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.

  • Like The Boyfriend In A China Shop

    We made a visit to Baby Cousin’s shop in Avignon. The Boyfriend and I are going stateside in March and we wanted to pick him up some new clothes for the trip.

    Baby Cousin’s shop only sells men’s clothes (although I did buy a really cute button down in x-small that I’m loving at the moment). I wish it sold clothes for women but it’s not that kind of shop. It’s one of those cool boy shops. Not overly trendy and metro sexual like Top Man, where the clothes scream, ‘I know the DJ’, at Baby Cousin’s shop, the clothes are like, ‘I am the DJ’. If I was a boy, I’d buy most of my clothes there. But I’m not (luckily for The Boyfriend).
    We spend a lot of time there. There’s a comfy couch and flat screen in the back and a fridge always stocked with Heinekens (total boy shop), and next door a restaurant that sends in espresso and Moroccan tea to Baby Cousin.
    This visit, there was something new. The desk that the cash register sits on had been decoupaged. Now, you know that I’m loving the decoupage, haven’t done it yet, but I’m loving it. Well, little intrepid Baby Cousin, had decoupaged the cash register desk with comic books.
    How cool is this…
    Decoupage desk and The Boyfriend’s feet
    So we’re standing around the cool comic book cash desk, admiring it, and talking about how long it took Baby Cousin to decoupage the whole thing.
    And then The Boyfriend and his non-petite self decided to lean on it…
    cracked glass courtesy of The Boyfriend
    Oops.
    Way to go.
    To try and make up for The Boyfriend in a china shop damage, we took Baby Cousin to lunch next door at this swanky place…
    Which is so like, ‘This is where the DJ eats.’
    I had a glass of this…
    super pale Provencal Rosé
    And to try and ease the pain of his damaged desk, we got Baby Cousin a glass of this…
    drink me
    Pain go bye bye juice courtesy of vodka.
    bisou


    P.S.
    If you find yourself in Avignon, drop into Family on 4 Rue Carnot, just don’t lean on anything.
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  • I Caught A Fish This Big…

    Last night, we were driving home from dinner in St Michel. The road is always dark without any lights, with thick trees on both sides, almost like you are driving through a forest (actually I think it may be a forest).

    We were laughing about something when suddenly…
    “What is that?”
    A huge wild boar was walking along the side of the road. What’s odd about this was not that we saw a wild boar, it’s that the boar didn’t seem to pay us any mind. He just continued to walk slowly, not really caring that we were there shining headlights at him.
    The Boyfriend starts shouting at me, “take a picture, take a picture!”
    The boar crosses the road, not in any particular hurry, while I fumbled in my huge handbag for the camera, cursing myself for not carrying a clutch bag.
    This is all I got…
    No boar

    All the wine and big bag had me too late to catch the slow boar, but I swear, there was a very large boar.
    The Boyfriend starts yelling at me because I didn’t have the camera at the ready. It’s strange enough that I’m in the habit of carrying my camera with me everywhere, in case I see something interesting enough to be documented here, but according to The Boyfriend, I’m not a good ‘reporter’ because I didn’t have my camera at the ready. Didn’t know I was a reporter. I’m going to toss that one up to his interesting use of English vocabulary.
    The thing is, he didn’t want the photo for me and you readers and this blog. He wanted it for his brother and Papa. Boyfriend’s Brother is Le Petit Village’s current record holder for the largest boar killed. A few years ago, he shot a 170kg (375lb) boar at 200 meters. Apparently it was pure pastis induced luck, one shot into the forest and big boar went down. Either way, Boyfriend’s Brother is a local celebrity due to this and naturally, that day was one of the proudest days of Papa’s life.
    The Boyfriend doesn’t hunt.
    But I guess if he had a picture to go along with the story…
    I saw a boar this big…
    bisou
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  • Birthday Weekend Part 2

    One of the most difficult things about moving to Le Petit Village was leaving my family.

    I have an amazing family, love my family. And I’m not talking about just the nuclear, I love my entire family, the whole kit and kaboodle; aunts, uncles, their spouses, and dozens upon dozens of cousins. We’re tight like peanut butter and jelly and I wouldn’t trade them for the entire Louise Vuitton luggage collection (that’s saying a lot).

