common offense, you disgusting, uncultured, fat, American, FOOL.

So when my colleague, we'll call him Jean-Bise, decided to kiss me on the cheeks everyday for the rest of my career, I couldn't say no. He doesn't even do it properly. You're not supposed to TOUCH the person. They're air kisses, and even that is too much for your average germaphobic American under normal circumstances.

But we are not living in normal circumstances. It's the holidays, which means that everyone's lips go into Bise Overload. I think I could get away with smooching Sarkozy as long as it was preceded with a cheerful "Bonne Année!!!".

Then it happened. Jean-Bise caught a cough so monumentous that I felt the urge to make him a crown, drop down on one knee and yell "ALL HAIL THE PHLEGM KING" whenever he entered the room.

Yesterday I heard him coming and managed to scramble to the bathroom, a narrow escape, but today I was not so lucky. He sneezed next to me so loud I nearly fell out of my chair. Visions of viruses were dancing in my head as I saw him walking towards me. I froze like a deer in the headlights.

His grinning, feverish face moved in slow motion toward my right cheek. My palms gripped the armrest, and my eyes closed tight, preparing for the attack. His microbe-ridden lips made contact and I wanted to take a bath in antibacterial gel.

I ran to the bathroom and fanatically smeared my face with hand soap, but the damage was done. I started to feel sleepy, and it went downhill from there. First, my larynx swelled to the size of Montana. My voice morphed into a mix between Marge Simpson and Barry White. Imagine some sort of demonic creature. My body decided that doing useful things like digesting food and creating energy were a waste of time; making snot was much more important.

I'm not anti-kiss-kiss, really, I'm not. My only request is that if you've got the sniffles, step off or I'm chillin' out by your cubicle all day when I get swine flu.

I've no desire to spread my illness to every living soul I encounter, and this motivated me to commit the mother sin of all cardinal sins:
I refused to bise.

It was tantamount to telling someone they're a bag of germs. I wish I could properly illustrate the look on people's faces when I say "I'm not going to kiss you, I'm sick." It's a cross between... "I am so revolted, it has struck me utterly speechless" and "You infidel, if you had balls, I'd be kicking you square in the middle of them right this moment."

Apparently it's poorly seen to try to preserve the health of others; they'd rather be ill than be refused my faux-smacks. If they want their kiss so badly, then they're askin' for it.

BISE-STRIKE = Officially OVER.

Pucker up buttercup.

Brioche punched sliced bread in the balls.

The greatest thing since sliced BREAD?? FU bread. I've got brioche.

It's official. I'm a harrywhore.

Yup. We be making out all over town like a couple of teenagers, Brioche & I. We don't give a damn... about my ass. (No amount of spinning may correct the damage, I fear.)

But how can you resist Harry's? From the moment I pull it out of the crackly wrapping, my mouth floods with saliva like some kind of spit-dam has just burst. I feel an irresistible desire to smother my face into its vanilla softness. I breath it. I lick it. When its toasted, I want to become one with it.

The first time I tasted the yellow food o'the gods, my whole body shivered into a spastic foodgasm. I turned to it, gently stroked its edge and whispered "I love you Harry" - and we've been together ever since.

Harry must be an angel. A gift from Dieu himself, sent to relieve us from hunger pains and make our thighs swell with joy.

ALL HAIL, and pass the butter.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

No No No No No No No... well maybe.

To the untrained eye, the French may seem like a snooty band of callous, self-serving bastards. You might have the impression that their sole pleasure in life is derived from causing you to run face-first into lamp-post because you're too busy trying to avoid the mine of poops in your path.

And the untrained eye would be right on the money, 99% of the time.

If the waiter behind the counter makes your eyes bulge trying to get his attention, I can say with near certainty that despite his icy exterior, he is smiling on the inside.

I'd go so far as to assume this is the only reason he took the job, and his mind is cluttered with mental snapshots of disgruntled customers.

