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.

  • language lessons

    In my last French class, I learned all about la réciprocité (example; Nicolas Sarkozy déteste Ségolène Royal. Ségolène Royal déteste Nicolas Sarkozy. Nicolas et Ségolène se detestent). Interesting, no? Sure. But let’s take a look at what The Husband is listening to on his English language lesson CD:

    (Please note: This is an advanced English CD which from listening to, is obviously geared towards people who will be traveling to America. Also, I swear on my shoes that I have not made any of this stuff up. I have copied the text verbatim from the CD. Besides, I honestly don’t think I could have imagined this little cultural lesson, even if I tried.)
    …………………………………………………………………………………………………

    “If you see an officer behind you with his lights flashing, that usually means he wants you to pull over.”

    Usually?

    “Don’t try to run away because he’ll go after you and call in more officers to help him catch you.”

    That doesn’t sound scary at all.

    “Whatever traffic law you broke, running from a police officer will make it worse and could get you killed in the process.”

    W T F ???

    “Don’t just jump out of the car because the officer may think you have a gun.”

    Um, OK.

    “In the U.S., you should not try to give the officer some money so he won’t giver you a ticket. Bribing a police officer is very illegal and you could go to jail if you try.”

    Good to know.
    ………………………………………………………………………………………………….

    I believe this portion of the lesson is entitled, “Running from the Po-Po.”

    (I may have made that last bit up)
    bisou

  • foux da fa fa

    Bonjour… your groovylicious French lesson for the day. Enjoy.

    je voudrais un croissant

    mdr (lol)

    bisou

  • if you want to know…

    …how I spent my birthday, it went like this: I woke up at my usual before dawn hour (I’m an early bird, never have got that worm though) and my mother skyped me from Texas to sing happy birthday. She has sung happy birthday to me on the phone every year for as long as I can remember (whether I’d like her to or not). This was the first time via skype.  I may prefer it via telephone, slightly less cringe worthy. (This is one of those family traditions that I pretend to hate but if it ever stopped I’d be really sad).  Then I made myself a ham, egg & cheese breakfast sandwich trying to replicate the deli breakfasts of my youth. But it’s not the same without a hard roll and The Poughkeepsie Journal. Fail.

    After my breakfast sandwich fail I decided to treat myself to some online shopping. I scanned through piperlime.com (international delivery, I love you so) and put loads of stuff in my basket, before deciding on the far more practical Larousse Gastronomique over on Amazon. (I hate how practical I’ve become, I want to be frivolous just one time. I have know idea when I became such a Puritan. Although I doubt a Puritan would spend €50 on a cookbook even if it’s the biggest bestest cookbook ever).

    And because I was feeling so Puritanical, I mopped the floor. And then again an hour later after Fifty tracked muddy paw prints all over it. Guess that was my present from Fifty (since I’m still waiting on a card or something). Thanks Fifty.

    After all my hard work (not really but whatever, it was my birthday) I spent the afternoon watching  Downton Abbey marvelling at the wonder that is Dame Maggie Smith, while sipping a bowl of hot chocolate and extra marshmallows. And since I couldn’t be that lazy (being a Puritan and all), and knowing that idle hands make the devils work, I gave myself a manicure with this:

    {nails inc}

    And then picked out an outfit for dinner while Fifty and I danced to the Black Eyed Peas (Fifty loves that Dirty Bit song). Since The Husband was taking me to dinner at Lupin Blanc (which if you ever find yourself near, you have to try… and of course phone me up and I’ll join you) I picked out a shirt I haven’t worn since my Dublin days. It looks pretty much like this:

    {mango}
    (Please note the high buttoned up collar; re: puritan) And since I wore dark blue jeans too, that photo could practically be me except with a few more pounds stuck on, and different nail polish too.  

    So at Lupin Blanc we picked a table right next to the fire place and I ordered ravioli in creamy calvados truffle sauce. Heaven. Heaven in my mouth. It was so good, I even took a doggy bag home (in France, sacré bleu!). And while I was enjoying my ravioli and wine, some people sat down at the table next to us,  and one of the people turned out to be my doctor (which isn’t uncomfortable at all having a doctor whose seen your bits and pieces eating a few feet away from you). But then I had a Manzana digestif and then another one after that and then I really didn’t care anymore about that doctor who had seen my bits and pieces.

    And then when we got home, because I had that extra Manzana, I really didn’t want any of that nice Champagne The Husband had bought me for my birthday.  But the the next morning, I had some for my breakfast along with the rest of my ravioli.  
    Waste not want not.
    See, Puritan like. 
    bisou

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  • style: birthday addition

    Not only did Linda from oeke design blog pass on the Stylish Blogger Award to me (many thanks Linda) she updated the award badge to this round, fun, fuchsia, button you see before you. Very snazzy.

