It's Me, Sara Louise

It’s Me, Sara Louise

Hi! You might know me as C’est Moi, Sara Louise. Before that I was Sara in Le Petit Village. Now, It’s Me, Sara Louise. Hello again.

  • and so it begins

    How do I know that spring has officially sprung?

    These pretty little flowers have sprouted,

    and the first camping car has been spotted.
    Let the 2012 tourist season begin!

    (that was said in my Hunger Games voice by the way)

    bisou

  • one year of sweetness

    La Petite came into this world at the perfect time for me; she was born the day after my father passed away. Returning to Le Petit Village after my father’s funeral to this sweet little bundle definitely helped the healing process and reminded me that life is a circle that keeps on spinning.

    Happy birthday baby girl. 
    Tata loves you.
    bisou

  • bully

    Today we’re talking about bullying.

    (My friends Sarah and Samantha have recently blogged about this also, but I feel that with a topic this important, the more that the word spreads, the better.) 

    This is what’s happening in a nutshell…. A film that documents the epidemic of bullying in schools has been made, it’s called Bully.  Unfortunately, due to language the Motion Picture Association of America has given the film an ‘R’ rating. That ‘R’ rating means that children under the age of 17 will not be able to see the film. This also means that Bully will not be able to be shown to students at schools across America where it has the potential to have a large impact in helping students.  
    There is currently a petition to give Bully a PG-13 rating, if the MPAA accepts it and changes it’s rating, Bully has the potential to do some real good. 

    Bullying isn’t just about a few bad days at school, it can have a lasting effect on some one’s life. If you think of school as preparation for college and future, what happens if a child or teenager doesn’t want to go to school, because every day that they go, they are tormented, made fun of, laughed at, and ridiculed. What type of effect is that going to have on their grades? Their chances of getting into college? According to the bully project, three million students are absent from school each month, because they don’t want to go to class and face their tormentors. That doesn’t bode well for their future does it?
    I was bullied for years. Most people don’t know this because it’s not something I talk about, but I was. In sixth grade I left private school and started at public school and I was bullied, made fun of everyday because I was ugly. I didn’t have any friends and everyday I ate lunch with my teacher. Now I loved Mrs. Post, but children should be out playing with other children, not inside eating lunch with their 50 year old teacher (although it could explain why I’ve always gotten along better with people that are much older than me). 
    And then the next year when I moved to Texas, I was bullied some more, but I started to defend myself by adopting a tough New York attitude and was then mostly left alone. It wasn’t really until high school when the bullying stopped. And thank heavens, because I honestly don’t know if I would have been able to handle it, what would have happened to me, and how very different my life could have turned out.

    So please, take a moment and sign the petition. 
    bisou

  • my green heart

    {get off me}

    Disclaimer: this is a day late, I should have written this yesterday but I was too busy enjoying the day. Apologies.

    On the 17th March, 461, not yet Saint, Patrick died. Five hundred years later, people in Ireland began observing the Roman Catholic feast day of St. Patrick, but more importantly (to me anyway), 1549 years later, The Husband and I got married, in a little chapel in Lenox, Massachusetts (where my great-grandparents had been married like a 100+ years before, but probably not on St Patrick’s Day).

    So whereas St. Patrick’s Day might mean the wearing of the green for others, for me, it’s now the day I wear my heart on my sleeve. That said, today is all about The Husband, and what I love oh so much about him (just a few things though, none of us have that kind of time).

    + Sometimes, he decides that a Saturday might be Skippy Day. Which is basically a day where I am to be treated like a princess while The Husband and Fifty wait on me (this never turns out as wonderful as it sounds, but God love him, he tries… you can read about past Princess Skippy Day disasters here and here).

    + I can usually, like 99% of the time, pick out what we watch on TV.

    + Whenever we go out to dinner, and I can’t finish my plate, we switch plates and he finishes mine (I don’t know why this makes me happy but it does). 