If the demon working the desk at the prefecture when you're renewing your visa makes you think deportation is eminent, you've just made her day.

She is working in bureaucratic hell after all, why not throw back her head and let out an evil cackle when she reaches for the "Denied For Life You Pathetic Loser" stamp.

We have no defense against such potent evil. Or so I thought.

It's taken me four years and rivers of tears to learn that my very bestest friends over here are the words :

"You sure I can't just..."
"what if I..."
"maybe I could..."
"and if I were to..."
"might it help if..."
"but if I came back in five minutes..."
"you see the thing is..."
"and this is not changeable, because I could..."
"is it possible to..."
"I really can't..."
"just to be sure, there's no way to..."

And all their annoyingly insistent friends.

They are your saving grace. Your lifelines.

You want to get your way? Then you're going to break out the heavy artillery. During a moment of need, persevere and pelt your target with never ending questions like your life depends on it.

Your irritating persistence will almost always triumph. People don't realize this tool is easy to master, and anyone's to wield.

I have several theories about why:

1. Off the charts factor.
You're REALLY obnoxious.
No, seriously. Everyone hates you in that moment. The other patrons waiting in line for their turn to feel small, the proud few who've beat the system, and especially, your froggy friend.

Despite the pure joy coursing through their veins when they tell you "NO!", after three or four times, the thrill is gone, and they want you to leave, die, or preferably, die while leaving.

2. Laws, schmaws factor:
Deep down, they don't really care. Yes this land is crowded with rebels, but the average French person doesn't feel a strong desire to uphold the letter of the law. Who am I kidding, they're more concerned about how their ass looks in the latest pantless outfit they bought. Rules were made to be broken... Or at least bent when faced with you.

3. Leggy blond factor:
This also applies to life in general. If there are two women of equal quality, (smart, fun, etc), the sexier one will come out on top. In this case, you want to be moche.

The longer you keep it up, the more desperate your neighbor gets. And thus, the more attractive he/she becomes.

Think about it: how much more fun is it to cruelly reject a squirmy, confused, on-the-verge-of-a-nervous-breakdown freak?

The Frog needs a story for their cigarette break, and your neighbor's uncomfortable dance of terror will do just fine.

So go forth and annoy my minions.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Love thy banker (aka: meet, then greet inappropriately)

Ok. I'm officially caving. Enjoy the last scrap of my dignity; that's all I ask - it's not much, really. This story has been a long time coming, so I'm going to savor writing it, like the lonely, leftover piece if chocolate cake you bite into and instantly know you should not be eating.

There once was a young, (Young is code for inexperienced, hopeless, grotesquely absurd, nonsensical, nitwit in Paris, in case you aren't a local.), girl named Chanel... NO! Chanon. NO No Nooo. I mean Shannon. An age-challenged, imbecile named Shannon. Yes, that's right.

So long story short, she fell madly in love with an irresistibly adorable frog named V, and moved to the city of Love and Lights, hoping that after three long years of separation, her kisses would turn this frog into her prince.

She had always been the affectionate type. Be it bear hugs or full-on-tongue-to-tonsil-inspections, she could deliver when it came to showing her enthusiasm. There is a hidden, very real danger in this kind if conduct.

Now Chanel Shannon had already been in situations where la bise was the greeting of choice. She was no stranger to the dutiful cheek-to-cheek cliché. After a few months of being exposed only to family and friends of her beloved Frog Prince, the awkward "Do we kiss, shake hands, hug, pat-shoulders, high-five, conga-line, square dance, line dance, tap dance, or tango" ceremonial trepidation, was even beginning to subside.

"Wait! That's a good thing, right?!" You're saying to yourself. And had Shannon not been born a raging idiot, you would be correct. Adapting to one's culture is important when you're a fresh recruit. Assimilation and adaptation, unfortunately for her, are not synonymous.

She had gotten used to la bise. La bise and Shannon were friends. More than friends. They were secret lovers, and as we all know... we do stupid things for love. Some say your judgment gets impaired when amorous infatuation infects you. In the case of me and la bise, I postulate that mild retardation had set in by the time she was opening her first french bank account.

