Those Crazy Frogs #13: The Silent "H".

My friend J-Rock (aka Alena) sent me this article the other day which promptly made me laugh
my ass off. One of the many many perks of having an adorable Frenchmen as a husband is
getting to make fun of his accent.

If you're too lazy to follow the link, I'll give you a summary. Basically Bernard
Kouchner, the French Minister of Foreign Affairs accidentally said Isreal could "eat"
Iran if it wanted to:

"I honestly don't believe that it will give any immunity to Iran ... because you will eat
them before..."

Of course anyone who knows the French accent is aware that he meant to say "hit" not
"eat". As the article explains, and every TEFL instructor in France knows, that in
French the letter "h" is silent and most French people just forget to pronounce it when
speaking English. And when they do actually pronounce it, it often sounds quite similar
to a cat hacking up a hair ball because they tend to over-correct.

(Somewhere in here there is a great joke about the French expression "I have a cat in my
throat", but yet again I'm not clever enough to make it.)

At any rate, the good news about this particular mispronunciation is that it leads to all
kinds of hysterically funny mistakes such as the one Mr. Kouchner made.

"What? What deed eee say? I deeed not ear eeem."

And in a completely un-related matter, my FrenchBoy pronounces the word "pillow" as "pee-low".

Just thought I'd share that.

Soirée Nanas!

One of the things I miss most about the US is my friends…....and the possibility of making new ones. French people are weirdos. For cultural reasons that are way too complicated for me to go into here, the French generally tend to have a small group of friends that they have known since adolescence, and then see no point in adding to the group. Hence, if you are an “outsider” transplanted into the land of the Frogs, after sometime you realize just how hard it will be to acquire new friends in your adopted home.

I’ve been here in Froggy-land for nearly 5 years now and have managed to make a few French acquaintances, but none of these people are really my “friends” yet. You know what I mean? So what’s an expat to do? Party it up with other ex-pats of course!

Not long after I moved to Metz I met my French, by way of California, friend Jill (the adorably crazy one pictured above on the right.) who as it turns out---knows every freakin’ English speaking Ex-pat in a 50 kilometer radius of Metz Centreville. Being the peach that she is she was kind enough to organize a “Soirée Nanas” (Girl's Night Out) so that all the lovely ladies she knew could get to know each other. And hat’s off to Jill because it was a huge success! At least twenty ladies showed up for the event. In actuality it was a mix of Americans, and UKers, and a few Frenchies thrown in for good measure. These type of gatherings are always hilarious to me because you're forced to remember which person speaks what langauge. It's total mental gymnastics.

And an event it was, there was eating, drinking, and eventually some dancing! I forced my buddy Madame R., the Saucy Aussie, to do shots with me….very watered-down shots mind you. Also I didn’t do the one that smelled like mouthwash. I just couldn’t. Gag reflexes and all.

So anyhoo, there was dancing and laughing and all manner of chit chat around the table. I even met another woman who is an artist. (Who woulda thunk it?) I’m trying to convince Jill to do another party, but at her huge city house next time. I would have liked to do more chatting with the other ladies at the party, but after dinner the DJ turned the volume on the music so high that I nearly went deaf, so there wasn’t much talking after that. On the other hand, still, Fun!

London's wicked, init?

Before I start this post, I have to make a public apology:

Dear Mom- I’m sorry I left France and didn’t even tell you where I was going. Next time I do travel that requires use of my passport I will at least email you to tell you first so that you won’t have to find out about my travel plans on my blog and then call me all indignant because I told 1000 strangers where I was going but didn’t tell you because I am a horrible daughter and I love complete strangers more than you eventhough you gave birth to me after 48 hours of labor with no epidural or something. So what I’m really really trying to say is, I’m really f*ckin’ sorry, K? *giggle snort*

So, London.

