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La Saint-Valentin
source Happy Valentine’s Day my lovely, love loves!
How are we this morning/ afternoon/ evening?
Me… feeling full of l’amour surprised The Husband with breakfast this morning… heart-shaped eggs in a basket (like in Carey’s photo above, but not nearly as pretty) and a big ol’ cuppa Barry’s Tea. And as soon as I hit publish on this, I’ll be moving into the kitchen to bake a batch of cookies stuffed with Nutella (the way to The Husband’s heart is definitely through his belly).
But tonight the candlelight la-di-da romance will be put on hold in favor of a comfy, cozy night with pizza (Thursday nights are pizza night in The LPV), beer, and an all new episode of Southland. It doesn’t get much more romantic than watching Ryan from The O.C. battle LA’s gangbangers while swigging Stella.
And how will you be spending this day of rosy, pink romance…candlelight la-di-da or comfy coziness?bisou
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il neige
This is what’s happening… I want to post Toulon Part Deux, and show you what happened with Brother-in-Law, the office chair, and the Hello Kitty mask, but I’m waiting for Mr. London to send me something that is absolutely vital to the post (trust me on this one), and as soon as Mrs. London can get him to stop playing Candy Crush, he will (I’m being patient with Mr. London since he had such a horrible rugby weekend. Actually, it wasn’t only Toulon, all of my teams had a disastrous time of it; Clermont, France, Ireland… the world basically turned upside down and I’m not happy about it).So in the meantime (and as we patiently await a Candy Crush break), here are some photos of Le Petit Village after it snowed buckets yesterday (It was still snowing loads when I took these. I’d like to think that they would have been better if the snow hadn’t been pelting my face and soaking my camera, but I doubt it).
Fifty and I went for a walk and we passed The LPV’s war memorial covered in snow. (Every village in France has a memorial honoring the soldiers from that village that died in war. Some of these tiny villages have a lot of names on them.)And then we passed a house and Fifty decided to get a little nosy. I think I might start calling him Gladys Kravitz (up top if you get that reference).
Look at his right ear trying to tune in on the juicy gossip like a little antenna. He’s such a weirdo. I even took him off his leash (he HATES the leash) as we were leaving the village but he would just plop himself down and stare back at the house.
I think he was hoping that someone would come out and invite him in for tea (either that or something horrible has happened in that house and he’s sensing it… but I’m going to go with the tea invite, yes, he was definitely waiting for an invitation to tea).
Can you spot Fifty in this photo? He was hiding from me. I didn’t think it was very funny because I was sure that he would go a little too far into the wood, slip, fall and tumble down the hill and I would have to find a way to rescue him (Fifty has a habit of getting himself in precarious situations and has to be rescued; like stuck out on the roof, or a window ledge. He’s nothing but a damsel in distress really).
But then he came bounding out like a Greyhound at the gate (I’ve actually been wondering lately if he might be part Greyhound because of the way he runs. He’s a sprinter and has that racetrack run about him. And in the interest of full disclosure, I’ve been contemplating getting one of those doggie DNA tests, just out of curiosity, you know. Or would that be weird? It would be weird, wouldn’t it?)
Doggie DNA aside, if you were to guess,what type(s) of dog would you say Fifty is?(besides awesome obviously)bisou -
I'm baaaack!
C’est moi!I’m back in The LPV after my whirlwind trip to Dublin, and since my return this weekend, I have already had a visit with Mrs. London (with The Husband and Fifty in tow of course), toasted Champagne with Papa and his wife, watched France lose to Wales (Philippe Saint-André – you and me need to talk buddy), and today I’m going to a moules frites party in the original Le Petit Village (a belated birthday present from Brother-in-Law).So after a whirlwind week, it’s been a whirlwind weekend, and as soon as I catch my breath (because geesh… I’m still catching my breath from my weekend in Avignon), I’ll be back bright-eyed and bushy tailed and filling you in on all of the happenings. But for now, there are mussels and french fries waiting to be eaten.bisou -
surprise!