We finalized the account creation, and as our banker walked us to the door... something happened.
I was aglow with the thought of handling money with something other than paypal. Entranced with the idea that I would have a shred of independence again. Overwhelmed with the desire to control my financial transactions without yelling. I blame the passion of the moment. It was a big day, after all.

V shook her hand. V's mother, shook her hand. And I?? What did I do?

It all happened in slow motion. I leaned over and planted a big wet one on her cheek. Yup. Not kidding. I... did... that.

She literally gasped. Her eyes bulged. I feared retaliation. It was like I had just tapped a cobra on its head and made fart noises in its face.

To make matters worse, not only was I not supposed to kiss her cheek, but I later learned that it was doubly bad to
kiss only one. Like some kind of metaphorical slap in the face - HA, just ONE for you!

Something tells met that woman is still laughing over the transparent humiliation written across my face when I looked at her and said "Oops."

Even now, years later, I still can't imagine what was going through my mind. Who knows, maybe the culprit was just force of habit. Whatever the reason... there was no going back from what I did, and it remains to this day, a classic "Shannon" moment.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Hell's Angels of Death (aka: Death has two wheels and a pea-sized intellect.)

FACT: Motorcyclists in Paris have lost the will to live.

No, seriously. The whole population is suffering from severe depression, for which the only cure is death.

That, is the only explanation. It's a sickness, and the poor suffering dears deserve our sympathy.

I've witnessed the plague on 4-wheel-drivers, that is two-wheeled drivers, these last four years and it is a sight to behold, I assure you. The good news is: I think I've finally figured it out. The bad news: there is no known cure.

I think something happens to these otherwise normal people when they hop on the back of their choppers (this also applies to the amazingly LOUD scooters). There are many stages and symptoms. As uge, I'm here to share my theories.

Stage 1: Superman Syndrome

I was once a passenger on a motorcycle, one of those three-wheeled contraptions. I can testify to the potent effects of
this first syndrome. I advise you to take extreme caution and above all, to avoid giving in to your instincts. Resisting the temptation to scream:
"WwwwwwwwwEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee hehehehhehehhehehhehe!!!!!!!!!!" is a good place to start.
(note: I failed. I'm not here to judge, people.)

From the moment you climb on to the rolling-bi-wheeled-device-of-demise, something strange happens. It feels like an invisible layer of armor protects you. Wrapping itself around your body, the faux-cushion harbors you from all manner of injury or mishap like a magical, impenetrable, burrito. Your helmet takes on the importance and flare of a cape, and you think to yourself, "Why was I afraid again? Nothing is going to happen to me!".

The illusion of invincibility is widespread according to experts*, and may provoke sensations similar to:

"ZZZzzzoooommmmmmmmm I'm going to FLY between those two cars like a tiny fairy!!! LOOK-AT-ME-GO Weeeee!!!"
"What are these lines for?"

* By experts I am referencing myself and my friend Jean-Bagarre.

Stage 2:  Euphoric Velocity Mania (AKA: ANUS Syndrome)

Though I have no personal experience with this stage, I have witnessed it a great many times. The driver and/or passenger has a rush of adrenalin which causes all normal brain functionality to cease, a part from the Automatic Nervous System (ANS).

The affected parties' minds will be taken over by a trance-like state I've dubbed:

Notions of


The number of French civilians who suffer from ANUS has doubled within the last five years alone. We must be vigilant, but ultimately, only the police can stop the ANUSes of this world.

Symptoms may include, but are not limited to:
- Memory loss, especially pertaining to the laws and codes applied to safe driving
- Impossibility to drive under 75mph in any situation
- Desire to impress "the ladies" by whizzing past them and out of their sight (contradictory, yet true.)
- Head migrating to one's anal region
- Break dysfunction
- Vision impairement: impossible to see straight lines directly in one's path

Stage 3: DOUCHE Syndrome

This is the final stage. Multiple years of exposure to or being an ANUS can provoke this:
- Disturbingly
- Outrageous
- Unthinkable
- Choices
- Hoping for
- Euthanasia

Syndrome is frighteningly common amongst motorcyclists.