    And since I just did one of these (I’m truly blessed with the style) and because it’s my birthday (a couple of days ago but whatever) I’ll make this Stylish Blogger Award a *special birthday addition*. So instead of only telling you about seven things, I’m going to tell you about seven six of my most memorable birthdays (how excited are you??).
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    My brother and I both have February birthdays so when we were little we had a few combined parties. When I was three and my brother was six (it could have been four and seven), we had a sleep over and watched Star Wars. But since this was before the VCR days (yes, I’m that old) my parents rented a movie projector and Darth Vader was beamed onto my living room wall. How cool is that?

    My tenth birthday was an ice skating party at Rockefeller Center. Here’s the good back story; there was this gorgeous man from Chile who worked for my mother. He was in his twenties and looked like Omar Sharif, I had a huge crush on him, completely oblivious to the fact that 1) I was a child, and 2) he wasn’t straight. No matter, he was wonderfully dreamy and when I asked him to come to my little (but yet still fabulous) ice skating party, he accepted. The night before, he had gone out on the town, passed out on the subway home, and woke up to find his wallet had been stolen, and didn’t have time to go home and change if he didn’t want to be late to my little, fabulous, ice skating party (a lesser man would have blown it off). He ice skated with a group of screaming ten year old girls, hungover, mugged, and in a day old Armani suit. What a sport. (He’s still gorgeous, and I still have a crush on him. Thankfully, his husband doesn’t mind).

    We had brunch at Tavern on the Green followed by the matinee of Cats for my fifteenth birthday. I’m not sure if it was all the food we ate, or just if Cats was that boring, but my mother, godmother, best friend, Bun, and me, all fell asleep during it. And why my mother, a women who detests cats, would subject herself to an afternoon of people dressed like them, creeping around the audience is beyond me.

    My Sweet 16 was dinner at The Essex House with a chocolate cake covered in perfect layers of raspberries and a birthday card made out of white chocolate. But I was sick. I couldn’t enjoy anything, even the glass of Champagne my mother was letting me have because I felt that terrible. And she didn’t believe me! She thought I was being a brat and pouting because my gorgeous Omar Sharif lookalike had the flu and couldn’t make it. It wasn’t until the end of the meal when she finally felt my forehead and realized I was burning up… H E L L O! No 16 year old girl is going to pass up a glass of Champagne unless she is sick. Fact.

    There’s not much I can say about my 21st birthday because I don’t remember much. It was spent in College Station, Texas and involved a shot called a Bloody Flaming Frogs Ass. That’s pretty much it. Game over.

    My 30th was spent in NYC and was A W E S O M E. I won’t go into much detail because it was with my ex-boyfriend and I don’t want to incur the huffing puffing wrath of The Husband. So instead of expanding, I’ll do bullet points *The Essex House hotel (the same hotel where I spent my sweet 16, it was a nice full circle kind of moment)* *kir royals (lots and lots and lots)* *museums* *Central Park* *shopping* *The Monkey Bar* and *King Cole Bar (for drinks with my Omar Sharif lookalike and his ridiculously handsome husband, see, full circle)*
    ………………………………………………………………………………………………….

    Champagne Blonde

    Fit With Flash

    Indigo’s Sugar Spectrum

    Ooh La La an English Demoiselle

    Tanya in Transition

    Would you fifteen five bloggers like to tell me seven things? 
    (they don’t have to be about birthdays)
    (unless you want to have a full circle kinda moment)
    bisou

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  • international week of awesomness

    Do you ever have one of those blessed weeks? Like when it feels like the heavens part and angels are raining down sunbeams just for you? Well I have. It’s been one of those weeks (and before you think it, or ask it, there is no bun in my oven). Thanks in part to Becs, Aidan, and Sophie, this birthday week has been a wonderful one. You ladies really know how to make a girl feel special. And it’s not over yet! 

    Tomorrow is my birthday, aka International Day of Awesomeness, and since I age backwards (actually I’ve been holding at 29) this is the year The Husband and I turn the same age. Next year he’ll be older than me. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it?

    And in honor of I.D.A., I will share with you my birthday wish (it’s a doozy); I wish for safety, and democracy for everyone. I wish for everyone to have access to clean water, affordable health care, and education. And I wish for the right for everyone to go to school to get that education even if they happen to be a girl (and if you are reading this and you are part of the Taliban, please note that you are an insecure, cave dwelling, dickhead. Let the girls go to school).  I wish for dictators to have the wisdom to know when to call it a day (your moment in the sun is over, move along please) so that peaceful protests can remain peaceful and not simmer into frustration fueled violence. And while I’m wishing, I’d also like a pink pony.