{last Saturday night} Coucou!
Well here it is… a little after 7AM on my birthday morning.
I’m sipping my tea and fresh off of the phone with my mother after her annual rendition of ♫ Happy Birthday ♪, and while I should be recovering from my wonderful weekend living in up in Châteauneuf-du-Pape and Avignon, and telling you all about it (and about Toulon Part Deux… you still have to find out what happened to Brother-in-Law, the office chair and the Hello Kitty mask), I’m not.
Instead, I find myself in a giddy tizzy and packing because yesterday The Husband gave me my birthday present… a few days back in Dublin! Tonight I’ll be at my Auntie’s house blowing out my birthday candles with my family and singing ♫ Bon Anniversaire à moi ♫. So I’m off to Nice and then leaving on a jet plane.
À la prochaine fois mes amies!
bonjour -
Dieu Merci, C'est Vendredi
{That means, T.G.I.F. but in French. And since it’s French, it’s a little backwards. Technically it says, “God thanks, it’s Friday.” But that’s OK, because it’s all about the sentiment.}
It’s Friday my friends! And if that wasn’t swish enough already, today I’m heading to one of my favorite cities in all of the land (the land being France) for the commencent of my birthday celebrations. Mr & Mrs London will be joining us for a weekend of sightseeing, wine, food, and watching Six Nations rugby (Aaaand maybe a little shopping at my friend Zara’s house) in Avignon, home of the old Popes’ palace and right down the road from where they grow that delicious wine (you know, the Pope’s new castle).
And that’s me and my weekend in a nutshell. I hope yours is wildly wonderful too.
Better skadoodle, poodle.bisou -
Toulon: a photo essay
WHEW! Guess what I just figured out? In my advancing age, it now takes me two whole nights to recover from one night out. No longer can I shake my bonbon on the dance floor until 5AM, sleep for three hours, and wake-up feeling normal with a spring in my step. Nope, I can’t, those days are over. Now, massive amounts of tea/ coffee/ juice are required for me to find my giddy-up, and it’s a slow giddy-up, with a hitch in it. That’s dumb. And that’s why today’s post is going to be heavy on photos, light on words, because while I have had two nights to recover from the hot mess that was Friday night in Toulon, my brain is like a fuzzy wuzzy slug, so allow me to present to you; Toulon: a photo essay.(DISCLOSURE: these photos were taken over two separate weekends; the first weekend in January, and this past weekend; Friday the 25th and Saturday the 26th.)(SIDE NOTE: I’m going to show you a photo, and then ramble on about some information pertaining to the photo, or what we were doing before/ during/ after said photo was taken.)
These salt and pepper shakers signify the love between The Husband and Mr. London. SHHH… don’t tell Gatz… he’s pouty enough already (Pouty enough to phone The Husband at 7AM on Sunday morning demanding to know where he was and what he was doing. The answer was sleeping, emphasis on the word ‘was’.)
This is the port of the village where Mr. & Mrs. London live. It’s pretty, isn’t it? It’s where Mrs. London and I like to go for lunch. We sit in the sun, and chat. It’s lovely. It’s our peaceful escape. It’s also where we bumped into another rugby player; he asked us what Mr. London was up to, Mrs. London said he was with The Husband, doing work at the new house (RE: The Londons are moving to a new house). “Oh really” the other player replied, “because I saw them about an hour ago, driving around the port, waving a bottle of Cristal out the window“. B U S T E D.
This is Mrs. London and me having a Mojito before Friday night’s match. I’m including this photo for no other reason than because I like it. My hair looks shiny and bouncy.
These are our babies that we left behind when we went to the match. The little one is in charge.
And this is the match;
There’s Mr. London ready to pounce, and next to him is Freddie Michalak. Freddie is not unattractive (don’t believe me… click here… you’re welcome).