Symptoms my include but are not limited to:
- Total disregard for human life
- Desire to be crushed like a bug under a pile of metal
- Mistaken notion that you are the owner of the given passage
- Total or partial blindness
- Depression
- Extreme Road Rage

You should know that studies** have shown that ANUS syndrome is especially prominent in drivers of covered motorcycles. No one understands the logic behind this purchase. It is rumored that advanced states of ANUS can induce a strong desire to buy them. Consumers are most likely on the verge of becoming a DOUCHE at any given moment.

** performed and validated by me involving me asking the question, "are you an ANUS or a DOUCHE?" to drivers of said solo-mobile.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Two inches of snow?? GHASP!! WE'RE DOOMED!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wisconsinites are abnormal, but it's not our fault. We know only two seasons:

"Holy f*@# my nose hairs are frozen"
"Can you die from sweating?"

Drowning in your own perspiration - aka the "sweat season" - only lasts a few months. The other eight consists of nipple-freezing, lip-chapping, overcast, sub-zero, arctic chaos. But it's not so bad. Compared to prison or having a red-hot poker shoved up my ass, living in Wisconsin is pretty good. (The amazing people, beer and cheese are its only redeeming factors as far as I'm concerned.)

Thanks to this background of galoshes and auto-mummification, I am really getting a kick out of my new digs and its fragile inhabitants. The moment the sexy weather lady saunters on screen to announce frozen precipitation, the same look crosses everyone's face:


I'm betting somewhere in the 16th a businessman peed his pants over today's forecast.

The tiniest amount of snow and the city is paralyzed. Until the panic sets in. Trains stop running. Offices close. Schools let out early. Accidents clog the streets. Babies cry. Your voisins crotch-punch each other over mud stains. Cats and dogs put on Barry White and try to make Cogs.

It's mass hysteria on a stick.

When this happens, all of two times per year, there's nothing left to do but sit back at watch the circus. I look out my window at hordes of disgruntled Parisians and remember that in my hood, it took at least five feet of accumulation to cause this much frenzy.

The good news in the face of all this madness, is that in typical frog fashion, you get out of work early. If it starts coming down, the trains are obviously going to be a hot mess (it's a wonder the driver's don't go on strike, they've done it for less). Rushing out at 5 or even 4:30 is totally justified, if not expected.

I shall now commence my version of Grumpy-Old-Man.

Back in my day we had to walk for miles in the snow, put big heavy chains on our tires and even then, the slightest accident meant someone was sure to die a horribly painful and slow death in a snowbank. When we got snowed in, we had to put on our snow-suits and tough it out. We didn't have internet. We had SNOWBALLS. (PS why didn't they invent these during my childhood??) We didn't have iphones. We had RADIOS. I had to wait for the bus when it was twenty below zero °F for the love of unattractive boots!! DEAL with it you mass of coddled, heat-mongers!!

That was me five years go. Those days are long gone. Now the slightest dip in temperature and I'm nuzzling my husband (on his vents trying to steal his warmfs), praying for sun and relief from the tolerable, mildly-chilly weather.

In short, the French have turned me into a damn pansy.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

What is that horrible STENCH?? (aka: Our Food.)

The first time I was offered french cheese, a clothespin shot to the top of my wish list. This shit stinks. BAD. Blue cheese, Camembert, you name it... it's the mayor of smelldom.

There is a definite method to successful consumption of dairy products until you become accustomed to the smellrificness that inevitably murders your appetite faster than you can say Munster.

1) Warn your Franco-host that you've never had French cheese without offending them.

(Not easily done, I assure you.) Here's an example of a proper warning:

"Where I come from cheese is hard, has no taste and no smell. It's virtually plastic. Sometimes I wonder if it is even made from milk.