    + He is a super easy going, go with the flow kind of guy (so I’m basically the yin to his yang) and when he hasn’t done something that makes me want to rip his head right off, he keeps me pretty chill.

    + He would lasso the moon, wrap it up in a bow, and give it to me if he could.

    + When I discovered that he had never heard of Dr. Seuss (and was horrified) he curled up on the couch while Aidan’s daughter read some to him. A D O R A B L E.

    + Back in Dublin, when we had only been together a couple of months, I got sick. Like really sick. The doctors said it was a viral infection and sent me home to my mother’s.  I was in bed for days with a high fever not really able to walk around, or eat or anything (it was one of those lose six pounds kind of sicknesses) and everyday, The Husband would come over and sick next to my bed while I slept. And everyday my mother would ask me why he was there. I think that’s when she figured out that he was going to be different.

    + He loves what he calls ‘the funk’ (think Kool & the Gang and Barry White) and will dance around the house and sing badly to it (this is very entertaining for Fifty and me).

    + He loves me and I love him.

    It’s pretty much a mutual appreciation society over here.
    bisou

  • s.n.a.f.u.

    {my glasses and me in happier times}
    It was Saturday morning. I was standing in H&M, shopping with Aidan, when I reached for my glasses, best to put them on in case we got separated in the store (people become furry blurry when they are more than twenty feet away from me), but they weren’t in my purse. No biggie, because I remembered that I left them on the breakfast table that morning before we headed out for some girl time at Odysseum (Montpellier’s outside shopping mall… I wish Le Petit Village had an outside shopping mall but that would be silly). 

    Shopped out and full of sushi we returned to Aidan’s and I went straight to the breakfast table to grab my glasses, only they weren’t there.

    Where oh where could my glasses be?

    I tore apart my room (yes, I have a room at Aidan’s house) emptied my bag, and purse, over and over, but no glasses.

    We scoured the house, the terrace, the trash, but still, no glasses.

    Aidan said that she had hoped that Clementine hadn’t taken them. I laughed at this. There is no way that a sweet dog like Clementine Mirabel Petals could do such a thing. Right?

    {don’t let the sweet face fool you}

    Wrong.

    Of course she did.

    We found my glasses in the back garden. The lenses gnawed on, one popped out altogether, and an arm mangled to bits. It was a sad sight.

    Obviously Clementine’s golden sweetness is hiding a terrible secret. She’s a kleptomaniac with a penchant for torture.

    RIP Ray Bans
    bisou

    P.S. At least Clementine didn’t throw a window through my shower like someone else did.
    Yeah Bec, I’m looking at you. 

  • Happy Birthday Honey B

    {Mrs Honey, Honey B and one extra large birthday candle}

    Almost a month ago now, on a Sunday, The Honey’s, The Husband, Gatz and me all headed out of Le Petit Village, west towards Avignon and Honey B’s surprise birthday party (Honey Jr’s older brother… remember him?)

    There was lunch for 70 people (that’s a whole lot of people to keep a surprise a secret but somehow we did) and after we ate, the boys played Pétanque…

    while the girls danced the afternoon away…

    because there was a DJ (crazy, right?!)

    And from now on, 
    Sunday lunch just won’t be Sunday lunch 
    without a DJ.
    bisou
    ,

  • escape to Aix


    {happy girl}

    Do you see this smiling face?

    Aidan is smiling because she managed to escape to Aix-en-Provence sans husband, children, and dog to meet up with the girls (not an easy feat let me tell you), and since it’s not often that we get to see each other without husbands, children, and dogs, we decided to celebrate with lunch in the sunshine.

    H A P P I N E S S

    As soon as we finished our lunch we met up with Delana for a stroll around the city. But it was only going to be a quick stroll because Ireland was playing Italy in rugby. Priorities, you know.
    (p.s. please remember that I did warn you that there would be rugby talk).

