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.

  • 4 Days At French Mommy's : A Photo Review

    {La Bourboule}

    We left Le Petit Village at 9am. Under normal circumstances we would arrive in La Bourboule right around 3pm. But circumstances are never normal; it took us two hours to reach Avignon. Two hours! We normally make it there in under an hour.

    The abnormal culprit…

    {I hate cars}
    Fifty threw up twice before we even got to Avignon. 
    At least at that point we knew that the chances of anymore throw up were pretty minimal. After the amount of upchuck we cleaned, it was doubtful there could be anything left inside the dog. 

    Finally passing by Avignon and feeling like we were on our way, it was only right that I got to stop and pick up a bucket of chicken…

    Or as I like to call it; a fucket of chicken. As in; “fucket, I’m going to get me some chicken”.
    On that long hot drive we drove by where Homer Simpson works…
    {Springfield Nuclear Power Plant}

    I would have stopped in to say hi, but I didn’t want him stealing any of my chicken (mmm chicken).
    A little after 5pm (eight hours!) we pulled up to French Nana’s bar… 
    Just in time for one of these…
    {tastes like summer}
    And for The Husband to have a plate of specially made just for him beef tongue…
    {gross}
    And because eating one gross thing is not enough for The Food Whore, aka The Husband, while we were in La Bourboule he also ate tete de voeux, or as it’s known in English, veal brains…

    {double gross}
    Back at French Mommy’s house…
    Fifty celebrated his birthday (11 months) with a real cheesecake (slice of Cantal with a couple of matches stuck in it) and cuddles…

     

    But because a slice of cheese and a hug does not a birthday celebration make, we took Fifty for a walk in Fenestre Park where he got to see the little train…
    (which we didn’t take him on because of his vomiting issues)
    The cable cars…
    (also avoided due to excess vomiting)

    And the carousel…
    (see above, RE: vomiting)

    But Fifty’s favorite present…
    Marking his territory on a Sequoia. 
    That’s a big present.
    bisou

    P.S. Fifty only threw up once on the trip back to Le Petit Village

    P.S.S. The horse meat butchers was in the village where The Cousin got married. I haven’t eaten any. Frog legs and snails are OK, but I don’t think I could bring myself to munch on My Little Pony.

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  • Tastes Like Chicken

    Your friendly neighborhood horse butcher…

    Horse… 
    the other white meat.

    bisou
    P.S. No horses were harmed in the writing of this post
    P.S.S.  Some horses may have been harmed at that butchers

  • Get The Heck Out Of Dodge

    {no parking}

    Sunday was the annual flea market in Le Petit Village. Stalls lined the streets and at 7am, on my walk with Fifty, I saw the beginning arrival of the brocante lovers. 
    (A 7am Sunday arrival into Le Petit Village is hardcore, it’s not like Le Petit Village is ‘in the neighborhood’. We’re kind of hidden on top of a mountain, tucked out of the way of everything else, and not the least bit convenient. These people really must love their brocante.)
    {lots and lots of cars}
    {lots and lots of people}
    By 10am, the village was packed. We knew that the only way to preserve our sanity was to get out of there. And wouldn’t you know it, there was a perfect place for Brother-in-Law, Honey Jr, The Husband and me to go…

    The Pastis party in Ongles. What’s that you say? Pastis party?! It’s crazy talk, I know.

    The Husband’s hetero-life-partner, Gatz, practically lives at the bar that was hosting the party, so he was pretty insistent that we go. Not like we needed much arm twisting.

    We arrived a little after noon. Gatz had been there for two hours marking his territory…

    {reserved for Gatz}
    The boy does love his Pastis. Look, I think he’s actually trying to hug it…
    {I heart Pastis}
    Being more of the sensible, mature types, Brother-in-Law, Honey Jr, The Husband, and me abandoned the crazy Pastis induced shenanigans inside the bar and headed to a table outside to sample the other Provencal delicacy on offer; aioli.
     

    This is a traditional, local dish of cod, green beans, cauliflower, carrots, and boiled eggs, topped off with aioli. I love aioli but if you eat it, don’t plan on any kissing or close contact with other human beings for a few days.

    And while we were enjoying our food (and warding off vampires with our breath) the crazy Pastis party people decided to form a conga line for our viewing pleasure…

     
    {feeling hot hot hot}
    When they were finished with the conga, they began to throw water on each other. Because that’s what you do after you’ve been drinking Pastis all morning. 

    Brother-in-Law and Honey Jr were not amused…

    But you know what is amusing?

