oh! and i cut my hair!

and it is short! but i think even shorter would be better... i've never really learned to FULLY commit to anything. that could be a good thing to learn to do!


in keeping with these week's horoscope, in a way, after all...

"All of us have gaps in our education. You and I and everyone else alive have dank pockets of ignorance that diminish our humanity and musty pits of naivete that prevent us from seeing truths that are obvious to others. We all lack certain skills that hold us back from being more fulfilled in our chosen fields. That's the bad news, Aries. The good news is that the gaps in your education will be up for review in the coming weeks -- which means that it'll be an excellent time to make plans to fill them. Here's a good way to get started: Be aggressive in identifying the things that you don't even know you don't know. "

freewillastrology.com. it's my favorite.

it is SUCH a nice day today!
i stumbled onto a flea market where i found a lot of great things to the tune of .50-1.00 each + i found some tan oxfords for two euros! i chatted with some sellers and was explained that "i am his daughter" by a girl standing next to her mom. gendered pronouns are for the birds! ha.

i was even more pleased when i came home, tried everything on, and am still highly pleased with what i came away with... the only questionable item is a navy-and-white skirt printed with tiny flowers that i bought intending to wear as a dress. it is a bit long and made of a LOT of fabric. but, if the weather stays this gorgeous, i'll definietly be wearing it.

right now, i am getting ready to go sunbathe in the yard while sipping mint iced tea and reading "the picture of dorian grey." i made delicious fajitas for lunch. and THE SUN IS SHINING! c'est parfait.

the photo above is from this random girl's amazing collection of polyvore sets. what skills!
it's all here.

Hot Chip!!!

How did I forget to mention one of the things I loved most this week: seeing Hot Chip lives at the Nuits Sonores Festival! My attempts at videos failed, I had to step away from the insane dancing in the middle because I had never needed a water bottle more in my life, and I was stalked by a Frenchman afterward who said, "I didn't want to lose you, the American who knows Hot Chip!"

Thankfully, I found some you tube footage of their epic performance.

Oh, yeah: they're from London. Natch.



SO FUN!

Also cool: Paul Kalkbrenner, German DJ whose film, "Berlin Calling," I watched before the concert--in German!--with mes amies allemagnes. That counts as a cultural experience, right?!




Now, this type of music (Hot Chip included) is not my number-one-favorite-genre-of-all-time (in fact, I remember the first time I heard Hot Chip: it was at the now-abandoned Late for the Train location in Flagstaff, where I sat, nursing my triple-tall latte and attempting to do homework but instead Google-searching the lyrics of the songs I liked from the satellite radio station they had going... and then buying them off itunes. "Ready for the Floor" was definitely my song of the day! And I don't think at that time I could ever have guessed I would be dancing like a lunatic, drunk off 3 euro red wine with two German girls in Lyon, France, to that very same band, and that very same song!). That being said, it was a lot (a LOT!) of fun to dance to, and when I finally dragged my emo self out to some of the free events on Saturday (Saturday! That means my chemically-imbalanced brain made me miss both the events of Thursday AND Friday!), it was to dance in fountains, have myself bedecked in red paint, and have my absentminded dance moves (how can I have a Skype date AND meet Lancelot for coffee at the same time?!) be made fun of by French girls who look like the lead singer of the Gossip and claim to have driven 15 hours for the Festival ("But isn't 15 hours longer than it takes to drive all of France?" my wise German friend N pointed out). Anyway, here's a recreation/example of my inimitable dance moves.
Sugar?
("Yes?" I respond, while picking up my name tag.)
How'd you get so fly?





The world may never know. But I think it has something to do with hot sauce.

A review.

So, it took me less than 24 hours to read High Fidelity, which is a good sign if looking for a book that grabs you (I'm easy; all it took was "Hertforshire") and is able to remain intriguing and interesting for the duration of 200+ pages. Bonus points if it can make you laugh out loud (check, several time) and provide certain passages that require rereading just because the truth so apparent in those lines is worth a double absorption (check, check!).

So, I think now High Fidelity is going to be my "King Lear," which, I was told by my ancient, sweater-vest wearing, pipe-smoking professor, will become more and more meaningful the older one gets. Likewise, when Rob pines for the hopefulness of 15, 20, and "even" 25, I feel like I am not to that stage of intense dissatisfaction; I am still naively hopeful. Yet, I have never had so deep a commitment with anyone, to feel "sorted" or "settled." I just watched the trailer, and (naturally) I am disappointed they didn't hire British actors, but I guess I should be grateful they didn't ask the American actors to attempt British accents.

