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.

  • A Petit Distraction

    I’m back!

    Miss me?
    I missed you! Really, it’s true, I did. You’re my peeps.

    There are suitcases full of dirty laundry and shopping sitting in the corner of my bedroom, wall-eyeing me. Before I can update you, my loyal Le Petit Village Posse, with all the happenings of our great week in the States, I’ve got to tackle it, and spend some quality time with Fifty.
    So in the meantime, while I’m unpacking new clothes, smelly clothes, and boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (reminds me of my childhood, and it is the cheesiest), I will leave you with this picture of Fifty and his girlfriend, Vicky.
    KA RAZY
    They are clearly crazed.
    As am I.
    À bientôt
    bisou
    ,

  • Back in the U.S.A.

    The Boyfriend and I are venturing out of Le Petit Village and headed stateside to visit my father in the Berkshires and some friends in New York.

    This is The Boyfriend’s first trip to the States and I’m so excited to show him around, catch up with friends and family and spend a week surrounded by American accented English that I’m dangerously close to piddling.

    Some other reasons I’m so happy I’m doing the bunny hop…

    Shopping… Barnes & Nobles, Target, J Crew, Old Navy… here I come! I’m a product of American consumerism and I’m planning on dumping a bunch of euros into the American economy. Your welcome Barack.

    Eating… deli sandwiches for both breakfast; fried egg, ham and cheese on a hard roll, and for lunch; pastrami on rye, Italian sub, and meatball heros. Excuse me while I have my Homer Simpson moment… so delicious… And Dunkin Donuts (mmm… donuts) for munchkins and coffee, and of course Starbucks, Starbucks, and more Starbucks.

    But unfortunately, every ying has it’s yang, and I’m a little sad too…

    I’ll miss Fifty. He’s spending the week with Boyfriend’s Brother and his puppy cousins; Python, Karma, Leah, Mika, and the other new puppy (can’t remember her name yet) and I’m sure he’ll be happy but I’m worried he’s not going to get the cuddles he’s used too (Boyfriend’s Brother is not a cuddler).

    We’re missing the last two weekends of Six Nations rugby. When I realized this, I thought about cancelling the trip. Seriously. France is going to win the Grand Slam and I want to see it.

    Travelling with The Boyfriend. I’m trying to be positive but I can’t see this going well. Patience is not one of his virtues and the longest flight he ever took before was three hours to Turkey. This is a two hour flight from Nice to Amsterdam, a five hour layover, and an eight hour flight to Boston, followed by a two hour car ride to my Dad’s. And I can just hear all his Gallic huffing and puffing now. Travelling doesn’t bother me (except on Ryan Air), airports are my playground. I’m the person you want to be in line behind at security checkpoint (true story: a security guard once pointed at me and shouted to everyone, ‘now this is how it’s done’. I’ve got mad security checkpoint skills).

    And of course, I’ll miss you, my loyal Le Petit Village posse. But it’s just for a week, and then I’ll be back fatter and over caffeineted with plenty of stories to share.

    Betcha can’t wait to here how The Boyfriend meeting my father goes.

    Neither can I.

    bisou
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  • So Close, Yet So Far…

    Last week, as March began, Le Petit Village seemed to be rolling nicely into spring.
    All the traces of snow were finally gone. The sun was shining in a baby blue sky and I could feel my love for Provence returning.


    Fifty and I took longer walks, and for the first time in months my fingers didn’t freeze because I forgot my gloves. I moved quickly in my spring jacket bopping along to my French lesson on my Ipod.

    All seemed right with the world again.The noises of spring had returned. Birds chirping early in the morning (you know the birds, I’m not a bird person so I don’t know their name. But they make that ‘woo-woo..woo-woo’ sound. I’ll call them disco birds). The disco birds did their disco call along with the noises of house renovations, probably in preparation for the spring arrival of it’s Belgian or Parisian owners.

    Le Petit Village was beginning to see the trickle of tourists again, cameras at the ready (perhaps my own personal papparazzi, might just start to act like that for fun).

    I’d take deep satisfying breaths and smile as the sun warmed my face, sure that spring was finally here and the return of my beloved warm weather clothes with it.

    And then on Sunday, it freaking snowed again!



    How do you like them apples?