    You can’t pick your family, you’re pretty much stuck. But if I had the choice, I would still pick each and everyone of their crazy selves to fill my posse.
    They’re not perfect (show me a family that is, besides the Kardashians of course), they can be harsh and judgemental, but always out of love, and no matter what, they always have my back. Anytime, day or night, I know that I can call anyone of them to help me move a body if so required (not that that’s ever happened, I’m jut saying).
    It’s been difficult at times living in my new country without that safety net of love and dysfunction. Sure I’ve got The Boyfriend’s family but it’s kind of hard to form a bond with the language barrier (note to self: learn how to say, “Please help me move this body” in French).
    But on Birthweek Day 4 (Sunday) I think I got a little closer to having a safety net here…
    Papa’s Wife had asked us over for a drink to celebrate my birthday. I wasn’t really looking forward to heading out in the cold for a drink especially after all the beer and the sake at the Chinese (I’m not as young as I used to be), but I wasn’t going to say no, after all, there might be a present there for me, and I love those.
    We arrived a little past noon and not only was there a present waiting for me…
    inside a cheese board (needed one) and a pasta serving dish

    But a surprise party too!

    Ok, not a party per se, but a surprise lunch just for me.

    Now dig this sweetness and get ready to say awww…

    The Boyfriend, knowing how close my family is and how we all pow-wow for birthdays, knew that I would be missing them, so he asked Papa’s Wife to throw together a little something for me. And she did. A lovely lunch with my new French family.

    Papa was there, Boyfriend’s Brother, his girlfriend, and dog Python…
    Python, not Boyfriend’s Brother

    And the Portuguese neighbor (not exactly sure how he fits in the mix but he does look like he has some body moving experience).

    She went all out, even buying me my very own bottle of Tabasco because she knows I like to throw it on everything.
    nothing says love like Tabasco

    And Papa’s Wife’s 82 year old mother baked me a cake…
    pay no attention to the candles on the cake, I don’t

    And after the aperitifs, main course, cheese course, dessert, and digestives, The Boyfriend and I stayed to watch the France vs Scotland rugby match, and played a little ourselves…
    Me, totally kicking The Boyfriend’s a** (notice Python as referee)
    It was a perfect birthday surprise.
    Not only did I get a new cheese board, pasta serving dish, and bottle of Tabasco,
    but I got a new family too.
    Now all together…
    …awww
    bisou
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  • The Birthday Weekend Part 1

    I like to stretch out my birthday as long as possible, and have a birthweek because it only comes once a year (except once, I did have a 30.5 birthday party in August). So since it’s still my birthweek, I’ve decided to tell you about my weekend in two parts to help stretch it out.

    Day two of my birthweek (Friday) I made Philly Cheese Steaks for dinner and went to Boyfriend’s Brother’s house to see the four week old puppy, Mika (named after the chocolate not the singer). This brings the number of dogs he has to four, oh wait oops, another puppy was born on Sunday, so five now, five dogs for Boyfriend’s Brother. Lunatic.
    Mika the jack russell is teeny tiny, black all over with a little tan snout, and paws, and two tan patches over her eyes that make her look like a bandit, just like her older brother Leo. She has this funny sideways waddle slide walk she does. And when she gets scared, she backs up like she’s moon walking. (Holy Madonna! Maybe she’s MJ reincarnated?! Now wouldn’t that be amazing?).
    OK Friday night wasn’t all that exciting but I wanted to share the easy Philly Cheese Steak recipe with you and tell you that the reincarnation of MJ is living right here in Le Petit Village. Spread the word.
    If any of you are rugby fans you know that the Six Nations kicked off on Birthweek Day 3 (Saturday). The Boyfriend and I are all about the rugby.
    Plans for Saturday; watch Ireland vs Italy followed by England vs Wales, all the while relaxing and slowly getting ready to go out for my birthweek dinner party. This means giving myself a manicure while throwing back Heinekens, shouting at the television, with huge velcro rollers in my hair. Quite a sight I assure you. I made one simple request to The Boyfriend, no visitors. It’s my birthweek after all and I reserve the right to sit in my huge velcro rollers and shout abuse at the television in peace.
    Naturally, about twenty minutes into the Ireland match The Boyfriend takes a phone call and lets me know that his friend G is on his way over.
    Whenever a ‘miscommunication’ like this occurs, The Boyfriend blames it on my lack of French and his lack of English. I blame it on his lack of estrogen and abundance of testosterone.
    I huffed and puffed and stomped upstairs to remove the rollers so I didn’t look like some deranged housewife. Good thing because since G’s car was outside for all of Le Petit Village to see, Honey Jr came over followed by M and her fiance. Happy camper I was not as I scrambled around delivering beers, and refilling snack bowls.
    Somehow between rooting for Wales to beat England (they didn’t) and playing barmaid, I managed to get ready, looking pretty swish I might add in these..
    8pm rolled around and with the addition of Boyfriend’s Brother and his girlfriend (OMG, who was watching little MJ???), we headed to a Chinese restaurant in Apt. I love Chinese food and am happy to have found this place because The Boyfriend took me to a Chinese restaurant in Manosque once, and it was so bad, I swear I was being punished for something.
    (Bonus of dining Chinese style with The Boyfriend; watching his less than skilled use of chopsticks. Never wanting to surrender and use a fork, he usually ends up spearing the food or using his fingers, and of course, getting food everywhere. Priceless.)
    We ate ate and ate and had plenty of these…
    Followed by some sake.
    And this is very naughty.
    Apparently all the Chinese restaurants here have these little sake glasses with a naughty surprise at the bottom, naked people, and I mean nekkid! Like full on, full frontal nudity naked. I’d show you a photo (of course I took one, all the beer and sake meant any embarrassment went bye bye and maybe one found it’s way into my purse too… shhh) but Le Petit Village is a PG-13 kind of place, so no photo for you.
    But can you believe it?
    Naked people at the bottom of your sake glass.
    A very happy birthweek to me.
    bisou


