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.

  • help me peeps (you're my only hope)

    We’re going to a Halloween party. Brother-in-Law and his fiance (that’s right, Brother-in-Law is getting married too… must be something in the water here)  are having a Halloween party.
    (Oh, and 18 year old fiance will henceforth be known as Child Bride).

    They had one last year but we didn’t go. I had only been here a month and at the time Child Bride was only 17 and all her friends were going to be there and my 30+ year old self had no desire to party with a bunch of French teenagers.
    (That evening ended with The Husband and I being woken up at 2am by loud banging outside. Honey Jr was standing on some one’s shoulders, banging on our bedroom shutters with a large stick. I have no idea what possessed him to do this. Heaven forbid he’s separated from The Husband for one whole evening).

    But this year, since Child Bride is basically my little sister, and I’m a kind soul, I’ve agreed to grace them with my presence. Aren’t they lucky.
    But, I have to dress up. I used to love getting dressed up for things and would have no problem spending money on a costume, but with Christmas around the corner (64 days kids!) and it only being a small party in Le Petit Village, I’d prefer to keep my wallet closed.

    So, my wonderful peeps, this is where you come in… I need help figuring out what to wear. These are the ideas floating around in my wee head…


    Inspector Gadget. I have the trench coat, black tie, white shirt, and black trousers. The only thing is, I’m missing a fedora, so don’t know if it would work. I mean Gadget is all about the hat, no?


    I could Toga myself with a white sheet, gold strappy sandals and some gold ribbon. But, a couple of problems with this; 1. I’m not sure how my toga wrapping skills are, and 2. remember, Le Petit Village used to be a Roman market town in BC blah blah and it will be Halloween. I don’t want to wake up any Roman ghosts that might be about.  No point in disturbing the spirits just because some dead toga wearer is jealous of my look.


    Soccer player. (I’d much rather be a rugby player but don’t have a rugby jersey that small). This one’s pretty easy; a jersey from Honey Jr (we’re practically twinkies in the size department), shorts, soccer socks, and voila, I’m Beckham (minus the hotness).


    A 50s/60s housewife…. blouse, pencil skirt, stilettos, red lips and pearls, and one of my vintage tea aprons. Plus, it’s an ironic nod to my current station in life. (and maybe I could pop a mother’s little helper; for the sake of authenticity of course).


    Blair Waldorf (and for anyone that doesn’t watch Gossip Girl, she’s on it. And you really should. XOXO b*tches).  Problem with this one…. according to The Husband, nobody would ‘get it’. My response, “I don’t care”. It would be an opportunity to wear some of my clothes that never get worn. And if I didn’t add the requisite, Blair headband, I’d basically be going as the old me, as in pre-Le Petit Village me, aka, Fabulous Girl. Put a grey Goose martini in my hand and color me happy.
    ……………………………………………………………………………………………….

    What do you think? 

    Or if you have any suggestions, I would LOVE to hear them but please keep in mind that I’m not a crafty girl. I can’t get all MacGuyver with glitter and bows so any suggestions would have to steer clear of the craft table. 
    (It’s not my fault, my mother is not crafty 
    so I wasn’t raised to worship at the alter of puff paint).
    (I feel cheated).
    bisou
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  • strike

    France is in the middle of a strike (again). Long story super, duper short (and without going into the heavy details), citizens are peeved with Mr. Sarkozy, his pension reform plans and retirement age increase.

    And because the French are experts at strikes, riots, and revolution (Hello Marie Antoinette! Where’s your head at girl?!), they don’t just strike by walking around with poster board signs, chanting. Instead they get real creative with it. Like shutting down production at twelve of the country’s oil refineries creative.
    There’s something like a 1,000 gas stations around France that have run out of gas (thank you CNN). No gas! This does not bode well for the American girl living on top of a mountain in the middle of B.F.E. Provence. What am I supposed to do, harness Fifty to a little red wagon?
    (Can you imagine? “MUSH Fifty! MUSH!”). 
    Check out this video from Paris…
    (I’d have shown you a video in Le Petit Village but we don’t have a ‘fuel station’ because we’re so petit).


    http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/.element/apps/cvp/3.0/swf/cnn_416x234_embed.swf?context=embed&videoId=world/2010/10/18/bittermann.france.fuel.cnn

    {not cool}

    And on Monday, a bunch of cars were overturned and set on fire. But (big but here) according to France24, the overturned and burnt out cars were not done by any of the workers on strike, but school children who didn’t know what to do when they showed up at school and the gates were locked due to their teachers being on strike.

    {kids will be kids}

    PHEW! Well, that’s OK then. Just some bored school children who were so disappointed not to have that algebra quiz.
    (Oh, and a school in north western France was burned down but since we’re not 100% sure if it’s related to the strike or not, we’re not going to worry about it).