     
    {Honey Jr and I like to dress alike}

    cotton candy.

    bisou

    P.S. While the rest of the world invades the south, we’re heading north to La Bourboule and French Mommy’s house for a few days. Fifty needs some spoiling. See you next week.
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  • The Cousin's Wedding

    The Cousin is officially off the market. 
    {Can you hear the hearts breaking?}
    And I finally got to wear my new shoes…
    {spiffy}
    240 people turned out for the blessed event including everyone’s favorite honey farmers…
    {Mr. & Mrs. Honey}

    It’s hard to believe it was only nine months ago, when The Cousin brought his lady (henceforth known as Mrs Cousin) out to dinner to meet The Husband and I. 
    Now look at them…
     
    {married}
    There isn’t any real reason for me to include this next photo of The Cousin and The Husband except that The Husband looks very handsome and I feel like showing him off a bit…
    {I’m a lucky girl}
    After the ceremony we headed to the reception at Le Pacha to get our boogie on. 
     
    These Gypsy’s came too…
    {Gypsy’s roll in packs}
    We danced and danced…
    Until we just couldn’t dance anymore…
     
    I think someone had a little too much Pastis.

    bisou


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  • Get My Paint On

    The summer is flying by.

    It’s already been a month since we’ve moved into our new home, and we’re making progress. Slow progress, but progress.

    Provence is so beautiful right now, and everyone is in such a festive holiday mood that there is always a BBQ to go to, a pool to swim in, or Mojitos at that bar to drink. Naturally, home improvements have not been the biggest priority.

    But now, we’re under a bit of pressure… 

    In 15 days, Auntie J and Uncle E arrive, and in 16 days, my Mother.
    Yes, they are arriving one day apart. They are all flying from Dublin, to Marseille, but arriving one day apart. How convenient.

    (In the interest of avoiding a grating phone call later… my Mother bought her ticket first. And on the bright side, The Husband and I have an excuse to stay in a swish hotel in Marseille that Friday night).

    So family is arriving soon, and the clock is ticking.

    (It sort of feels like Darth Vader is standing behind me doing that heavy breathing thing).

    Today, I’m tackling the world’s ugliest bathroom.

    This is what I’m up against…

     
    {wallpaper on left, tile on right}
    {and together}

    This is horrideous.

    (I know that’s not a word, I made it up. A hybrid of horrible and hideous. Sometimes horrideous is the only word.)

    Horrideous.

    I bet the same nutjob that painted the staircase in the old house had a hand in this horrideousness. (It’s growing on you, isn’t it?).

    I’m off to get my paint on…
    And then my pretty on…
     (The Cousin’s wedding is tomorrow!)
    bisou

    P.S. Fifty has already eaten one paintbrush. He thinks they’re tasty.

  • Paella

    Papa’s Wife made lunch for me on Sunday.

    (OK, I wasn’t the only person there, but the paella was made special for me).

    Papa, Brother-in-Law, The German, and The Husband, all came along to eat paella with me.

    And this guy was there too…

    {Ruby, aka Prince Philip}
    The paella is cooked outside in a gigantic pot…
    And every once in awhile, someone has to go out and slowly rotate the gigantic pot.
    (How much paella did she think I could eat? Really. Look at the size of that thing).
    For the record, I was never asked to rotate the gigantic pot.

    I think they looked at the ironing injury on my shoulder (who burns their shoulder while ironing?) and the random moving injury gashed across my shin and decided I may not be the best person to rotate a gigantic pot. I trust their judgement. 

    This stuff is mmm mmm good…
    Turns out Prince Philip is a bit of a paella aficionado…
     
    He’s not above begging for shrimps heads. 
    And look how happy The Husband is…
    {I love paella}
    Stuffed, The Husband and I headed home with our doggy bags (we’ll be eating paella for days) and came across a rather odd discovery in the back of Brother-in-Law’s car…
    {WTF?}
    Because we can be a bit of a gruesome twosome, we left a little present for Brother-in-Law…
    We strapped the head to the headrest and tied a sweater around the seat. Looks like Brother-in-Law has a new girlfriend. Pretty, isn’t she? I think I’ll call her Melba.
    (Melba looks like she could use a little Rogaine.)
    {Sidebar – before strapping the head to the seat, The Husband and I had written all over Brother-in-Law with a marker while he was sleeping. That’s what you get for being the first person to fall asleep after paella} 

    Oh, and the sky was really beautiful Sunday night…

    That is all. 
    bisou

     
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  • Shopping In Aix

    Next Friday, The Cousin is marrying his lady who will thenceforth be known as Mrs. Cousin.

    In honor of the blessed event (and me getting to rock some serious shoes) a new purse is needed, as well as a new shirt for The Husband (much less important obviously).

    And it turned out that The Husband’s friend (and hetero life partner), Gatz, needed a suit, and a whole lot of help (homeboy needs A LOT of help), so we invited him to join us on our shopping trip.

    Gatz was delighted. Being single, he actually values my style counsel.

