Those Crazy Frogs #14: C'est n'importe quoi!

I just found out last night that today in France there is a general strike. Anybody who's anybody is on strike: postal workers, planes, trains, and other mass transit, you name it. All the cool kids are doing it!

Not surprisingly, nobody seems to know what the strike is actually about. From what I can gather from internet news sources, the frogs are striking because they are pissed off at:

1. Sarkozy.
2. The economy.
3. Privatisation, pension reforms and spending cuts.
4. God. (...the one they don’t actually believe in. Heathens!)

But I'm not really complaining because after-all there are some aspects of French idiocy that I absolutely love. Like Remi Gaillard. Enjoy:

(C'est n'importe quoi! = It's nonsense!)

"Hey! That's Me Mum!"

OK, OK, I didn't see my mom on any of the CNN coverage, but she was kind enough to send this photo via her cell phone:

This is my mom, Mamma K if you will, freezing her inaugural balls off in DC yesterday.

Look how happy she looks!

I was happy that she was able to be in DC for the event. This was a big day for her. My mom volunteered and campaigned for Obama in the waaaaay back before he’d even secured the Democratic party nomination. Yep. That's me mum: the eternal optimist. She’s always had high hopes.

From being a Black girl growing up in Iowa in the 1950’s, learning about the world by immersing herself in writings by James Cone, Malcolm X, Gandhi, and Martin Luther King Jr.; to eventually participating in the Black Panther Party morning breakfast programs, I imagine she has always had the hope that this day would be possible. In an article she was working on in 2006 she wrote:

“Hope for the enslaved African was a subversive power that enabled them to survive the cruelties of slavery. And hope remains a subversive power that calls us to live a defiant life that questions the status quo, as it did with our ancestors.”

So yeah, this is a big day for her. A big day for a little tiny woman who has always had a big heart and even bigger hopes.

I know I'm on this diet...

...and I'm not supposed to have even one ounce of alcohol, but I do believe that some sort of champagne celebration is in order.

Right?

I figure I can have one or two "coups" since I know in my heart that at this very moment my dear Granny Myrtle is somewhere in heaven gettin' her drink on with Rosa Parks.

Right?

Update: Instead of champagne I had Coke Zero. Also, Granny Myrtle and Rosa are now doing the electric slide to Kool & The Gang's "Celebration".

Fat in France.

Before I forget I want to say two things:

1. In all my years of blogging, I have never enjoyed reading comments from this blog more than I did over the past week or so while reading the responses from the last post. You guys---are hilarious.

2. I know I posted my e-mail address last year, but please don’t be offended at my tardy replies. I’m busy doing stuff like watching TV and eating candies.

Which not so coincidentally brings us to this post’s topic: I’m fat.

I have only passive aggressively whinged about my weight issues on this blog because let’s face it---who doesn’t want to lose a few pounds? Nothing earth shattering or clever about that. I originally thought about making a whole separate blog about me and my weight issues, but then again, having a an entire blog devoted to discussing my fat ass could render me suicidal so I nixed that idea almost immediately. Instead I’ll just talk about it here.

Now I haven’t been a size 6 since I was 19 years old, and I don’t ever plan on being one again, but let me put my weight concerns into perspective for you. Since moving to France I have consistently gained 10 lbs for each year I’ve been here. As of last month I’ve been here 5 years. Do the math. 10 lbs x 5 years = Fat Ass. So let me just give out a free piece of advice to anyone reading this blog who might be considering moving to France: If you are a carb-addict American with a sluggish metabolism, who wants to lose weight, and quit smoking, perhaps France is not the country you should move to. Duh?

Anyway, I have no one to blame for this but myself of course and I do take full responsibility. I love to eat. Always have. I’m a foodie. I plan entire vacations around restaurants I want to eat at. Having a few extra pounds kinda comes with the territory. But over the last year it’s become a bit of a nuisance. You see. French people are small. Very very small. They are small people , with small little bird-like frames. I am not French. I am not small, nor do I have a small bird-like frame, unless you’re counting those huge carnivorous dinosaur birds that are in the movie 'Jurassic Park'. This makes buying clothes in France a real pain in my double-wide ass. I graduated years ago from regular clothing stores to the “specialty” stores where the French sizes range from 44-56. Doesn’t that just sound wrong?