That’s where I’m going to end my essay today, but there will be a Part Deux, and here’s a preview…
Oh, yeah.
That’s Brother-in-Law, in a Hello Kitty mask, sitting on an office chair, about to be pushed down a hill.
Hot Mess.bisou
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Extra! Extra!
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We’ve got big news in The LPV people!BIG NEWS.Now this particular tidbit of news is about the original Le Petit Village and it’s beyond exciting.Are you ready? (I need to make sure that you are ready because this is BIG.)The Parisian no longer owns Le Petit Bar.BAM!That’s right, it’s official, someone has finally bought Le Petit Bar and Les Villagers have been saved. Their cocktail chains of oppression have been removed, the shackles cut. No longer shall they walk up to the bar to order a drink and be told that the bar has run out of Coke, or Heineken or Rosé. (Do you remember that time that Le Petit Bar ran out of Rosé… in Provence… in June?! Blasphemy). No more shall tourists arrive at Le Petit Bar and be shocked to find out that food was not actually being served and be turned away hungry (despite Le Petit Bar being listed in the ‘Bistro de Pays‘ guidebook). And no longer shall Les Villagers arrive at 7PM on a Saturday night for l’apéro only to find the lights out and the doors locked because The Parisian was tired (“I’m so exhausted”, he would say).The new owner, this savior if you will, is a very large man from a village fifty kilometers west of Le Petit Village (He’s so big I’m thinking of Christening him Big Man. Seriously, he’s the biggest man I’ve seen in France… but in fairness, he’d be on the average size in Texas). He’s promising lots of changes, and unlike you know who, I think he’s going to stick to them.Right at this very moment (this very moment being a little after 8AM on a Tuesday morning) Brother-in-Law and his crew (the B-Team as I like to call them) are busy at work making changes to the interior of Le Petit Bar and re-fitting the kitchen. In February, Le Petit Bar will be open to the public and serving food (SERVING FOOD! Can I get a hallelujah?!). Bienvenue Big Man!
And au revoir to The Parisian…
don’t let the door hit ya,where the good Lord split ya.(I jest, because I kind of hope it does.)bisou -
They Call Me Nonos
Saturday was Fifty’s least favorite day of the year… shot day at the vet… RUH-ROH!. Oh he hates it! Look at him up there, with his tail tucked between his legs, all nervous like. (He’s also totally unaware that all of that worrying is going to give him frown lines… do they have botox for dogs?)In fairness, I get why he was so uneasy (besides the shot of course, I’m not a fan either), Fifty hasn’t had the greatest Vet experiences in the past. It’s not that anything bad happened, it’s just that we hadn’t found the right Vet for him… until last week, when fate stepped in.But before fate stepped in, there was the cat lady Vet. She was the first Vet we took Fifty to and not very nice. She didn’t like dogs! (Let me ask you a question… what kind of person becomes a Vet if they don’t like dogs?) It was absolutely nutty, because when Fifty went to her he was a wee bitty thing, and Fifty as a wee bitty thing was simply too cute not to like. I mean really, how could you not love this wee, bitty face?
Obviously there was something wrong with her.Then there was the second vet. He was perfectly fine (much nicer than the cat lady), but he was just kind of blah, and lacking in someway. It was like he didn’t have an aura or something.So this year when shot time rolled around, and not wanting to take Fifty back to the mean cat lady or the aura-less guy, we were on a search for somebody new. The man who owns the camp that Fifty goes to recommended a place not too far from here. He said the vet there takes care of all of his dogs (he breeds Porcelaines, like Ruby) and he takes walk-ins. Perfect, except we showed up during his extra-long lunch hour. We decided to go back a couple of days later and headed home. And that’s when fate happened.As we were driving, we passed another Vet’s office (in France, Vet’s have a white and blue cross hanging over their door) and pulled over to take a look. The office was closed but the Vet’s name on the door looked familiar. Very familiar. We looked in Fifty’s carnet de santé, and there on Fifty’s papers from his first examination at the S.P.A., was that very same Vet’s name. Fate. We booked an appointment right away.When we arrived, the Vet looked at Fifty and introduced herself. Then she looked at his carnet de santé, looked back at him and gasped, “Oui! Nonos!” (Nonos was Fifty’s name before we adopted him). She remembered him!