    I should probably go and set a car on fire find a little red wagon, 
    but just in case I can’t, 
    does anyone have a helicopter handy?

    bisou

  • Mushrooms Are Not Your Friends

    It has been one year since the horrible incident. The incident that has forever changed me. The incident that has left me scarred, terrified of pregnant flies and their gross and disgusting maggot babies. 
    It’s been one year since The Mushroom Incident…dun dun dun….
    (And as nothing exciting is happening, it’s an excellent time for a repost).
    (oh, and this was originally posted on 22.10.09)
    ………………………………………………………………………………………………..
    {evil}
    Let me start by saying that this should have been a much happier post. A post about delectable wild mushrooms and the beautiful gourmet meal I would cook using them. But I’m just not that girl and that’s just not me.
    And I will also say that this incident, that will henceforth be known as ‘The Mushroom Incident‘ occurred over a week ago but I have had to let a little time pass before being able to write about it. Oh, and one last thing, please forgive me for any rambling that may follow, I’m still a little bit traumatized…
    It all started on a Sunday evening. We went to Papa’s house for a chat and drink (Provencal Rosé for me, Pastis for the Boyfriend). Papa had been very busy that day and he was quite chuffed with himself. Not only had he gone hunting and killed a wild boar (not with his bare hands – he’s not Super Papa) he had also done some mushroom foraging and had a large bucket of the biggest mushrooms I had ever seen. These things were like Alice In Wonderland mushrooms, you could picture little frogs relaxing underneath with a good book and a little martini.
    Seeing my excitement, Papa grabbed a bag and started stuffing mushrooms into it, all the while speaking rapidly in French giving me instructions for proper preparation and cooking with the Boyfriend translating over him. I nodded that I understood, smiled and said, “merci”.
    We headed home with the plan of having them for dinner the next night. The Boyfriend told me to leave them out, so I found a large bowl and left them on the counter.
    Now this is my mistake, I should have covered them. They’re mushrooms, not fruit.
    The next day I was getting excited, I was trolling the internet and reading my cookbooks looking for the perfect accompaniments for Papa’s wild mushrooms. Then the Boyfriend called. He said that he was still thinking about the merguez sausage and couscous I had cooked the night before and if there was any leftover, that’s what he would like for dinner. He assured me that the mushrooms would be fine to cook the next night, Tuesday.
    Now if you have read my older post entitled, ‘The Pizza Van’, you will know that Tuesday nights are Pizza Night in Le Petit Village and that very next Tuesday, my mushroom Tuesday turned out to be the night I learned about Pizza Tuesdays, so without expanding anymore, you know that I did not cook the mushrooms for dinner. However, a phone call to the Boyfriend’s Grand-mere did take place where she advised the Boyfriend to partially cook the mushrooms that evening, refrigerate them, and then finish cooking them on the Wednesday.
    Fine, I’ll enjoy my pizza and partially cook the mushrooms.
    Then my Boyfriend’s kindness intervened. “You’re tired, don’t cook them. Just put them in the refrigerator and cook them early tomorrow, they’ll be ok.” (not a direct quote but you get the gist).
    Happily and tiredly I agreed. The bowl of mushrooms went into the fridge and up the spiral stairs to bed we went.
    I should have listened to Grand-mere.
    The next day after my coffee it was time to do some mushroom cooking. And then it happened…
    Opening the fridge I was greeted by the most disgusting sight someone could see. Not just any someone, but someone who had spent the last two weeks cleaning cleaning cleaning her (previous Boyfriend bachelor pad) home to make it feel comfortable enough for a girl to live in. That comfort that I had only just begun to feel was now stripped off me like a warm duvet on a cold, rainy Monday morning…
    Little maggots! Yes. Little recently hatched maggots were slithering up the back of my refrigerator. Freaking out, I slammed the door and phoned the Boyfriend at work. “Maggots!” I screamed. “What?” he asked. Terrible time for language difficulties. I grabbed my translation dictionary, trying again, “asticot!” The response I got was typical of a man who is not really paying attention and also not there to have to deal with it. “Oh“.
    Oh, ok, my problem I guess then.
    I hung up the phone took some deep breaths and went to work. Grabbing black plastic sacks I emptied every bit of the fridge; two dozen eggs, sandwich meats, fruit, vegetables, chorizo, my cheese box, butter… everything! And of course the mushrooms. The mushrooms that I had once loved but had now turned against me. Damn Judas mushrooms. The black sacs went out to the bins. It was now extermination time. I got a spray bottle of disinfectant and let my inner Terminator possess me. I sprayed until the inside of the fridge was coated with pink chemicals but there was no way I was cleaning up their little carcasses. The Boyfriend could do that when he got home.
    Payback for the unsympathetic, “oh“.
    I closed the door, washed my hands, took a shower, and went to bed with a book until the Boyfriend got home. Oh, and I also did what every other ‘woman’ my age does. I called my mother and cried.
    To finish up my re-telling of ‘The Mushroom Incident’ this is what occurred when the Boyfriend got home:
    1. Upon opening the fridge he asked, “where is all the food?”. Seriously??!!
    2. He then put a glass of wine in my hand and ordered me to the couch (smart boy).
    3. He disposed of the little carcasses and washed the fridge with bleach and boiling water (as instructed by the internet).
    4. We went to Papa’s and ate some of that wild boar. Delicious!
    So that’s it. It’s been eight days since and honestly, every time I open my fridge I squint at the back wall. All ok so far. And on the bright side, now I have a super duper clean fridge.
    ………………………………………………………………………………………………..