    And then Delana took it upon herself to guide us to the pub where they would be showing the match, but she guided us to the wrong pub. Let it be known, that Sara Louise never needs to be guided to the pub. I always know where the pub is. In every city. Anywhere.

    So I got us there but we missed the Italian national anthem, which was kind of a bummer, because it’s so pretty, and all the Italian rugby players stand there singing with tears in their eyes, and call me a weirdo, but I find it touching. But then Ireland won and that’s all that really matters about that.

    And then before we knew it, it was l’apéro time (isn’t that always the way) so we went back to Delana’s to sip wine, nibble on olives and meet up with Kirsty.

    Of course we could have sat on Delana’s terrace pretending it was apéro all night but we had dinner reservations to get to (good thing too, because we totally would have sat on the terrace pretending it was apéro all night and olives do not a dinner make).

    So off to dinner we went for traditional French fare at Chez Grand-Mere.  It was delicious, and lively, and we could have sat there all night (do you notice how if you plop us down somewhere with wine we could stay there forever?) but while the other girls were in for a sleepover at Delana’s I was returning to Le Petit Village and had to go. La grippe was coming for me, getting closer and closer, and of course we all know how that turned out. 
    And that’s the story of my day in Aix. 
    bisou
    , ,

  • getting to know you

    {I saw this little getting to know you piece on Our Transatlantic Love and thought to myself, ooh, what a nice way to ease back into blogging as I ease back into life after la grippe. Indulge me please}

    Age: thirty-something.
    Bedsize: queen.
    Chores that you hate: making the bed (but I hate not having the bed made more, so I suffer through).
    Dogs: Fifty (and in case you are new here, no, I do not have 50 dogs, I have one, named Fifty, but he kinda smells like I have 50 dogs).
    Essential start to your day: it used to be coffee, coffee, and more coffee, but now that I’ve been cutting that out of my life, it’s hot water & lemon (Isn’t that the saddest thing you’ve ever heard? But, my skin does look all glowy).
    Favorite color: apple green .
    Gold or Silver:  I love gold but it looks horrendous with my skin tone, but rose gold doesn’t, so rose gold.
    Height: taller than 5’7” but not quite 5’8”.
    Instruments you play: the radio, but I do regret quitting the piano. I really, really do.
    Job title: Well The Husband refers to me as, the chef, but I know that he is actually trying to say, the chief, so I guess that makes me, the boss.
    Kids: see Dogs above.
    Live: The L.P.V. (insert gang sign here).
    Mother’s Name: The one we call Eilo (that’s not her real name, but it’s what I call her).
    Nicknames: Skippy.
    Overnight hospital stays: yes.
    Pet peeves:  Rude people.
    Quote from a movie or tv show: Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it – Ferris Bueller.
    Right or Lefty:  Righty.
    Siblings: yes.
    Time you wake up: early (have you seen what time my blog posts?)
    Underwear: usually, yes. 
    Vegetable you hate: cooked carrots. I love them raw but once they are cooked, I’m like, ugh.
    What makes you run late: I don’t do late.
    X-Rays You’ve Had: too many to count.
    Yummy food you make: since everything I make is yummy (tis true), I’ll just say what I made last night and be done with it, spinach risotto, and it was scrumptious.
    Zoo Animal: giraffes. 

    ta da

    bisou

  • waiting for spring

    Because I am still icky (like icky icky, red gooey eyes icky) and don’t have the energy for much of anything, I’m posting this snippet that I wrote for Misadventures with Andi about this same time last year. And since it’s never been posted over here, it’s kinda new, and kinda not cheating {originally posted April 3, 2011}.
                                                                                            
    The dichotomy of my life in Le Petit Village goes like this… you see I love it and hate it, but the things I love, and the things I hate are pretty much one in the same. (Let me preface this by saying that ‘love’ and ‘hate’ are very strong words but they sound better than ‘like’ and ‘dislike’ so I’m going with ‘love’ and ‘hate’). And because I’m thinking in opposite terms of love and hate, I’ll write in opposite terms of summer and winter, but I’m going to start with winter.