She told us how Fifty and his two sisters were brought to the S.P.A. in the cardboard box that they had been found inside the trash dumpster in (that breaks my heart), and (get ready… this is a big and), one of his sisters is a patient of hers! I am bursting with excitement about this! Fifty has a sister, and she’s OK, and healthy, and has a loving family. And apparently, she’s scared of everything just like Fifty, is a big licker like him, and is just about the same size but, she’s more Staffordshire-like so she could probably beat-up her brother.
{Are we done yet?} So in summary; 1) We finally found the right Vet for Fifty (she’s super sweet!). 2) Fifty has a sister not too far from here who could probably take him in a wrestling match, and 3) I have a play date to arrange.
bisou -
five hundred
{La Petite and Mr. Chat courtesy of Child Bride} ++ 500. This is my five-hundredth post. I wish I had something more exciting to post than my usual random, round-up ramblings but I don’t. This is all I got. Je suis désolé.
++ 4:49AM was the time on the clock this morning when I woke up and couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, fall back asleep. Fifty, sensing I was awake, popped over to see me, tail wagging with his bonjour sniffs and kisses. And then that woke up The Husband, and since he couldn’t fall back asleep either, we all got up, before 5 on a Sunday morning. That’s plain dumb. I predict a nap in the near future.
++ The morning my mother was leaving, she was due to wake up at 5:15 for her 7:30 TGV to Paris. Fifty woke her up at 3, and without looking to see what time it was, she decided that it must be time to wake up, since Fifty woke her (he usually wakes up and makes the rounds at 5AM). At 3:45 when she got out of the shower and was all dressed, I got up and explained to her that while her granddog is very smart, he doesn’t actually know how to tell time.
++ While January is pretty much always the dullest of the dull (apologies to you Capricorns but you know it’s true) at least in France we have L E S S O L D E S to see us through this horribly, depressing time. That and brand new red pants. BOO-YA.
source ++ Guess what’s right around the corner? (Check your calenders kids… you should see February 4th marked as Sara Louise’s birthday… and if it’s not marked, ask yourself why it’s not and rectify that mistake immediately.) My BiRThDaY. I’m thinking Avignon (because I love it) and Châteauneuf-du-Pape (because I love wine) and friends (because I love them). My 29th is going to be fantabulous! (I can hear you snickering. Quit it.)
++ Mrs. London has had a cracking idea… besides the annual Brazil Day that Brother-in-Law and Honey Jr’s comité des fêtes throws, we think they should put on an old school Sports Day. Think wheelbarrow (I’d win that), potato sack (I’d win that too) and three-legged races (might win that, depends on who I was attached to), tug-o-war (Shotgun Mr. London and The Husband), egg and spoon (yeah, I’d probably win that one too), and all those other random events they used to make us do when we were kids (bring it!). I’d own that day. (Competitive??? Who? Me?)
++ We’re having a fondue party for Sunday lunch at Papa’s today. It’s not actually a party per se (unless Papa’s Wife is celebrating that the end of hunting season is imminent) but Papa will be there, and La Petite, and The Husband and me, and there will be gooey, melted cheese and that’s enough reason to celebrate I guess.
++ Silver Linings Playbook. Let’s discuss. Have you see it? Loved it. LOVED IT. Love Bradley (Remember that time he spoke French? Still swooning. And judging by the look on the face of the interviewer, I’m pretty sure she’s still swooning too). Love J-Law. Love this movie (I found it endearing). If you’ve seen it, what did you think? And if you haven’t, O.M.De Niro! What are you waiting for?