I don’t complain a lot about my weight on this blog much, but in reality I do quite a bit of whinging and making fun of myself. All in good fun of course. I have a healthy self-esteem. I have mad love for all the junk in my trunk. I just wish I could fit my junk into at least a 46 so I could shop at the normal stores. Anyway, years of hearing me complain about my weight while two-fisting cupcakes must have finally pushed FrenchBoy over the edge because a year or so ago, after listening to me complain about having nothing nice to wear for the millionth time, he just turned to me and said “Look, if you ever manage to lose those 50 lbs, I’ll give you five thousand euros. And then you can go out and buy all new clothes.”

I knew he said it as a joke to get me to shut up, but I held him to it. And he agreed to honor his off the cuff-remark. Yeah, you read that correctly. If I lose 50 lbs. My Frog is going to give me 5 frickin euro Gs.

But before you get all excited, please remember that he originally said that back in 2007 I think. This is 2009 and not only did I not lose the 50 lbs, I added 10 to the amount I really needed to lose.

And here I am 2 years later, still fat in France.

So, no muffins for me. *shrugs*

"No muffins for you." courtest of the super cool Natalie Dee.

Whinge-Fest 2009

Oh I'm still here. And frankly it's a miracle that I haven't blogged in almost 2 weeks considering that all I've been doing is sitting around my house pouting and groaning.

Oh how I loathe winter.

This winter in particular has been a real downer. It's cold. I mean reallly cold. Even Marseille got snow! You see, hell has oficially frozen over. (Yes, I just snarked on Marseille for no good reason.)

Here in the armpit of France things aren't much better, it's ten degrees below zero---every gah-damned day. Ice cube weather. I haven't left the house in days, but since I'm out of bubble wrap I will have to bundle myself up and force myself out the door today. All that effort and for what? Fucking bubble wrap!

So if you haven't noticed by now I'm in a horrid little mood. Also I'm on a diet. No cake, no carbs, no liquor, makes Madame K a very cranky girl. On the other hand, if I ever want to shed the many kilos I have gained over the last 5 years in France, I'd better stay on the wagon. (More on that later.) Only 48 hours into my diet I'm wondering if life as a happily drunk fat girl isn't just plain better than life as skinny but impossibly cranky bitch. You know what I mean?

So, because I refuse to believe that I am the only one that is going through a kind of post-New Years blues and I know for a fact that at least 4 or 5 of you reading this blog must be feeling just as crappy as me at the moment, I am designating this here post as MSCLIF "Whinge-Fest 2009". Look, let's just get it out of our systems now, so we can get on with 2009.

De-lurk thyself, go to comments, and get to whingeing. Because if you don't, and I'm left standing here complainin' and moanin' all by myself, it'll make me feel just that more pitiful.

My fate is in your hands.

First Vocab Word for 2009...Gueule de bois.

I have this philosophy when it comes to parties. One, it's not a real party unless something gets broken, and two, it wasn't a good party unless the next day you're at least a little bit embarassed by something you said or did.

Let's just say, it was a good party.

Last night I rang in the New Year with a delegation from the United Nations courtesy of the blogger formerly known as Madame R (aka the saucy Aussie) and her Frog who hosted an incredible NYE bash.

OK, it wasn’t really related to the UN in any way, but there were people from France, Hungary, Ireland, Poland, Turkey, Greece, Australia, the US, and Réunion. Even Anna Karina came.

Everybody had fun, and there was a good mix of music ranging from Bikini Kill to Charles Mingus. There was even some dancing, but I missed that part because I was in the kitchen breaking sh*t and spilling champagne all over the floor. But in my own defense I should add that things like that are bound to happen when one starts diluting her sangria with tequila half-way through the party because *wink wink* it will "make the sangria last longer for everyone".

(Side note: My sincere apologies to Madame R's kitchen floor and to the family of the champagne glass whose life I so carelessly took.)

Also---My Americanized cake salé recipes seemed to be real crowd pleasers. I am very happy about this... seeing as how much I personally hate cake salé. More on this later.



By 3:00AM FrenchBoy could barely keep his gorgeous big brown eyes open, so we decided it was time to go. On the way home, walking past the kebab "snack" shop on the corner, I got a brilliant idea for a portrait. One of those brilliant ideas that only comes to mind after having consumed two liters of sangria/tequila.

"The Kebab Portrait"

circa 3:18AM, January 1st, 2009.

Oh, and a translation for you non-Francophones, Gueule de bois = Hang-over.