Though, past revelations have taught me I am easily fooled by Brits putting on the American. Maybe it's not that hard, if you're already into that sort of thing. (You know: acting).

Finally, I think listening to Nick Hornby on tape would be great because it'd be so much better in full Brit-speak. I mean, of course in my undying desire to be British, I am constantly trying to persuade the voice in my head to speak properly the Queen's English (though less posh, no doubt), and it's quite difficult. No way I would have finished this book in less than 24 hours if I was trying to "translate" it in such a way!

Alas, the ending was rather anticlimactic and, I thought, unfulfilling, but I hope it's being heralded as an "instant classic" doesn't mean that type of settling is all we're really able to hope for.

I well liked the American woman. And I also like using the word "well" like that. Which, if not aware of my amorous feelings towards all things English, looks wrong, or, at the every least, poorly punctuated.

So, fine: "I, well, liked the American woman!"
That's what he said.

nouveaux livres!!!

It's outrageously expensive to buy English-language books in France, so it's a good thing indeed that I brought so many with me. However, in my eighth month here, I have read all the ones I wanted to, failed to finish ones that made me want to vomit (notably: Eat, Pray, Love--give me a fucking break!), misplaced others at random French girls' homes (am I destined to never know the whole story of Holden Caulfied?), and lacked the gumption to persevere through others I feel like I should read, but don't have the patience (hello, Ayn Rand.** Hello, Atlas Shrugged. I'll get to your life-changing and perspective-shifting brilliance someday!).



So, I went to the bookstore today and headed straight to the English section of course, which is nicely titled, in English, "English Books." Sophie would be so proud! After discovering there are many cute, small, cheap incarnation of classics I have always meant to read (bright green covers! recycled paper!), I was set on buying Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (yes, I was unimpressed by the Tim Burton's latest incarnation, but it still piqued my interest enough to see what the original was all about), A Picture of Dorian Gray (So famous! So trendy! How have I never read it, especially when Oscar Wilde is so insanely quotable?!*), and The Great Gatsby, which, naturally, I'd been required to read in high school yet never completed, even though I can still picture the blue-purple border and vague, impressionistic, brooding painting of the copy the "bookstore" (a window where I forfeited way too much money before the advent of, or at least my discover of, Half.com) at Xavier sold me. It's about being cynical, jaded, and insane, right?! I'm in!

But, then, I spotted the Nick Hornby section. He has always been recommended, and I saw the depressing movie version of "About a Boy" when it came out when I was in 8th or 9th grade (gosh! I remember the horrid orange "Abercrombie and Fitch" glitter-printed shirt I wore, and the disastrously trendy Rocket Dogs, and how my old crush, who I'd play hide-and-seek with in AOL instant messages [what?!], had been there, and how I'd towered over him in my insane shoes... 14-year-old boys are hardly men, and there are few males I could ever "tower" over now, even when I am feeling my largest! Anyway, no wonder I didn't appreciate the film then! I had much more important things on my mind!), complete with the best Britain has to offer, in the minds of (most?) Americans: Hugh Grant.


Who, incidentally, I never liked: he always struck me as smarmy and insincere and all together too sure of his good looks and dashing accent (my naivete-born-of-American-ness means I, still, have little ability to tell "posh" accents from the [horror! filth!] cockney ones; all I know is, the gents on BBC world sound a little stuffy for my liking. But, they have dull jobs, don't they?). Anyway, I was sort of vindicated when my British mate slagged off Hugh Grant for his sickening "posh" accent. Amen! Besides my dislike for Mr. Grant, I am otherwise completely smitten by all things British at the moment, from fry-ups and beans for breakfast, to Lily Allen's topless beach-side escapades and public drunkenness, novelists (as witnessed by all three books I did end up buying!), and the word "knickers." Indeed, then, it's with great interest that I've realized it's much more common to find British books in France than American (save for the most well-written offering of this millennium: those vampire books by Stephenie [spelled SO WRONG!] Meyer and Charlaine "I-lack-a-neck" Harris, the latter of which can be tolerated because the show that sprung from her books featured screenwriters more talented than she and also stars a Brit and a Kiwi). Obviously, the ample supply of British books is fine by me, as I'd rather disassociate myself from my own lot anyway--especially if the best we apparently have to offer is the Twilight series. Kill me. Please. But, I digress. Generally, I like British writing (indeed, ever since I read the laugh-out-loud hilarious Angus, Thongs, and Full-frontal Snogging, which I remember having to stifle my uncontrollable giggles over, since I was on an airplane while I read it). Of course, that being said, I have to admit I appreciate only what I can understand of their supremely complex and witty use of sarcasm, being the lowly septic that I am! In the end, I just get a kick out of the foreign colloquialisms. And the word "wanker." Because I am a dork. A very immature dork.