Aaaand that’s 500!(Not very exciting, was it)Please stay tuned for 501.bisou -
The St. Stephen's Day Terrorist
Looking at this photo, you would think that the St. Stephen’s Day Terrorist was the small, white dog who had eaten something that didn’t agree with his little belly. But no, as painfully odorous as that was, the St. Stephen’s Day Terrorist was actually my mother, who held us hostage with her particular brand of SingStar strategy.Let me backtrack.For those that don’t know, St. Stephen’s Day (the day after Christmas) is an Irish holiday and since my Irish mother was visiting, we celebrated it. Plus, the 26th is also Boxing Day for the English, and guess who’s English… Mr. & Mrs. London are that’s who. So the day after Christmas, we went to Toulon to have a nice, family holiday (both Mrs. London’s mother and brother were over from London, and with my mother as well, it was like a mini family reunion… in the South of France… I love that!). Sadly for Mr. London, he had to go back to the UK that night for a funeral and would be missing out on all of the family fun time.
Family fun time like exchanging presents (OK, technically Mr. London was still there for this, but he was like a zombie apocalypse casualty do to a tad too much ‘Christmas Spirit’ the night before). A bottle of Jack Daniel’s Honey whisky from Dan-Dan (Mrs London’s brother) and a bottle of Champagne from Mrs. London. They both gave us alcohol…. hmmm… not sure what they’re trying to say, but I like it. (I’m saving that Rosé Champagne for my birthday… only seventeen days left to go!)
I gave the gift of reading to Mrs. London… one of my absolute favorites; The Bronze Horseman trilogy. (If you haven’t already read it, please add it immediately to your goodreads. Go now, I’ll be here when you get back.)The Husband gave Mr. London a framed photo… it’s Mr. London and an ASM Clermont player colliding. I’m not sure who was tackling who, but it’s a humdinger. I’d love to show it to you but then Mr. London would get pouty, and his pout rivals The Husband’s, so no thank you, but it is quite spectacular actually (both the pouting and the photo).Napoleon got Fifty’s Christmas elf hat that Fifty had outgrown…
Dan-Dan and The Husband played with a new remote controlled helicopter, until one of them got it stuck on the roof… luckily Dan-Dan has big shoulders…
We put our pyjamas on at a ridiculously early hour (because the key word in family fun time is ‘family’ so that means pyjamas are always allowed), popped some Champagne (for about the third or fourth time that day) and played cards.It was the L O N G E S T game of Phase 10 in the history of mankind. It was so long, I half expected Mr. London to have returned from the UK (obviously, I’m exaggerating, but it was over two hours and that’s a ridiculous amount of time to be playing one card game… blame it on the Champagne I guess).And after the world’s longest card game, we moved to the living room for the main event… family fun time SingStar. Do you ever wish that you could go back in time and not do something… yeah this is one of those times. None of us have any right to sing ever (with the exception of Mrs. London’s mother… she’s got the voice of a wee angel).It was not pretty (blaming it on the Champagne again) but that didn’t stop us from getting competitive. And my mother’s competitive streak led her to this strategy… sing louder than everyone else (which basically means shouting), accent the last word of every line, and you’ll win (it felt like we were being held hostage… seriously).But that didn’t really work… it only resulted in a loss to The Husband (“But Gregory doesn’t even speak English!!! How could he have beaten me???”), and a rendition of The Commodore’s classic, ‘Brick House’, that will remain burned into our memories forever.Naturally a performance such as the one we were subjected to, would lead to some teasing. So at breakfast the next morning, we asked each other questions, questions like:Where does Obama live? He lives in the White HOUSE.What’s your favorite TV show? I like to watch Dr.HOUSE.
And guess what? Mrs. London caught the ‘Brick House’ performance on video. The whole thing! And oh how I would love to show it to you, I really would, but if I did, I would be in the dog HOUSE.(I’m pretty sure I’m going to be in trouble anyway)bisou
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It's Me, Sara Louise 