    P.S.
    Next… Part 2
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  • How I Spent I.D.A.

    As much as I would have loved to have spent I.D.A. (International Day of Awesomeness, aka my birthday) pampering in some spa somewhere, that was not on the cards, I live in Le Petit Village, not Paris. So since I wasn’t able to get my tootsies tinkled or soak in a bath of mud, I had to make my own fun.

    A little recap of how I spent I.D.A….
    Watched four episodes of Ugly Betty online. Love me some Betty.
    Stalked Facebook, waiting for birthday wishes to show up on my wall. 41 in total, not too shabby.
    Watched Fifty stare at the washing machine and lick the window trying to catch the water swirling inside. This is pure entertainment. I can watch this for hours. Moron.

    I made a batch of mini, fudgey, chocolate cakes but undercooked them. You’re supposed to flip them out on tin foil and get little upside down cakes. But when I flipped, I had a pile of chocolate gooeyness, resembling nothing you could stick a candle into. Deciding to see the glass as half full, I thought “well, the birthday fairy is smiling on me, now I don’t have to share”, grabbed a spoon and dug in.

    gooey goodness
    Spent some time feeling guilty about eating all that chocolate gooeyness and swearing to myself that it’s all about fruit and vegetables from now on (not a chance).
    And because I was full of chocolate gooeyness and unable to move, stayed on the couch reading an Agatha Christie. This was great for a couple of reasons; 1. I’ve had a crush on Hercule Poirot for years and 2. Fifty makes an excellent foot warmer.
    And just I was about to doze off into a chocolate coma to dream of solving crime with my crush Hercule, The Boyfriend came home with these…
    And some Champagne.
    International Day of Awesomeness indeed.
    bisou

    P.S.
    Next up… the birthday weekend.
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  • International Day of Awesomeness

    Today is my birthday.

    And since it is also this guy’s…

    Dan Quayle
    And this guy’s…
    Alice Cooper

    It pretty much makes it the greatest day of the year.
    I’m thinking of petitioning to turn it into an International Day of Awesomeness.
    Anyhoo, I’ve made a list, because I love those, a list of what I would like for my birthday…