If you considerably diminish your native cheese's desirability, you increase your chances of not being despised when you cover your nose and begin coughing as the rancid milk product enters the room, followed by a wafting trail of green smoke.

2) Prepare for the first bite to make your stomach want to exit your mouth and slap you in the face.

Your first bite will not be like the first time you tasted chocolate. Your mouth will not explode with delicious flavor that makes your toes curl. The more likely reflex will be gagging. But persevere, as with sex, it gets better as you go along.

3) Vomitting is completely normal, just wait until you get to your car.

I think this goes without saying, but you know... just in case. I kept plastic bags in my glove compartment for years.

4) Follow the Golden rule of Goat.
Goat will probably be the mildest. Don't let your ego ruin your chances with your host. If you go straight for the Brie, don't come crying to me when your froggy friend is slathered head-to-toe in your lung butter. You've got to ease into it. If you're feeling Indiana-Jones-brave, like you could dive head first into the lion's den, then take two pieces; maybe hit up the Compté - but GOAT FIRST.

It's my personal opinion that this rule should be taught to children from birth; right along with "Never take candy from strangers", "Stop, Drop and Roll", and "Never drink a blue-rasberry smoothie pre-rollercoaster". (That last one I had to learn the hard way. Sorry, man in front of me who went home with a neon-blue stained Grateful Dead t-shirt.)

5) Easy on the cheesy.

You may eventually develop a taste for the stuff. If and when this happens, please keep in mind that French cheese does not come in a "light" format. Nope. It's 100% fatful goodness will go directly to your ass; do not pass go, do not collect 20.000 francs. Stick to small slices, or better yet, let your host dose you.

It's also necessary to warn you that your breath may harm small animals and children. Certain veteran cheese-eaters will sport one of these post-consumption. It's like a condom for your face. Sure, it's not the most attractive thing in the world, but neither are you after eating those vachebombs.

Should you retain the courage to déguste french cheese, I salute you.

Good luck and Bon Appétit!

Sunday, January 10, 2010

Get A Room.

I love living here for so many reasons. The unabashed beauty of the city. It's gorgeous and it knows it. The rhythm of its people. They're all in a hurry to get where they're going, but take their time when they get there. The magnificence of its gastronomic prestige is pointless to describe in mere words. Life here is full of flavor.

But the hedonist in me loves it for another reason: people are sucking face everywhere you go.

I don't mind; au contraire, je l'adore. I'm a romantic. I am Fleur Bleue [flɶr blɶ], as the frogs would say. When love is in the air, I long to breathe it in. (My collection of romantic comedy films can rival any video store.) Here, an average person would choke on the fumes. Thank god I'm not average, or I'd have started spritzing people with spray bottles and squeezing balloons between their tightly pressed bodies years ago.

Walking around Paris feels like you've mistakenly barged into a breath mint seminar. Each square overflows with couples testing the effectiveness of their products. I just passed an enamored pair who were actually LICKING each other's tongues in front of Notre Dame. No joke. Licking. Each other's. Tongues. It looked like a battle between two fat, pink worms. I'm amazed they had enough saliva left to tell me to stop staring.

Flaunting your mutual adoration seems to be a kind of tradition. I think there is an underground, deep-seeded need for couples to hoist their love on to an unsuspecting public. A "We love each other more than you love your significant other" contest, if you will.

I remember the first time I ever witnessed this at the impressionable age of seventeen. I especially remember what popped into my head: "Wow. Looks like he's trying to eat her face. He must not like his frog's legs." (It was my first night in Grenoble and my host family had offered me Cow Brains or Frogs Legs... how very generous of them, non?)

I hear mixed reviews about this from visitors. There are those who fall into the "it's a free country, spit yourselves out" column. Then, there are the kissing-condemners who secretly fantasize about pulling the fused-heads apart long enough to slap their still-wet faces.

Which one are you?