    There, that’s not too much to ask for now is it?
    bisou

  • les chaussettes

    Sometimes Fifty’s little feet get cold, and we have to put his socks on…

    That’s not true at all. I don’t know if his little feet get cold or not (he’s never told me). But this is what happens when The Husband and I get bored on a Sunday afternoon. 
    Five minutes to put on. Five seconds to come off. 

    bisou

  • la guerre des étoiles

    (This post is brought to you in part by Aidan and Samantha, who through comments on this post, reminded me of what a total weirdo The Husband is).

    Some of the fun of being married (or dating or involved with or what have you) to someone who is from someplace far away from where you’re from, is discovering all their weirdness. Of course he doesn’t think he’s weird and I’m sure he thinks I’m weird but we all know that’s poppycock. The Husband is totally the weird one. How do I know?

    Well for starters, he had no idea who Oprah was. Can you believe it?! How do you not know who Oprah is? This weird discovery was made forever and a day ago when she popped into conversation (as she does), and The Husband said, “who?” and I said, “who who?“, and he said, “Oprah” and I said, “WHAT?” So I gave him a rundown of who she is and such and how she has more money than God and what not,  so now he knows.
    (And now I like to show him YouTube clips of those episodes where Oprah gives away cars and cruises and stuff and the audience goes balls out ballistic. Love those. It’s pure consumer madness).

    And let’s see, now from what I’ve gathered from Samantha, this isn’t all that uncommon among the French, but The Husband has never had a Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich! How does one grow up without eating PB&J’s (with the crusts cut off thank you very much). What were children fed here? Nutella that’s what. See, weird.

    But the true testament of his weirdness was revealed to me over Christmas; The Husband has never seen Star Wars. Not a single one. Shock. Horror. I know. How has he not seen a single Star Wars? And it’s not like it wasn’t out here, because it was, and it had the awesomely French name of La Guerre des Étoiles (c’est très romantic, no?).

    So here’s the thing, because I’d like to de-weird The Husband a bit,  I think that watching Star Wars might be a good place to start. But this is where it gets tricky; remember, for all of us ‘adults’ Star Wars started with Episode IV and then we saw Episodes V and VI years before Episode I finally came out. So in my pre-historic mind we’d watch it that same way. But get this, genius that he is at ten years old (and a Star Wars aficionado), I asked Nephew what Star Wars movie we should start with and without  any hesitation whatsoever, he said, “Episode 1” (duh). And he may have referred to me as Grasshopper after.

    So what do you think?
    Episode IV or Episode I?
    Inquiring minds want to know
    (you know?)
    bisou

    , ,

  • Saturdays with Gypsies

    Did you know that you can fit nine adults in a caravan for afternoon coffee? With three children running in and out of it too. Well you can. And I’m not talking about one of those modern super sleek airstream things either.

    And did you know that Gypsies (my Gypsies anyway) speak loudly? Well they do. And it sounds even louder when you’re in a teeny tiny space. They use outdoor voices, all the time.

    Let’s see, what else… oh… you get rum poured into your coffee whether you want it or not. Mr Gypsy insists. And it’s not a little splash either, it’s like a glug (you have to be pretty quick to cover your coffee before that glug splashes in there). And then Mrs Gypsy yells at him, grabs the bottle and tries to hide it (not too many hiding places in a teeny tiny caravan though).

    Oh, and the Winter 2011 Gypsy style (judging by the fact that all five girls were dressed pretty much identical) is cropped black leather jackets, long fitted sweaters, black leggings, and black boots. Oh and lots of gold too (always with the gold). Of course this was the day I was dressed in creams and browns with my camel coat and pearl earrings (I did the opposite of blend). But luckily, that glug of rum helped me not care.

    Thanks Mr Gypsy.

    bisou

     

  • even more style

    A thousand thanks to Biscuit from And They Lived Happily Ever After. Biscuit has kindly passing on this award to me. And can I say, I love the name of Biscuit’s blog. I’m going to let you in on a little secret, every time I make a wish for something, like blowing candles out, or throwing a penny in a fountain, or what not, I always wish to live happily ever after, and Biscuit’s doing it, so that’s pretty great.