    Happy camper I am not.

    bisou

  • They Make Curtains

    As much as I love my cozy little abode with it’s large spiral staircase smack dab in the middle of the living room, I covet the house next door.
    It’s old, but not too old, probably about one hundred years. So not old enough to give me the heebie jeebies if I was lucky enough to live there. It’s big with lots of windows and white shutters instead of the usual Provencal mint green or pale purple. And according to The Boyfriend (Boyfriend’s Brother rented it a couple of years ago) it has an atrium and a cave. I’m guessing by cave he actually means basement (unless it does have some sort of bat cave with a butler named Alfred living in it. Now that would be dope).
    A young family lives there with an adorable little boy, who I think is about three. He’s the cutest little blonde thing but Fifty barks at him whenever he is outside on his tricycle which makes me feel bad. But I know it’s the trike, not the little boy that Fifty is barking at (Fifty loves children, bikes, like vacuums, freak him out) and I try to tell him that it’s the trike and not him, but he just cocks his head and looks at me funny (much like Fifty does) and I’m sure he’s not understanding my strange accent.
    Sidebar – this adorable little boy looks exactly like pictures of The Boyfriend when he was little. And I mean exactly. So much so that I’ve started looking at the mother a little funny at times. Hmmm…
    The one odd thing about the house; it has no curtains, not a one. And the shutters are only closed if they are out of town, so usually, they’re wide open. No curtains. Needless to say, anyone on the street can see inside their house. And see the super high ceilings and how great it is, and how much I want to live there. If only I could get them to move (can you sense me hatching a diabolical plan…).
    I’ve been wondering what the man that lived there did. He’s home most days and gets a lot of large packages delivered (yes, I’ve turned into that nosey neighbor from Bewitched). But when he’s gone, it’s very early in the morning. So I asked The Boyfriend.
    “Oh, he has a stall at the markets.”
    “Cool, what does he sell?”
    “Curtains.”

    Um, OK.
    bisou
    P.S.
    I swear I was only joking about looking at the little boy’s mother funny.
    P.S.S.
    But not about that diabolical plan part….
    P.S.S.S.
    Joking!
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  • Nothing At All To Do With France

    … WARNING… WARNING… WARNING…
    Today’s post has absolutely nothing to do with my life in Le Petit Village at all.
    It’s about me and my inability to go a day without injuring myself in some way. And this is not a new thing, it’s not like I was always suave and then moved to France and became Jerry Lewis awkward. I’ve always been an accident prone klutz. I once sprained my thumb while playing badminton, and not athletic badminton, this was Texas sun shine beer badminton (oh, wait, light bulb moment).
    It seems I am completely unaware of the dimensions of my own body. While driving, I’m aware of the size of the vehicle and it’s relation to other cars on the road or in the parking lot, but despite having occupied my body for 30+ years, I cannot navigate around furniture without stubbing a toe, banging a knee, or jamming my hip into the corner of something.
    My body is constantly covered in bruises and looks like The Boyfriend and I had an argument and I ‘fell down’. But nope, just me. Just me and my genetically acquired awkwardness.
    Sidebar – One time, my mother fractured her foot while vacuuming. That is no easy feat let me tell you. That’s a special type of awkwardness. An awkwardness that I have clearly inherited. Thanks Mom.
    That’s all I have to say today.
    I’m sitting in my kitchen, having a cup of tea.
    I missed the chair completely on my first attempt.
    Who needs more than one attempt sitting in chair?
    I do, that’s who.
    And maybe my Mother.
    bisou

  • Sunday Lunch

    Traditionally in Provence, lunch, is the main meal of the day. Monday through Saturday, this doesn’t bother me, because during the work week, I can send The Boyfriend off to work with his little packed lunch (lately more pastas and salads because he’s been complaining about all the sandwiches, too American apparently. It’s not like I’m sending him off with PB & J with the crusts cut off or anything, and beggars shouldn’t be choosers).
    And Saturdays are not a problem because we are usually running around and end up at Quick. I love Quick, don’t ask me how, but it somehow seems a little healthier than McDonald’s, even though I usually get a Giant burger and a hot dog. (Oh my, I think my butt got bigger just thinking about it).
    But on Sundays, the day of rest, Provencal tradition requires that I cook a large meal to be on the table at 12:30. And I know what you may be thinking. Why doesn’t The Boyfriend take turns cooking his share of Sunday lunches? Trust me, nobody wants that to happen. I’d end up eating partially cooked potatoes and a can of cold ravioli.

    On Sundays the question is inevitable, “what do you cook for midday?” (excuse the strange structure of the sentence, but it’s an exact quote of The Boyfriend’s wobbly English).