    The Husband told Gatz that we would be shopping in Aix-en-Provence;

    “But I don’t want to go to Aix, I want to shop in Marseille”.

    And then The Husband phoned to let me know that Gatz wanted to go shopping in Marseille instead;

    “So? And since when are you married to Gatz?”

    That being settled, we went shopping in Aix.

    Love Aix. 

    (I’d love it more if there was a Starbucks there)

     
     
    Turns out that bringing one of The Husband’s friends shopping is a great idea. They went off and left me in peace. No huffing and puffing. It was a huffing and puffing free shopping environment as I strolled around Zara. 
    Being in such a peaceful enviroment, I was able to find the clutch and some shorts and a tunic in record time. Less than thirty minutes into our shopping excursion I was finished. 
    I’m a shopping rock star.
    I pointed out how effective my shopping skills are minus Gallic huffing and puffing to The Husband. This was met with an international eye roll. 
    Next, we found The Husband’s shirt. A fitted light blue that makes his eyes pop. I swooned. Swooned, I did (he really is a handsome devil). 
    And then, It took Gatz almost two hours to buy his suit. In one shop. Two hours, in one shop! He shops like an old woman. 
    There was major huffing and puffing. This made me happy, especially when The Husband told me that shopping with me was easier. 
    “See, aren’t you glad you didn’t marry Gatz?”

    Gatz’s beautiful Hugo Boss suit purchased (picked out by yours truly) and shopping finished, there was only one thing to do…
    Nothing like having a Guinness in an Irish pub in France while watching Australian rules football. 
    (I settled on a glass of Rosé after the waitress told me they couldn’t make a Bloody Mary because they didn’t have vodka. Cue international eye roll)
    We met The Cousin and soon to be Mrs. Cousin for lunch…
    The Cousin was carrying a man bag. 
    (Loads of men in the south of France do this. The Husband does not.  Sometimes it’s the little things in life that make me very happy. Like The Husband not carrying a purse).

    And The Husband, The Cousin, and Gatz all ordered the same thing for lunch…

    {raw meat and raw egg… gross}

    And in this wonderful day of shopping, drinking in Irish pubs, and eating raw meat, I’m sure you are all thinking the same thing…


    What about Fifty?


    Fifty spent the day with Honey Jr.

    Honey Jr took Fifty to the bar.

    You just know he was using Fifty to try and pick up the ladies.
    bisou

     
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  • This Little Piglet…

    My fellow expat, Piglet In France, has asked me a few questions and it’s my duty to answer and yours to read.
    (OK, not your duty, but would you read please? For me? Wittle bitty me?)

    1. Why did you start a blog?
    I was moving to France and didn’t speak French which was giving me a career break whether I wanted one or not. I thought blogging would be a nice alternative to slowing losing my mind.
    Honestly I didn’t know what to expect from my blog but it fell into a rhythm and makes me happy.
    Each comment makes me smile, and I go absolutely spastic when I get a new follower.
    Blogging lets me communicate with the rest of the world in a way that Facebook doesn’t. And even though non-blog people probably don’t get it, I feel like I’ve made friends, actual friends with people which feels nice when an ocean separates you from your friends.
    (I have French friends, but it’s not the same).

    2. Comfy shoes or killer heels?
    Do you even need to ask? You know I love my footwear (see here and here), and not comfy footwear that looks like they may serve some sort of orthopedic function. I’m a hardcore shoe girl always have been always will be.
    (This goes back to my Punky Brewster days when I would wear one pink converse with one baby blue and I had pulled out the regular laces and replaced with actual lace. That’s right, hardcore.)

    3. The funniest moment in the last week?
    Honey Jr and I bonded over a joke. The joke wasn’t even that funny, but someone (other than The Husband) here finally got me. I’m someone that you have to get. I love to talk and laugh and joke (sarcasm is like mother’s milk to me) and living in a place where a language barrier means that people don’t get me can be a bit soul destroying at times.
    This question probably wanted a funny response. Sorry.

    4. What would have been your dream job?
    Ruler of the World. 
    (The Husband calls me Skippie the Dictator. I’m not joking, that’s my nickname).
    But I’d settle for Secretary of State. If I could go back and do things differently…
    (No disrespect to The Husband and Fifty, but we’re talking about Secretary of State. It’s ok, I’ll just pin all my hopes and dreams on my future children. That will be healthy).

    5. If you won the lottery tonight, what would be the first thing you’d do?
    Setup base camp in a luxury hotel and start making my plans for world domination.

    6. Most useless gadget you own?

    {he’s a lean, mean, licking machine}

    Fifty. He’s ok at killing flies (sometimes) but that’s about it.