    During the winter months, Le Petit Village and it’s 250 habitants practically hibernates. Many of the houses here are holiday homes that sit empty, shutters closed to the cold winds and snow, waiting for their Parisian and Belgian owners to come back and fill them. It can lend a bit of a ghost town vibe for the rest of us year-round inhabitants, and in those winter months, we tend to huddle close, so as to make us feel like we are not so alone in this wintry, mountain village.
    There is one bar/ cafe/ restaurant here, and on those cold Friday nights, when the roads are too icy to navigate down the mountain, the same group of us descend upon it. It is always; my brother-in-law, his young wife, her parents, my next door neighbor/ husband’s best friend, my husband, father-in-law, a couple of local farmers, and me. We huddle around a kerosene heater set up in the middle of the room, chatting, and laughing, sharing plates of saucisson, homemade pâté, and bowls of olives. It feels much more like someone’s cozy living room than a bar.
    Now for a city girl me, at times I’m screaming inside, yearning to put on my heels instead of winter muddy snow covered boots, and have a vodka martini in my hand instead of the hearty Leffe, while sitting back in a plush banquette in some decadent bar and not in this old bar, with chipped paint, mismatched furniture, and the same old handful of people every Friday night. But as much as I may want to be in that city bar, I’ve never felt as at home and comforted by the super luxe ‘it’ bar as I do on those dark winter nights surrounded by French villagers and wrapped in the warmth of the kerosene heater.
    Then as the months pass, and the sun begins to rise earlier and earlier and shine warmer and brighter, Le Petit Village slowly awakens. And with the sun comes the tourists.
    During those beautiful warmer months, when the lavender blooms, our winter population of 250, increases to 1000. Where normally I would go for long walks with my dog and not see a single soul, our tiny streets are buzzing with chatter and traffic and there are people everywhere. That same cozy winter bar becomes packed and any chance of finding a table or a bar stool is practically non-existent.
    I complain about the tourists; how they take all the parking spaces in front of our homes, they peer in our windows, and buy up all the baguettes, but secretly I love them. I love that when they are here Le Petit Village is at it’s best and most welcoming. We have small festivals with bumper cars and fireworks, a circus, and parties, all to say, “Bienvenue! Aren’t we quaint and charming? Please come back soon, we love the company”, and everyday feels like a holiday, a snap shot into a Peter Mayle dream.
    But just when I think I’m tired of the incessant early Sunday morning chatter of stranger’s voices outside my windows and fighting for my parking spot and my baguette, they are gone, and the cold and solitude comes back. Along with those wintry, kerosene cozy Friday nights. And we settle in and wait for spring.
    bisou

  • "we've got a blogger down, I repeat, a blogger is down"

    What I feared would happen, has happened. My wonderful Florence Nightingale performance with The Husband has left me with la grippe. But, France is in the middle of a flu epidemic after all, so maybe I was bound to get it.

    So here I am, in bed, with a cup of tea (which of course I had to make myself… grumble grumble, growl growl, **insert other unhappy noises**), propped up on pillows with a head that feels like it’s both floating and going to explode.

    Can you tell I’m cranky?

    I’m cranky.

    On the bright side… Honey’s Honey will be walking Fifty today. Yesterday I walked Fifty in my pyjamas (in France! Shock. Horror. Right?), because I only had the energy to either A. get dressed or B. walk the dog, not A + B, and since Fifty had to go pee pee, pyjama dog walking it was. I’m sure I’m the scandal of the village.

    But that’s nothing new really.
    sicky icky bisou
     
    P.S. QUICK! What’s your favorite TV show? I’m looking to ease my insufferable lonely and sick boredom. 
    P.P.S. As soon as I ditch the French germ factory that has taken up residence inside my body, I will be back to tell you all about Honey B’s surprise party, and my trip to Aix last weekend. I’ll miss you guys.