    The Rules: Thank and link back to the person who awarded you this award (check). Share seven things about yourself (see below… check). Award fifteen recently discovered great bloggers (fifteen is a tad excessive… kinda check).
    It’s getting harder to come up with unknown tidbits about me because it feels like you guys know me up, down, inside and out, but I’m going to give it a go (apologies in advance for boring tidbits).
    ………………………………………………………………………………………………….

    One: My favorite faux food is Haribo gummy/jelly candies (fun fact: there’s a Haribo factory in Marseille). I can eat them all the time, day or night, and can often be heard moaning, “I’m full of jellies” as The Husband pries the almost empty bag out of my hand.

    Two: When I met The Husband I knew he was ‘the one’ within the first five minutes. There weren’t fireworks or rockets or anything, but a wonderful sense of calm and I knew. Strange feeling. It was like an instant recognition of my other half. I’m not saying that we knew each other in another life or are soul mates (hate that word) or anything. But it was like, “oh, there you are.” Followed by, “where the hell have you been?“

    Three: I miss my career and my city life. Even though I am totally happy with my decision to move here to the middle of ass nowhere, I still miss it. I miss the buzz. But as long as I can get to a city to run around in every few weeks, I’m OK. (fun fact: the bank that I used to work for ceased to exist as of 31st December. That’s right, shut down thanks to the worst depression recession in Irish history. Or maybe because I left, it’s a toss up).

    Four: I wish I was one of those flawlessly put together girls but fail miserably when I try. You know the girls I’m talking about; perfect hair, perfect makeup, perfect outfit, perfect home, and even, perfect blog. No matter how hard I try I will always be slightly askew somehow, like the little girl with the uneven pigtails, sticky with graham cracker crumbs and apple juice. That was me. Still is.

    Five: In ten days it will be the sixteenth anniversary of the day my father slipped into a coma for 45 days. It also happens to be my birthday (not the best birthday present he’s ever given me). But, the miracle is that the doctor told us he wouldn’t wake up from the coma, and he did. Then they told us that he wouldn’t live longer than a year, and he did. Sixteen years later… (he’s very stubborn).

    Six: My mother and I had the amazing fortune of visiting the Sistine Chapel and seeing it with only three other people inside. To have space and time to see the Chapel and Michelangelo’s ceiling without being crammed with loads of other tourists, elbow to elbow, is a blessed occurrence and one of my most treasured experiences. And I am thankful to have experienced this with my mother.

    Seven: I feel extremely blessed that as a woman, I was born in America and not someplace that treats women like it’s the Dark Ages (Afghanistan and Sudan, I’m looking at you). And I’m constantly in awe of the fact that life and the luck of the draw can come down to something as simple as geography. The world is a crazy place.
    ………………………………………………………………………………………………….

    Jenna @ jennaventures

    Becca @ Wright at Home

    Alex @ Mutual Weirdness 

    It’s your turn to share seven tidbits. 
    bisou

  • A Brazilian Holiday

    No, The Husband and I aren’t headed to Brazil, but me and all of you are taking a little trip down south (way down south) to Rio via American expat Rachel from Rachel’s Rantings in Rio de Janeiro. Since Brazil’s summer is in full swing, I thought it would be nice for all of us Northern Hemisphere people who are currently suffering from the post-holiday blues to live vicariously through Rachel and head out to the beach (ignoring recent riots and floods of course) with her tips on how to bathe like a Brazilian. Go ahead and grab your itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dots and let’s let Rachel take us away…
    ………………………………………………………………………………………………….

    Summer is quickly approaching in Rio de Janeiro and that can sometimes be intimidating for foreigners.  Bathing suits, for both men and women alike, are enough to make you run to your hotel/hostel pool and stay there with the other white folk.

    Don’t be scared! The beaches here are not just for the excessively toned and tanned!  Put on that Brazilian bikini, aka. post-its on string, and get your ass out there. You are not alone.

    Every Brazilian body type, and there are many, sport the barely there suits on a beach.  Hell, even Great Aunt Julia, all 200 + pounds, is wearing a smaller suit than you.

    Every time I suit up for the beach, I go in front of the mirror to pinch and groan. Oh how the glory days have passed.  Of course I suck it up and head out with the family.  Upon arrival, I look around.  Sure, there are the hot bodies and the not bodies, and everything in between.  It’s enough to make this stomach obsessed girl from California finally breath.

    The beach in Brazil isn’t really about how hot you look, not once you pass 25 anyway.  It’s about being there, enjoying it, and burning off the drama from the workweek.

    In the words of the Caricoa: “There’s nothing a good day at the beach can’t cure.”

    Amen! And don’t forget your sunscreen!
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    For more Brazilian bits, check out Rachel here
    bisou