    1. The ability to speak French, like right now.

    2. To be able to find everything I’m looking for in the grocery store. I’m still getting used to the different brands and names for things and inevitably, I come home without a couple things on the list, and of course, it’s always those couple of things that I need to cook something that I really want for dinner. And to find cheddar cheese. They have about 400 different kinds of cheese here, but a girl can’t get a little block of cheddar.
    3. To get over my fear of driving on these tiny crazy ass roads so I can stop being a hermit.
    4. I want great, effortless hair. Nothing to do with life in Le Petit Village, I just really want great hair.
    5. Fifty to learn how to go out for a walk by himself (without killing cats or chasing Schnauzers). And while he’s out, to pop into the épicerie and pick up the baguette.
    6. My friends to visit me. It would be nice to have someone here who I can comment on (make fun of) my surroundings with.
    7. The complete oxo pop grip range. Have you seen these things?
    8. Direct flights to Dublin from Marseille airport all the time, not just during certain months of the year (Ryan Air I’m looking at you). And you know what, I’m going to go ahead and expand on this, I want Ryan Air to stop being money grubbing A-holes, and realize that they are going to get paid anyway so stop training your staff to act like they’re working for the Third Reich. Nobody likes you.
    9. All the American television channels. All of them. Yes, yes, I know I should only be watching French television to fully immerse myself, but I would love one day a month, to slob out on my couch, with a big ass remote and random crappy television; Lifetime movies, Storm Stories, American Justice, Jeopardy, Oprah, and reruns of Roseanne and A Different World.
    10. The local épicerie to sell fountain soda drinks, including Dr.Pepper, Big Red and Root Beer, with crushed ice in huge styrofoam cups, and bags of beef jerky (I’m from Texas, leave me alone).
    bisou
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  • I'm A Girl Genius

    Learning a new language is tricky and can be slow going.

    The way my French is at the moment; I can understand the majority of conversation and I can speak slowly to certain people. I think the certain people part has to do with feeling at ease.
    For instance, I can sit with Papa’s Wife and have a full conversation in French. A couple of weeks ago we had a whole conversation about mice in cupboards and lazy cats and dogs that don’t do anything about it. I was quite chuffed with myself. But I think it’s because Papa’s Wife, looks me right in the face and speaks slowly. This is the reason that she is one of my favorite people here, well that and she always fills me with loads of food and wine, but then again, everyone else does as well, so I guess it has to be the talking slowly thing. And it’s required, because even when I translate from French to English in my head, that hamster spinning on the wheel in there spins slowly.
    Case in point…
    Saturday night The Boyfriend and I spent a quiet evening at Papa’s house. Just the four of us. Nothing special, just a quiet family dinner. Afterwords, we watched the French version of Who Wants to Be A Millionaire (I’m loving French game shows at the moment, because I’m so freaking smart, I can still answer questions correctly. Girl genius I am).
    The way it goes is, I can understand about 90% of the question and so when the choices come up, can usefully figure it out (RE: girl genius). So some question popped on the screen and the main part of it was; ‘La Guerre des Étoiles’.
    The wheels spins slowly…La Guerre des Étoiles… La Guerre des Étoiles… let’s see, la guerre; that’s war, and étoiles are stars… the war of the stars… the war of the stars… what war of the stars? When the hell was that? That must have been something involving the Falkland Islands or something. Always some strange war going on some strange little place (apologies to any Falkland Island readers).
    And then the multiple choices appeared; D: Chewbacca.
    The War of the Stars
    Duh
    Star Wars
    Girl genius I am.
    bisou

    P.S.
    My favorite Irish Uncle will be happy to know that while watching the French version of Password (told you, I’m all about the game shows), the password was tricher (cheat) and I shouted Thierry Henry.
    I know you love me 😛
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  • Live at Le Jungle…

    A quick trip to the butchers to pick up something for dinner and I was doing my best to avoid joining the conversation between the butcher, The Boyfriend, and the other man in the shop (everyone talks to each other here, small town charm). I looked around for something to distract me and lo and behold…

    Woohoo!!! A poster for Chippendales right there in the butchers. What a strange place to advertise the oiled up gyrating, banana hammock wearing man revue.
    I was just about to make a tasteless joke (I’ll let you use your imagination) but thought better of it. I apologise.
    And how much are you loving the name of the club…
    ‘Le Jungle’.
    Awesome 80’s goodness. Chippendales live at Le Jungle!
    And it’s not even my birthday (yet!).
    bisou
    P.S.
    Sorry the picture is not better quality. I was trying to snap the photo as quickly as possible. The butcher and The Boyfriend were staring at me like I have some sort of mental illness.
    Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I didn’t get to go. Not that I’d want to. I’m just saying.
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  • Windblown

    image: wikimedia

    I now know the meaning of windblown.