    (A year later and sometimes I still squint at the back wall in the fridge)
    bisou

  • Psycho II

    Exhibit A.
    Rugby Ball.

    {dead}

    Exhibit B. 
    What Exhibit A. should look like.

    {play with me}

    Exhibit C. 
    Psycho killers always return to the scene of the crime.

    {“what rugby ball?”}

    Verdict.
    The Psycho Killer is back.

    fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa

    bisou

  • all you can eat

    The Husband loves to eat. He loves his food. And he loves crazy food like beef tongue, veal brains, and beef tartare. This means that anytime we go to Aix en Provence, I know that we’re eating at the place that does the all you can eat beef carpaccio (but I’m pretty much OK with this because I’ve usually been bribed with a trip to Zara and a couple of English language magazines that I can pick up in the city. English language magazines make my heart go all a flutter).

    I order a bottle of wine, something like steak and frites, and then sit back and watch the carnage happen…
    ………………………………………………………………………………………………..

    First the plate of raw meat comes and it looks like this…

    {my name used to be Bessie}

    At this point any conversation will cease and The Husband begins to devour a cow…
     
    {me like food}

    …making sure to clean his plate 
    (he’s a good boy, he always cleans his plate).

    This is then repeated six times. 
    (Five is he’s not feeling his best, maybe seven if he’s feeling good.) 
    And out of boredom (because how long can you really sit in a restaurant watching your husband eat a whole cow) I drink loads of this…
    {drink me}
    (but like I need an excuse)
    Check it out, it’s Italian. 
    (Confession time… I prefer Italian wine to French wine. Don’t tell Le Villagers.) 
    And admire the Missoni labeled bottle of Pelligrino… 
    …mentally comparing it to Perrier’s Dita Von Teese bottle and decide that even though I adore Miss Von Teese (and so much more since she divorced Manson; he’s gross) I prefer the Pelligrino bottle anyway . And oh how I really really want a Missoni bikini and to stay at the Missoni hotel in Edinburgh (I really like Missoni). 
    And when I begin to get extra fidgety, I’ll attempt to draw a map of the U.S. with a pomme frite dipped in candle wax…
    (french fries and wax is a very artistic medium… pure genius)
    And consider changing my name to Basquiat. 
    I am quite the artist…
    …non?
    bisou
     

    P.S. check out the Dita Von Teese for Perrier mini movie here. 
    It takes a bit to load, but if you like Dita, it’s worth it. 
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  • The Gypsy Getting Married

    The Gypsy is engaged.
    This is rather sudden, surprising, and oh so very exciting!
    (A gypsy wedding! Can you imagine? It’s gonna be fantabulous in the nuttiest of ways). 

    I’m guessing that he must have been feeling left out since The Cousin and The Husband got married. And I’m saying this because The Gypsy hasn’t had a girlfriend. Up until a few weeks ago he was single. (Well there was that girl who tasered him but that’s another story for another time).

    Basically he decided he wanted to get married so he put the gypsy word out and voila, the future Mrs Gypsy appeared. (I’ve never met her but wouldn’t it be the most wonderful thing if her name was Rose Lee?)
    They got to know each other for a couple of weeks and now they’re engaged. The Gypsy has even gotten himself a brand new caravan.

    sparkly new caravan = serious.

    (And so as not to be confused, The Gypsy is not one of the Romas that Sarkozy has evicted, he is a French gypsy from way back so that’s why Sarkozy isn’t all up in his grill… for the moment).

    I don’t even know what to wear to a gypsy wedding.

    (I’m thinking something Whirling Dervish like) 

    Cannot. Wait.

    bisou

     

  • The Husband

    {hawt}

    Today it’s all about The Husband. 
    This morning, turning on my laptop and making my coffee, The Husband asked, “what are you writing today?”