    Now this gets on my wick and is usually met with a loud sigh and eye roll.
    Sundays for me were always my relaxing day, which is no little feat, relaxation is not a natural state for me. But on a Sunday, it’s all about the newspaper, TV, and my feet up (when I lived stateside it meant a Lifetime movie marathon too, oh how I miss those. Meredith Baxter Bernie, Morgan Fairchild, Lindsay Wagner, always in distress before finding their inner female warrior, Oscar calibre stuff).
    I have absolutely no problem cooking a large meal for Sunday evening, I love doing that, slowly cooking around 6pm with a glass of wine in my hand, moving at a nice pace, setting the table. After a lovely long day of Sunday relaxation of course.
    But midday lunch? That breaks up the whole day, no relaxation at all.
    It’s like wake up, have a little coffee, and then BAM, it’s cooking time. Where’s the relaxation in that? Especially when it’s inevitable that Honey Jr shows up to play chess with The Boyfriend around noon which means he ends up needing to be fed too. And then The Boyfriend can’t help with the dishes if he’s still on his little play date with Honey Jr.
    Sunday lunch in Provence isn’t a fast affair. It’s a set table, an aperitif, a first course, a main course, dessert if you’ve got it, a cheese plate, lots of wine, and a digestif. And nobody even dreams of leaving the table for at least two hours.
    Does this sound relaxing?
    Yes, if we’re at Papa’s house and Papa’s Wife is cooking. But when it’s my turn, no no no.
    I’m thinking of going on strike.
    Now that would be very French of me.
    bisou
    P.S. Dreamfarm Girl sent a message asking if Le Petit Village was OK after the horrible storms battered France. Fortunately Le Petit Village was not effected at all. Thanks for thinking of us Dreamfarm Girl =)
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  • Leashless in Le Creepy Village

    The Boyfriend takes Fifty for his last walk of the evening. I’ve got day duty, The Boyfriend has night duty.

    When I walk Fifty, we have three different routes out of the village that we take, just to mix it up. One, for when I’m in a hurry and just want him to do what he’s got to do and get back inside. Two, for a walk that takes us down a steep hill if I feel like I’m in need of some good pert bum exercises, and the third for when the sun is shining on a beautiful day and we need a long walk.

    For some inane reason, The Boyfriend likes to walk Fifty into the old medieval village at night.
    A little background on Le Petit Village and the old medieval village…
    Le Petit Village is old, like really old. It used to be a little Roman town that was used as a stop over on the way to trading in Marseille (source: The Boyfriend). Like when I say Roman, I’m talking about Julius and Brutus, that’s freaking old.
    Anyhoo… on top of that old town, a medieval village was built within old medieval walls (think a mini Avignon). The homes in the old medieval village are 12th century, and people live in them today.
    Le Petit Village expanded a wee bit and the present day ‘main’ street where I live is right outside the walls of the old medieval village. Now even though my front door is only about twenty five feet from the arched opening of the old village, I don’t go in there. Never have, and not sure if I will. I’m just a scaredy cat like that. Old stuff creeps me out. Wish I could get over it but I can’t (too bad, because I love history, but I’ve got this Billy Bob Thornton type phobia). Moving on.
    At night there are no lights inside the medieval village, not a one. It’s preserved in time. Where as the houses on the inside (so I’m told) are kitted out with modern appliances, the outsides still look like 12th century, and because there is a big wall to block out the rest of the village, the two ‘main’ street lamps do not shine into the medieval village, so according to The Boyfriend, it’s pitch black, only lit by moonlight.
    Say it with me everyone…. CREEPY
    So for some lunatic reason that I do not understand, this is where The Boyfriend likes to take my little furry angel for a walk at night. Sure he knows it’s wobbly cobble stoned streets inside and out from childhood days running through it, but come on!
    Last night on the pm walk, as I was tucked inside my cozy abode I heard The Boyfriend shouting, “Fifty! Fifty!” But when The Boyfriend says it, it sounds like, “Feefty! Feefty”
    See, The Boyfriend has started to let Fifty off his leash when they go out. Not me. I’ll save that for fun sunny Saturday afternoons when I have time to chase a puppy who has decided to bolt. Not for night times when I have a date with a glass of Côtes du Rhône and a couch.
    So what happens now that The Boyfriend has been walking Fifty through the old creepy village, and Fifty is off his leash and wants to make a run for it, where do you think he’s going to run? That’s right. Back to old creepy village. Probably to chase some Roman toga wearing spirit or Nazi ghost zombie he saw.
    The Boyfriend can chase him through those uneven lanes in the dark, that’s his own creepy bed and he can run in it.
    Me, I’ll stick with the leash. And on my side of the wall.
    bisou
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  • Trouble

    “I’m so much in trouble with you”.

    This is what The Boyfriend says.
    What he means to say is, “You’re in so much trouble.”
    But no matter how many times I correct him, he still says it wrong. And I prefer it that way. It’s funnier to hear him chastise himself, saves me from doing it.
    My response is always the same, “Yes, you are in trouble.” At this point he remembers the English lesson from last time, and peddles back to change it, but it doesn’t matter, I’ve usually walked out of the room by then, laughing to myself on the way.

    The day he gets it right (or when my French is fluent) will be a sad one.
    It’s much more fun this way.
    bisou
    ,

  • I Rescued The Boyfriend

    Thursday evening, The Boyfriend arrived home from work sick. And I mean, sick.

    This wasn’t the man flu. There was no shuffling around the house and woe is me cries with a baby pout planted on his puss. This was real. The Boyfriend was as pasty as wall paint and burning up. I put him to bed and did my best to keep the fever down with cold cloths and aspirin. And before he fell asleep, I told him that under no circumstances was he to go to work on Friday, just to avoid having that argument in the morning.