So, I picked up High Fidelity, another of Nick Hornby's that has been made into a movie... but I have not seen it. Which, generally, I find key. For example, knowing the tragic ending of Revolutionary Road made me set the book back down, even though I am sure it, too, is a fascinating read. I started reading the first page of High Fidelity, and, so ironically, there it was: Hertfordshire. The only other area in England I know of besides London (and, perhaps tellingly, it features a red squiggly mistype marker here in my American text-edit). And that's one more than most Americans! (Similarly, it's a common belief that France is comprised completely of the city of Paris, as I am reminded again and again as friends and family ask me how things are going "in Paris." Not sure what the weather's like over there, a four hour drive from here, but Lyon is just lovely, thanks for asking!). But, this book was 7 euros and the cute little green numbers were only 2.60. So I set it down and walked away, but I the thought of the irony (I've actually heard of that place!), I liked the idea of a lost love from a poor little Brit's perspective, and I consoled myself that I probably have that blue-purple rimmed copy of The Great Gatsby at home on a shelf (or, more likely, in Bob's storage unit).

In summation, I hope this "million-copy best seller" that is "funny and wise, sweet and true" and leaves you believing "not only in the redemptive power of music but also the redemptive power of love" really delivers. And with no Hugh Grant references.

*Oh, hélas: "America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between."

I like this, too:
"Consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative."

**Also quotable: "Love is blind, they say; sex is impervious to reason and mocks the power of all philosophers. But, in fact, a person’s sexual choice is the result and sum of their fundamental convictions. Tell me what a person finds sexually attractive and I will tell you their entire philosophy of life. Show me the person they sleep with and I will tell you their valuation of themselves. No matter what corruption they’re taught about the virtue of selflessness, sex is the most profoundly selfish of all acts, an act which they cannot perform for any motive but their own enjoyment - just try to think of performing it in a spirit of selfless charity! - an act which is not possible in self-abasement, only in self-exultation, only on the confidence of being desired and being worthy of desire. It is an act that forces them to stand naked in spirit, as well as in body, and accept their real ego as their standard of value. They will always be attracted to the person who reflects their deepest vision of themselves, the person whose surrender permits them to experience - or to fake - a sense of self-esteem .. Love is our response to our highest values - and can be nothing else."


***There's a great example of this unfair stereotype in David Lodge's Thinks..., when the heroine discusses the use of the water closet with her American sub-letters. "They seem quite nice... if a little tone-deaf to English humour [with a "u"]. When I told him that 'You just have to be firm' with the flush-handle in the downstairs loo, and 'Don't take no for an answer,' he thought I was telling him to call a plumber." Too clever for their own good, those Brits!

Also purchased:
Sour strawberry lollies. I know they have zero redemptive qualities and I know I will have no self control and will eat (am currently eating) them until my tongue is raw and bleeding, and yet, it's been, like, totally three weeks since I've had any! I deserve them. (Jokes!)

A flowered scarf from H+M, which, I was dismayed to discover, was right next to some of the little hairclips I wanted to keep my top knot in place... and which I had just paid three euros more for at Claire's. Yes, Claire's. I am ashamed. I should never doubt that I can purchase anything I will ever need or want at H+M. Well, except for black tights. Because there were none there today.

Today, I also made a delicious white pizza featuring fresh basil, ham, corn, mozarella, and caramalized onions. Miam miam! The diet is going smashingly well!

Oh! And! I. CLEANED. MY. ROOM. Really, this is a huge fucking accomplishment and is the real reason I deserve those damn lollies.

Finally, the song "Werewolf" by CocoRosie is REALLY doing GREAT things for me today:

"Left stains on my sheets and stains on my soul."

Um, check.