    “I’m not sure yet, I’ll see.”

    “You never write about me. Why don’t you ever write about me?”

    Um, OK. I didn’t know he was feeling so ignored by Le Blog.

    So today is all about The Husband with a few little tidbits….

    1. He is the worst cook. But he does try. I wish he wouldn’t. When we first started dating in Dublin, he wanted to make lunch for me. He threw some potatoes, lardons, and onion in a skillet. I could see where he was going with this but maybe the potatoes shouldn’t have been in such big chunks. Maybe they should have been parboiled first. Maybe some seasonings would have been nice. Maybe I should have suggested we go out instead.
    (And of course there was that salad that he made me, which was a bit of endive with like five different types of cheese covering it).

    2. He has two grandparents from France, one from Italy, and one from Sweden, but the one from Sweden’s DNA beat the swizzlers out of the other DNA. The Husband looks Swedish. Or because I’m American, when we go out and about, he looks American. Sometimes shopkeepers will approach speaking English instead of French. This drives him nutty. But then, he’ll speak in English and the shopkeeper will continue in English, and two French people will have a conversation in bad English in a shop in France.

    3. He likes to sing. It’s not good. Plus, he’s sings the most awful songs and gets the words all wrong… Bad Boys Bad Boys whatacanado whatacanado whatacanado (WTF is whatacanado?!). Whatacanado will be repeated ad nauseam. (It’s kind of endearing, if he didn’t do it first thing in the morning. Mommy needs her coffee first). Oh, and sometimes there’s dancing too.

    4. Last night he got his finger stuck inside a beer bottle. And after he got it out, he showed me how he had gotten it stuck by sticking his finger back inside of it. Guess what happened next…

    5. When we met, I was under the impression that that was the very first time The Husband had seen me (it was the first time I had seen him). He has recently confessed that he had seen me a couple times that night before we ‘bumped into each other’. I think that’s sweet. Stalker.

    And one little tidbit about me;
    I’m so very happy he stalked me.

    (Bad cooking. Bad singing. Bad dancing. Love it.) 

    bisou


     

  • For The Love of J.R.

    Thanks to the miracle of pharmaceuticals, I’m beginning to feel better, but I’m still not full on me yet (It’s kind of like a printer when the ink cartridge needs to be changed. You can see the words on the page, but they don’t pop. That’s me right now, I’m not popping).
    It’s a good time to do another Us vs. France post like the English vs. French one I did last month, because I can lay back and let the videos talk for me (while Fifty doesn’t bring me tea, and I try to get Ruby on the phone… again. Ruby is always so busy what with his committees and brunches and such).
    ………………………………………………………………………………………………..

    Television Theme song: America vs. France


    American version…

    {my ring tone sounds like this}

    French version…

    {WTF?!}

    That’s plain wrong. 
    France: 0, America: 1

    bisou

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  • sick & icky

    I saw my French doctor yesterday for the very first time. He told me I have tonsillitis. (He is so not my favorite person right now. Except, he did give me the drugs. OK, back on the Christmas card list he goes).

    I’m cranky, sick, and icky.
    (And I look pretty icky too. Sick is not a good look on me)

    The Husband has left for work and Fifty is being pretty worthless. I keep asking him to make me tea but he just sits there, staring at me. I’m not impressed.

    Fifty, “WHERE IS MY TEA?”
    (I can only shout while typing at the moment.)

    Nothing.

    Maybe I’ll call Ruby.

    Ruby looks like he could make a nice cup of tea.
    icky bisou

     

  • Honey Pizza Party

    {Mr Honey working. Honey Jr not}

    On the last Sunday of summer The Honeys threw a pizza party. Not only do The Honeys make honey, and crazy delicious homemade alcohol, but they make pizza too. I love these guys.

    Because it was a few weeks ago and I wasn’t taking notes, I don’t remember what all the different types were, but all in all, I think we had about eight (gazillion) pizzas. The Husband rolled me home.

    Check these out…
    (and try to ignore my shadow cast over the pies)

    My favorite is pissaladière. Instead of sauce, it’s covered in caramelized onions and anchovies. No kissing is allowed after eating le pissaladière. Trust me on this. 
    Oh and this little fur ball was praying for clumsy hands…
    {hey guys, I can’t see anything}

    And it wouldn’t be a party in Le Petit Village without wine…
     
    {drink my wine or I’ll destroy you}
    Sébastien Chabal is making wine now. Who knew? 
    (well maybe you did but I didn’t).
    But check out what else Mr Honey brought out…
    {made in heaven}

    Château Lafite. It’s made by angels and love. 
    Gee, Chabal juice or Château Lafite? 
    Such a tough decision.
    bisou

     
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