    Yesterday the winds in Le Petit Village were whipped into a frenzy. A frenzy being one of winds so hard and forceful that you walked at a slant and had to shout to be heard. And if you want to know who I was shouting at it was Fifty, telling him to hurry up and get on with it so we could get back inside.
    I don’t know if I met the famous Mistral or not but the harsh winds that blew through here yesterday turned the village into an old ghost town. The shutters on all the houses were closed and in the five (super duper quick) walks I took with Fifty, I never saw one single villager. Not one.
    At one point a group of about twenty hikers walked by my window but they don’t count. They were tourists, faces red and weather beaten, and obviously not smart enough to know that you shouldn’t hike through mountain villages when it’s so windy your face is getting pelted with bits of ice and gravel and at any moment you expect a tree branch to break off and impale you. And those little metal walking spikes you’re carrying aren’t going to save you.
    So there you have it.
    The only people stupid enough to be outside were me and the tourists.
    At least I can blame Fifty.
    bisou
    P.S.
    On a completely unrelated note, I made chicken fajitas for dinner last night and they were Texas good. Just wanted to toot toot my own horn.



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  • Should Have Bought The Dyson

    I wanted this…
    I got this…
    I begged for the Dyson but The Boyfriend wouldn’t hear it,
    “€3oo?! For a vaccuum?”
    “Yes, but it’s worth it. They last forever and nothing cleans like a Dyson.”
    This is the conversation we had in July when I was visiting Le Petit Village before moving. We were making a list of things that we needed to have when I arrived in September. It was a short list because I wanted us to buy most things together after I arrived, (The Boyfriend needs to be supervised while shopping. He’s been known to go rogue. One time he tried to buy a 3D Mohammed Ali poster for our living room). But there were somethings that couldn’t wait like a washer, dryer, and a vacuum.
    The washer dryer, oh the washerdryer!
    Our house does not have a place for both a washer and a dryer. If we had a back garden to hang the clothes out, I would be happy, drying the clothes and being kind to the environment at the same time. Fantastic! But we don’t have a back garden. So as crappy as they can be sometimes, an all in one washer and dryer was required. I said this to The Boyfriend. Of course I got the normal male response,
    “But they’re so expensive”.
    Yes, they are about €150 more than a straight washer but what choice did we have? We need the washer dryer. I didn’t want our house looking like an old Chinese Laundry with wet clothes drying over every radiator and chair.
    He obviously didn’t get the point and why would he? I’m the one that would be doing the laundry. And this is not a sexist Suzy Homemaker thing. I like doing the laundry. When I do the laundry I know that the clothes get washed and ironed, and then lovingly folded and put in their proper designated place in wardrobe, dresser, or closet.
    The Boyfriend does not do laundry. Only when there is literally nothing else for him to wear and he can no longer locate a bed, chair or couch underneath dirty clothes. Then, he will find someone to do laundry for him.
    Case in point – The Boyfriend was visiting me in Dublin. I met him at the airport and hugged him. At this point I noticed that his white shirt seemed a bit grey around the edges. The rest of the clothes he brought with him were also dirty. We had to go shopping for new clothes. Who packs dirty clothes? Now you know the answer.
    A month before I moved, The Boyfriend phoned me very pleased with himself,

    “I got a washing machine.”

    “Oh, that’s great” I was thrilled to be able to cross something off the list.
    “But where are you going to dry the clothes?”
    (Sometimes The Boyfriend’s memory is not the best; rugby damage).
    Huge sigh from my end. And then a few deep breaths. And then I used my colorful vocabulary reserved for special occassions.
    Now when I do laundry, I have to hoof it to Boyfriend’s Brother’s house and hang the clothes on his line. This is a pain in my petunia.
    As far as the vacuum goes, needless to say I didn’t get the Dyson. I arrived in September to a little red vacuum bought on sale for €40. And I got about €40 worth of cleaning out of it. It died this morning, only four months old, making the most pitiful sound on it’s way out. I think I’m going to throw a party. Me, the little red vacuum, and a baseball bat. I have some emotions I would like to share with the little red vacuum.
    As soon as The Boyfriend arrives home tonight as much as I try to hide it, I’m sure my face will be plastered with it’s I told you so smirk.
    Sidebar – I swear, I am not as high maintenance as I seem. I’m just a little anal, a tad controlling, with a healthy dash of OCD.
    It’s a soft and cuddly mix.
    bisou

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