Saturday, January 9, 2010

The Joy (and or misery) of cooking! => Part I : Vive le Foie! (aka: Long Live Liver)

The frogs have a long standing tradition of eating strange things. I doubt I'll get to all of them, but I will do my damnedest. Today's lesson... FAT ORGANS, namely Foie Gras.

The basic principal here in case you aren't up to speed is you're eating goose liver. A giant, FAT, goose liver.

You can actually SEE the fat on it. My photo illustrates it poorly (here's a good one), but there's a large chunk of YELLOW jelly-like goo on top of the slices. (I'm shuddering just thinking about it.) But this is actually normal. It's supposed wear its fat on the outside. It's proud of its curves. Me? I'm imagining those tiny jaune globules making their way to my thighs every time I take a bite.

I'm wondering who first cooked up this idea. Seriously, who says to him or herself...

Soulless Chef: "What if I force-fed a duck until it got so fat it burst?"

Soulless Chef's friend: "Sweet." (beevis laugh)

Soulless Chef
: "Wait, I'm not done! What if after..." scratches chin, "I know, I KNOW! What if after, we ate its liver?"

Soulless Chef's friend: blink, blink blink. (Throws up).

Obviously the dark forces worked overtime to concoct this delicacy.

I was amazed to learn on Wikipedia that
French law actually protects this dish, considering it an essential ingredient to the heritage of French gastronomical marvels. Really? Liver?? Liver, that is four times fatter than normal organs, needs protection? I guess it makes a certain sense. If you didn't have a law to protect it who would put fat-bearing-liver products at the top of the list of things that need preservation? Hmm. Wonder what punishment would be for not serving it at xmas... I put my money on Guillotine.

Now, I've tried it. It's pretty good with a nice chutney or fig confiture, but I still don't see what all the fuss is about. At holidays and special occasions, foie gras shares the same degree of requirement as Champagne (see blog "Bit of ze bubbly").

It's usually served with a sweet wine, like Sauterne, to bring out the flavors. In my case, it's an excuse to drink Sauterne, but I'm a wino. My alcohol-induced opinion probably doesn't count. (A little SAT prep for you: Sauterne is to Shannon as Beer is to Homer Simpson.) Give me a straw and a bottle of Sauterne & I'm one happy (drunk) camper.

Apparently France produced 18,450 tons of it in 2005. Yes, TONS. That's the weight of your average semi. Of FAT LIVER. Someone explain to me how these people are skinny? Me no get.

When it's all said and done, you're still just eating a goose who gagged on corn for a year. I hope I haven't just spoiled it for you connaisseurs.

Friday, January 8, 2010

Math hurts.

I'm a mathematical moron. There. I said it. I've known since birth that math and I were not going to play nicey-nice. I can do it, sure... but why bother when someone invented calculators?

Especially when it comes to cooking. I like to whip up some home-made wonders once in a while, but my favorite cooking websites (,,, and all their uppity friends), are causing a bald patch on the back of my head from my frustrated hair-pulling shenanigans.

Can anyone out there tell me the benefit of our AMAZINGLY complicated measuring system? Anyone? Bueller? (crickets chirp.... random patch of tumbleweed rolls in front of me.) Didn't think so. I don't know why the united states hasn't jumped on the metric system bandwagon yet, but it's about gdamn time in my opinion.

Every time I pick up a recipe book, it feels like Andre the Giant has got my head in a sleeper hold, softly whispering "shhh shhh shhhh... it's ok.. just pass out."

I think Americans and the French have put their Freedom Fries dispute on hold to conspire long enough to make my head a-splode. Let me give you an example: 

Me: Tell me how many kilograms are in four cups of flour, you have 10 seconds and no calculator or converter website.

You: Fuck you.

YEP. I knew you'd say that. Why? Because the two systems are so different they have literally NOTHING in common. Nothing. Apples, meet oranges. Cups, tablespoons, pounds - we can't even correspond these things within our OWN system and you expect me to figure out how many cups are in a kilo? It's madness.