    7. You’re waiting for someone and they’re late. How late is too late?
    Anything more than 10 minutes because I’m hardcore about punctuality (ie; Skippie the Dictator).
    But, if I have a newspaper and a glass of wine, I usually don’t mind.

    8. Are you a do it now person, or a It can wait until tomorrow person?
    NOW NOW NOW! 

    9. If you were a drink, what would you be?
    A Grey Goose martini, a little dirty with an extra olive.
    (Then I could sit around and lick myself all day… dirty)

    10. What was the first thing you thought when you read these questions?
    Thanks for thinking about me Piglet.

    Would you be so kind as to answer some questions…
    bisou

  • Sara Louise: Fly Assassin

    I’m a ninja.

    Since summer is on full blast in Le Petit Village (not complaining, that winter was a beyotch), besides the sock and sandal wearing tourists, another breed has arrived; the fly kind (no, not Superfly, that would be dope though).

    {fly on holiday}                                        
    Flies. As in those little annoying winged flying things.

    Our house doesn’t have screens on the windows. Whenever a window is open, a new fleet of little flying aholes arrive; ready to land on the table, the wall, me, and to really piss me off, something I’m eating.

    The windows are always open. Every one of them, all the time. It’s wicked hot here and there’s no AC. I’m actually praying for Monsieur Mistral so I can get a little air in here.

    I hate flies. Hate them. They all deserve to be destroyed.

    There are a few methods to ensure mass destruction of those pesky buggars…

    *That awful hanging tape where little fly corpses stick on display. No thank you. These just don’t seem very hygienic to me. Little dead fly bodies decorating your living room. Gross.

    *Bug spray. This is good. Although the smell gets me a little woozy because I have a tendency to get trigger happy (I’m like the end of Scarface). 

    *Fifty. He loves trying to kill flies. But letting him loose is not that great of an idea. Although it is non-stop fun watching him bite at the air. I’m getting worried about the furniture that he’s slamming his body into as he throws on the breaks and skids across the floor.

    *A dish towel. This is my preferred method. I’m a ninja with that thing. One quick snap and game over (in a stealth like fashion… never even saw me coming… suckers).

    *Nunchucks and Chinese Stars. (not yet, I’m still waiting for the ones I ordered on the internet). 

    I’m beginning to worry about my sanity a bit. I get a lot of enjoyment from the death of these little fly aholes and do a lot of trash talking in the process….

    “yeah, how you like me now?”


    “that’s right, tell your friends” 


    “wax on wax off bitches”

    In the immortal words of Vanilla Ice… 
    “slice like a ninja cut like a razor blade”
    I’m out.
    Word to your mother.

    bisou

     

    P.S. I had a side of crazy with my lunch today.

  • Weekend Festival & Festivities

    Quite the weekend of festivities in Le Petit Village. 
    Every villager came out for the festival.
    Like this guy…
    He’s all sleepy and cuddled up. I’m digging his necklace.
    The festival was put on to display local artisan works. 
    My favorite lavender honey farmers had a stand setup in front of Grandma Honey’s house.
     (she was out patrolling the streets and keeping everyone in check)
     

    Since Mr and Mrs Honey were away for the weekend, they left Honey Jr in charge of the honey stand…


    {abandoned}
    Notice that Honey Jr was nowhere to be found.
    He was in the bar flirting with tourists of the female persuasion. 
    The busy bar ran out of regular beer glasses…
    {best Coke I ever had}
    I left Honey Jr and his wingman, aka The Husband, and took a stroll to check out stands that hadn’t been abandoned…
     
    And since I was getting my inner tourist on I decided to visit a house and look in the windows…
    This is my friend M’s house. 
    Notice the closed shutters. M only lives here part time. M and her boyfriend are croupiers in St Tropez (how cool is that?). I miss M. She’s my gossip buddy. 
    Mourning my missing friend and girly gossip, I returned to Honey Jr and The Husband to salt Honey Jr’s game. 
    No ladies for Honey Jr on Saturday. 
    You’re welcome Honey Jr. 
    There was a great party in the village that night, a band, some Cotton Eyed Joe (in Le Petit Village, seriously, Cotton Eyed Joe, I almost pissed myself when I heard it), €2 beers and €1 glasses of wine. 
    At some point my camera got away from me so no pictures… except these two from Honey Jr’s phone…
     
    {Great night}
    On fuzzy Sunday, Honey Jr abandoned by his parents (poor 25 year old baby) came over for lunch…
     
    And after all that cooking, and festivities, and since Honey Jr had worked so hard at the festival (he only sold three jars of honey, somebody is going to be in trouble) some serious R&R was required…
    Honey Jr enjoying his much deserved break.
    And here’s Brother-in-Law and his lady…
    Notice The Husband in the background, cheating on this guy…
    shhh… 
    don’t tell Fifty
    bisou

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