    Naturally he actually tried to go to work. I was out walking Fifty and when I came back, The Boyfriend was sitting at the table fully dressed, although unable to move any further. I yelled at him a bit and gave him two options, “couch or bed, choose and go.”
    I made a bed for him on a couch and put on the TV and busied myself with my day. Every few minutes I’d check on him and try to give him juice and soup, both of which he refused. If The Boyfriend refuses food, he’s sick (RE: food whore) and the fever didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Getting worried I asked if we should go to the doctor.

    “No, he’ll come here.”
    I couldn’t believe my ears. House call. The doctor makes house calls?
    “Yes, in the afternoon, if you’re really sick.”

    Judging by the fever and the pasty complexion, I decided The Boyfriend was really sick and told him to call for the doctor. (My French isn’t quite there yet, not sure how to say pasty face).
    This is what the doctor said;
    “I can’t. I’m too busy. Try another medic. Good luck.”
    I love the good luck part. It’s like, ‘gee, hope you make it’.
    This was not good. The Boyfriend needed to see the doctor but was in no condition to drive himself. I’d have to drive. Time for me to step up and get over my fear of driving here.
    I drove to the doctor in Banon through those tiny crazy topsy turvy back roads. And not at a snail’s pace either. At a, ‘I’m from Texas, now get the hell out of my way pace’. But very safe. I had my 6’2″ baby on board, precious cargo. Fear of French country roads has been conquered.
    And it worked out well, because across the street from the doctor is one of those quaint little tourist shops (Ladies, you know the type I’m talking about, they don’t really sell anything of substance, just lovely, pretty little things that we like to look at for a few weeks). As soon as The Boyfriend left the waiting room and stepped in to see the doctor, I was out the door and across the street. But not before lovingly, “I’ll be right here when you get out”.
    I bought some L’Occitane hand soap and hand lotion for the kitchen sink, and a hand creme for my purse.
    image: google
    I love L’Occitane and it’s great because it’s so much cheaper here than in one of their shops in Dublin or New York, but still a bit expensive buying from a tourist shop. If I want L’Occitane, we’ll go to the factory in Manosque so I’m not in any circumstances to buy L’Occitane anyplace else (instructions from you know who). But it’s ok. If The Boyfriend sees it, I’ll just tell him he was hallucinating from the fever. But I deserved a reward, I rescued The Boyfriend, and conquered the road. I don’t think a little hand creme is too much to ask for.
    The good news is now I’m over my fear of driving here and I can stop being a hermit.
    The bad news, Provence, watch out.
    bisou
    P.S.
    In case you’re wondering, The Boyfriend is feeling much better now. It was a viral infection, but he’s been pumped full of medication. He spent the weekend on the couch playing video games. I got to play nurse maid. How very fun for me.
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  • Le Petit Oscars

    A wonderful surprise was waiting for me yesterday.

    Shar at La Bonne Vie awarded me with the Lovely Blog and Sugar Doll Awards.
    This was particularly wonderful because;
    1. there are thousands upon thousands of blogs out there and Shar thought of me, 2. I can now share all the love and wonderful feelings by passing the awards on which puts me in a Glenda the Good Witch kind of mood, and 3. I have an eye infection, a crick in my neck, and it’s been raining for two days which has left me feeling like this…
    image: google
    And Shar’s kindness actually got me to take off my cat costume, put down the machine gun, and smile.

    Now, you know how this goes… 10 things about me that you do not know, and then I share the love with the chosen bloggers.
    Since I know that the suspense is killing you… DUN DUN DUN… I’ll start with the spreading of all that wonderful joy and love…
    image: google
    (me, bestowing joy and love)
    Now the tricky part, 10 things about little ol’ moi…
    1. I used to be a champion, state record holding, swimmer, not kidding, I actually was.
    2. The first time I met The Boyfriend was after midnight in a nightclub. This tidbit of info is for all the single ladies out there that are told that this never happens. It does and it did.
    3. When I was in 6th grade, I developed a horrible bumpy red rash all over my forehead and around my eyes (swimming related). It lasted into 7th grade, this was in addition to buck teeth, too short, too frizzy hair, and being tall for my age, I was teased relentlessly and boys barked at me. I now enjoy looking at photos on Facebook of some of the people that teased me. I will not say anything unkind about how they have ‘grown’, but will say that karma is clearly a b*tch.
    4. I got arrested during a bar fight in New York City on St. Patrick’s Day when I was 16. Not something that I’m particularly proud of but hey, pretty cool story to tell the grandkids.
    5. I snore. Loud. Like a large truck driving, lumber jacking, fat man loud.
    I know I said 10 but you get 5.
    I need to save something for the memoir.
    bisou