Perfect example the other week when baking. I thought (like an IDIOT) that my measuring utensil was in cups. It was from Ikea, I should've known better... damn sueds are incapable of making it simple for me. So I measured and mixed. My dough was the consistency of runny frosting. Not good. A little detective work and I realized my error, but fixing it was a whole other matter.

I proceeded to find out how much flour I'd put in grams (X), how much I needed total in cups (Y), convert that into grams (Y*229.92), find the difference between the total needed and the total added in grams (Z).

Here is my formula for not fucking up the recipe:
- scratch head for ten minutes
- scream, just a little bit.

- cry

- imagine everyone biting into a cookie hard as stone and little shards of shattered teeth flying through the air
- panic
- apply formula: ((Y*229.92) - X) = Z

- Add amount Z of effed ingredient into dough.
- repeat for all other effed ingredients.
- wipe beads of sweat from brow
- pray
- bake

I've got to figure this out eventually. In the mean time, if my internet goes down or my iphone breaks... I think we just may starve to death because all my measuring cups/utensils are in metric.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

Phd in Fatology

I have a little friend. He is a studious little fellow. His main area of expertise is Fatology, with a minor in Cellulitology. He is well versed. If they had a degree, my boy here would be an effin' docta.

Of all the delectable delights available to me, crème brulé, macarrons, tarte à la fraise and of course, the timeless croissant... I choose you, my faithful friend.

Stay away chouquettes. Not here, bon bons. Move along mousse au chocolat. I'm no traitor.

You've been there for me since day one in M. Fiorina's class. Saved me from starving to death during the subjunctive review session, and helped me keep my eyes open during the film strip of the gardens of France (a painful experience which I've thankfully blocked out). I owe you so much, yet... give so little.

I must admit... I abandoned you during the holiday's almost entirely. You sat on a shelf. Cried, NAY sobbed, probably. I don't know if you'll ever forgive me, but... if you could... I swear never to leave you again... until I start to get fat... then I'll most definitely break up with you, but UNTIL THEN... I'll be there.

I heart you Petit Ecolier, and I will stand by you, even if eating from your cracker of knowledge means my ass will blow up until it looks like this woman's boobs.

PS - Vince, stop feeding me.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Metro Oddities - Part I - Metro OdditiesDear Crazy Homeless Metro Violin Lady,

I've nothing against the arts. In fact, I'm one of you. Woooot Woooot, I played the Flooooot! Anyway. I digress. I enjoy music immensely, which is why I must tell you that what you're doing... has absolutely nothing to do with it.

Shh shsshsh shshhs. Don't try to prove me wrong. Just... accept it. PUT the BOW DOWN for the love of all things holy, before I'm forced to karate chop you in the throat. What you're "playing" makes me want to take a drill to my right temple. It makes me want to pop the fragile lining of my ear drum with a red hot poker. The mere thought of listening to you grate that bow on those strings again, like fingernails a chalkboard, causes me

Readers, before you say I'm harsh, you must go to the metro station Porte Maillot. Make your way to the tunnel between the line 1 and the line C and tune in for a spell. Put your feet up. Open those ears. Have a goooooood, looonnnng, listen.

I'll provide aspirin WHISKEY afterward. Hers is literally the kind of "music" that drives one to DRINK. Nothing else will dull the pain of those excruciating thirty seconds between the 1 and the C

Imagine THIS, except it's not an adorable little girl you can shake your head at and just think "ooh honey, you tried". No. My lady makes cutesy-mc-ultimate-fail over there sound like friggen Vivaldi.

I'm trying to work up the nerve to dress up as a homeless lady and go down there with my flute to out play her like some kind of "soloist" contest. Maybe I could write our set list on one of those abandoned pieces of cardboard.

Movement 1
"Stop. Listen. Regret."

Movement 2
"Feline Demise"

Movement 3
"This shit will make you have diarrhea, I swear to god yo"

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