And, yet:

"I'm a shake you off though/get up on that horse and/ride into the sunset/look back with no remorse."

des trucs j'adore maintenant...

cheap red wine and monster much (how cute are these ghost-shaped snacks?!) yes, i'd like to try jambon, ketchup, and barbeque-flavored, stp!



and this munch (no pun intended?) parody found via google image search:

also: making skype dates with friends i haven't spoken to in a long time; when jeanne gives me unsolicited bisous; when the sun shines between the storm clouds (oh, how metaphoric!); and delicious, handmade hashbrowns doused in chipotle tobasco sauce with a side of avocado.

"Life... is like a grapefruit. It's
orange and squishy, and has a few
pips in it, and some folks have
half a one for breakfast."

Douglas Adams

hoppy easter?

It was so interesting to go back to roanne this weekend. It's the city Bertrand and Sophie are both from, and Sophie's parents house--this picturesque sprawl set atop a hill, featuring a gorgeous swimming pool with a backdrop of lush green french hillsides and plenty of toys for les enfants to fight over (this time: the balançoire and the petit quad)--is where the kids spend their holidays from school. It was also here that I first met the children, my first weekend here in France, Antoine and Jeanne showing off their skills on the diving board, Julien, shy and wrapped in a towel on his mamie's lap. I'd met lot of Sophie and Bertrand's childhood friends, then, too, and been overwhelmed by my complete non-understanding of French.

In seven (!) months, some things have changed, and others have not. I am much more comfortable with the kids and family, though I am continually perplexed by the French language, not least of all the apparent nuances by which "vous" and "tu" are decided upon. I have always used "vous," as in "s'il VOUS plait," with the grandparents, who have always been kind to me. Today, as I was being told, again, how to say correctly, "Do you want some water?" to Bertrand, he suggested I use the familiar, "tu" form with him, as I have always done, at he and Sophie's insistence. But, the grandma insisted that "vous" should always be used for people "older than you, as a form of respect!" and Bertrand, laughingly, agreed, saying, "yes, use it for the OLD!" I don't want to be seen as impolite, but I don't know how I will EVER understand this! Apparently, you can use "tu" is you're trying to "get friendly," but otherwise you should always use it with people you don't know. However, I guess this confusion isn't only a problem of mine, as a foreigner: I recall, when I was trying desperately to finish my French credits in order to graduate, talking with the French exchange student/tutor who expressed similar problems and her solution: holding to water jug above her head and saying to no one in particular, "Vous voulez de l'eau?" Because, of course and after all, "vous" can be plural, as well.

In conclusion, it's embarrassing how terrible my French still is and I know continuing to write, read, and listen in English isn't doing me any good... only 3 more months! I can't believe it! I must try harder!

x.

oh, my little brazilian (and i don't--and will never--mean my vag!):

and it is forgivable, i mean it is not everyday we see a charming old british, is it? with enphasys on the 'old'

heuhe

oh lorraina, i don't why really, but i like you so much!

i wish you be as happy as possible

how did THIS happen?!

photographic evidence.

t


"week in pictures" commences in march.

until then:

a. the beach never disappoints!

b. the confetti left behind at nice's carnaval was perhaps more exciting than the overpriced parade. luckily, i got to see a lot of it from inside one of the floats (!).

c. behind-the-scenes angel.

d. the sordid affair continues avec un geriatric homme, alas/hooray!
150 euro leather jacket bought for 20 during les soldes made its (fantastic!) debut!

a dieu...!

(lost and) FOUND PASSPORT!

So, I have, as usual, saved getting my visa information ratified until the very last possible moment. (Do you think the requirement "within three months of arrival" is to the day, i.e. I got here August 25, thus November 25 was doomsday, or do you suppose there is a little wiggle room?). In any case, it has taken me three tries to (hopefully, this time) get it right and send all the necessary documents to the immigration office and officially be enrolled as a (temporary) resident of France!
Anyway, in my procrastination, I found myself needing another photocopy of my passport, STAT, and the photocopy machine at the Casino out-of-order. So, Sophie offered to take my passport to work with her and make a copy there. How nice!
Anyway, she is having a busy week at work and I was not at all upset when she forgot to make my copies, but I suggested she leave the passport with me and I could do it myself at the now-working Casino machine. Poor life choice. As I rounded up the children, I put the passport in my small, brown purse along with only my wallet and keys. This purse only completely closes if you go through the motions of buckling it, and, seeing as "lazy" is my middle name, I often do not bother.
Anyway, after dropping les enfants off at school, I took a new route to the marché near the house. I had never been before and was impressed with all the produce in large, aluminum bowls as well as the traveling chicken rotisseries! As usual, I found myself wishing for the ability to make easy conversation with the workers; I'd love to know how they came up with SO MANY VARIETIES of olives! If one thing living in a country where I cannot easily communicate has taught me, it is to overcome my inherent shyness. I think, once I am back in good ol' English speaking America, I will be that person making conversation constantly with strangers--because now I know how lonely it is not being able to! So, at the market, I smiled at the French-Arab men who greeted me with "Bonjour, mademoiselle!" even though their intentions didn't seem entirely pure (I was highly conscious of my decision to wear leggings, which probably is never in my best interest and yet I don't see myself stopping anytime soon!). Alas, I did not find the "morceau de poitiron" I was searching for, and decided to leave. Looking in my bag, I realized: my passport was gone! However, I am absentminded (at best) and choose to assume I had left it at home in my haste to get the kids bundled up and out the door. I bought a baguette and headed home. The passport wasn't there.
So, for the rest of the day, I retraced my steps, thinking of everything I could have done to avoid having my passport stolen from my purse (I was convinced) by a radish-wielding French-Arab man (I assumed). I could not concentrate in French class, I began plotting my inevitable trip to Paris or Marseille, the only locations to get a new passport, and I generally felt this was an unacceptable way to spend Thanksgiving.
Ironically, I found a copy of my passport and decided to take it to the Casino for more copies. Inside the machine were two French identity cards. I patted myself on the back for the good karma I was racking up as I waited in line to hand them over to customer services. "Naomie Fleur" and her younger boyfriend will be so pleased!
Well, I think I am officially a Buddhist convert (in terms of truly believing in the karma stuff) because this morning, as I listened to the never-ending automated messages at the American Embassy in Paris and was laughed at by the consulate in Marseille for not realizing how busy they are patrolling the Italian border (or something), I heard the beep of call waiting. It was Sophie: the police had found my passport!
I rushed over and was happily reunited with my little buddy, who has been so many places with me! My horrible French led me to ask the policewoman, "Vous connaisez qui... retourner?" As in, "Do you know who returned it?" She explained, I think, in rapid-fire French, that Sophie had also asked on the phone but the police did not know. I wanted to say "Thank you!" and perhaps make him a pumpkin pie!
In summation: I think the world is a lovely place and I happy we can all look out for each other.

I'm also pretty pleased with the latest additions to my tumblr.

FIN.

i'm just really busy, you know?

topics to be addressed when i stop being a lazy piece of merde:

• how hilarious it was to find myself waiting at a bus stop with a young turkish man, listening to the american music on his phone, and explaining that no, "poker face" does not translate to "cheater."
• how freaking happy it makes to have a breakfast burrito dans le matin. sophie is so nice to buy my favorite foods! i like that "je suis avocat" can mean "i am a lawyer" OR "i am avocado." i choose the latter. and i just ate a whole one.
• i think it's funny there are "sos prieres" available. in case you find yourself in the midst of a spiritual crisis.
• i appreciate realizing that i actually am making progress with the french. it's difficult and i feel like a retard but i am happy to have the opportunity to try, in france, to learn this language. and i will!
• okay, so maybe i should have thought ahead and thought, "oh! berlin for new year's!" but i guess paris will still be okay... ha!
• je dois etudier le français!!!
• i like the colors of fall.

the real reason i am here.

(street)styleblogs.

so, even i am interested in fashion to an extent i think most people who meet me may not recognize (especially here in France where i have a limited wardrobe and packed things that i felt more neutral, which is counter to what i usually gravitate towards when getting dressed). i think also, though, my floundering and indecision is indicative of this time in my life. i am no longer a college student who can wear anything as sloppy or as refined as i wish. yet, my job currently is as "jeune fille au pair"--not exactly a title which commands pencil skirts and chanel chain bags (someday i will have you!). plus, i am in a constant state of thinking, "if only i were THINNER, this would look better..." which is so useless/annoying/stupid!

anyway, the whole point of writing this was to compare to street style blogs: both which i love but neither of which i think i will ever be fully elligible for:

the first is hel-looks. shot in helsinki, finland, i appreciate that the photographed get the opportunity to explain what they are wearing and why they like it. the people in these shots are often wearing tons of layers; their outfits are so multi-faceted and colorful, "boring" is the last word that would come to mind. i loves these looks. honestly, i feel best about myself when i have many layers, many things going on, nothing boring. i see pictures of myself when i was younger, and i was good at matching my brown wood earring to my plant-splashed shirt. but now, i am way more interested in mis-matched but INTERESTING. yet, is that okay? when i eventually, inevitably, unfortunately succumb to the corporate world, i hope i can still bring some of this excitement. it reminds me of something a friend of mine said, when we went out for some local music and framboise lambics at mia's in flagstaff and i wore a neon yellow denim skirt, gray tights, stack-healed ankle boots and a purple fur jacket. "what were you thinking when you put that on?" she asked, in all seriousness. "i was thinking that no one else would come up with this combination."


then, there's the inimitable sartorialist, with his book deal and his classic looks. His photos are so well-done, which I definitely appreciate. His models are always beautiful; their style, so refined. They seem, to me, untouchable. Maybe that is why I am more drawn to the helsinki photos: these people, in their glorious imperfection, have looks that are attainable. the sartorialist is fun to look at, but it's not something i could do, i feel. i haven't the money, or the perfect hair, skin, figure, etc., required. yet, i keep coming back to both.

and, i have to admit, i was most excited when i myself was asked to be photographed last summer in new york city for a blog called "style sightings." (believe me, it was in all the best interest of everyone involved here that my face be covered... not to discredit my one-time internet fame!) now, if i could only move to helsinki, where i, too, can state that "i mostly buy second hand"...

PHOPHOPHOPHOPHO!

I got the standard "i-prefer-Australians-to-Americans" glance today from a sweet Asian woman in the Vietnamese restaurant we found near Guillotiere. We were noticeable in the small shop first for our white-ness ("this place is authentic!" we assured each other, looking around at the Vietnamese patrons) and then for our lack of French. The rotund woman, who wore an orange shirt, black, pilled stockings, and flip flops, giggled as she counted out our change, "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven!" Then, a man with the most horrifying set of teeth I have ever seen explained to us, in his Asian-accented French, that the area we were in--which was lined with Vietnamese restaurants--was not a good place to be alone. "Couper? Vous comprendez 'couper'?" he asked us, while making a stabbing motion into his side. He then mimed smoking something ilicit, shooting up something evil, and snorting some powders. A good place to be, indeed! But, the soup was good and fulfilling after yesterday's fruitless search for Pho (my mind is still blown regarding how EVERYthing can afford to be closed on Sundays!). Yet, after my wikisearch of "pho" lead to the information that tripe sausage is indeed a common ingredient, I stand by my decision to let the unidentified meatballs float on by!

Íkea.

Is Ikea one of the places one should not venture alone, kind of like Disneyland? Is it worse to be here without someone special, as the average customer is here with their significant other (picking up cheap but still relatively good-looking furniture for their first apartment together, naturally) or their cute and small family? I kind of like it. I also like that the wine flows so freely in Europe; I am fairly certain that there is not a worker at Ikea, Tempe, assigned the job of pouring white and rose wines at the start of the food line. How quaint! And the fact that you can buy entire twist-top bottles for, like, four euros? C'est brilliant! I am proud of myself for resisting!

Maybe Ikea is bad, though. I mean, I can recount at least one blog that suggests going here post-breakup will only lead to sad, sad memories of coming here with the now-ex boyfriend. I personally think of the scene in "500 days of Summer," where Joseph Gordon Levitt (god, please grant me a boy dressed in sweatervests and pumas. please?) and Zooey Deschanel (i'll take her hair for myself, please), frolick in the model rooms. And I myself can't help remembering going to Ikea with a boy I once loved, who picked me up with my favorite coffee drink and bought shelves he never put up just so we could spend time together. Ikea is romantic, apparently, after all.

I think I'll go buy that bottle of wine. I wonder how much French I would need to know for the job of official pourer?

everything's amazing and nobody's happy!

frenchie things. part 1.

les enfants and I pass this foot-tall nipple on the way to school every day.
such a horrid sight would not be allowed in the united states, i am certain!

i think it's funny to my american brain because it is so unnecessary; it could easily have been covered by one of the flowers she us lying on; to the kids, though, they would never give the photo a second glance.

i'm personally happy for the nudity because even if i never achieve my dream of having asian babies, i can at least console myself with the knowledge that my own nipples look a little asian. i would probably never know this otherwise.

thanks, france.