As soon as my butt muscle healed, FrenchBoy and I hopped on a plane to London. But before I get to that, let me rant a hot minute about the crap airline that is Ryanair. Ryanair maybe be cheap, but you get what you pay for. Their level of organization is for shit. In fact I had a realization on the flight home-- In the future I will not be entrusting my life to any airline that runs their business so horribly and hires morons to work for them. In the future I will be spending the extra money to take the train or to fly out of Luxembourg on Luxair. Screw Ryanair already. (End Rant)

So, London.

OK, one more interruption and then I’ll get on with it. I have a confession to make. For the past, say, 10 years, I have been harboring, a not so secret distain for the British accent. Whenever I would hear it, the skin on the back of my neck bristle like a cat and I would have the urge to punch someone, anyone, in the teef. If a character in a perfectly good film turned out to have a British accent I would instantly start hoping that the plotline of the film somehow involved said character's gruesome demise. And I love movies that have magic in them, but I refused to see the Harry Potter movies cuz the accent sent me into convulsions. At one point it got so bad that any good mental health professional might have suggested I had a true phobia. And moving to France did nothing to help matters because as you know, the French find it perfectly normal to hate all things British. In fact the French strongly support the sport of “Making fun of the British” as an up-and-coming category for the 2012 Olympic games to be held in London. So, it is with great pleasure that I announce: I have been cured of my British accent phobia.

So, London.

London freakin’ rocks. Honestly I didn’t really know what to expect and I didn’t do much planning, but we arrived and just hit the ground running. And as a couple who plan all their trips around food, art, and shopping, London is about as good as it gets. We only brought a carry-on bag and one medium suitcase. Big mistake. We pillaged and plundered every shopping district in London from Sloane Street to Camden market. It was a very bloody feeding frenzy. There was just so much interesting and totally affordable fashion in my size even.

For the record, French Prêt-à-porter ("off the rack") fashion is surprisingly predictable and really quite shitty. The average French person may be well dressed but boringly so from head to toe. Like little cloned frogs. London was the exact opposite. Even those with ridiculously bad taste were at least creative with their tacky get-ups.

(Note to women in London: Tights are NOT pants. They are meant to be worn under skirts to keep your legs warm. I repeat---They are not pants. I can see your knickers through them and it aint pretty. What are you thinking? Run into M&S and buy thyself a pair of pants already!)

Knicker viewing aside, it was so refreshing to have so many choices! Even FrenchBoy, who normally has to be dragged kicking and screaming into a store just to buy new socks, got into the act. I went into the changing room and when I came out he had picked out a whole outfit on his own! In total we came away with 4 pairs of shoes, 2 coats, 2 sweaters, 2 hats, 2 scarves, 1 pleather purse, a Dunhill wallet/moneyclip, a crystal champagne bucket, and 2 boxes of codeine which much to my absolute delight is sold over the counter!

Also, I am in the honeymoon stages of Shoe-Love with my new Terra Plana "Maple" boots that I bought at a tiny boutique called Stella at Camden Market. It was love at first site. Almost as good as cheap codeine.

Other highlights from our trip:

• Watching a guy eat porridge. (From the grimaces on our faces you would have thought we were watching someone eat a bowl of worms on Fear Factor.)
• Getting served champagne at Ferragamo because I faked them into believing I was gonna buy a 2000€ python skin purse.
• Totally righteous brownie and ice cream eating at Harvey Nichols.

So, London. I like.

We’re heading back the first week in December for FrenchBoy’s birthday. I’m already dreaming about fish & chips and Brick Lane. Next time we’ll bring a bigger suitcase and stretchy pants.

Gone Fishin'!

Metaphorically speaking anyway.

After an absolutely exhausting weekend that started with shooting bows and arrows with 10 French dudes, followed by margaritas and shots at a "latin" bar, and then ended with a pulled Gluteus medius that left me utterly incapacitated for 72 hours.....I need a break.

Tomorrow we're leaving for a 4-day get-away to London. (Good thing I can actually walk now!) And I won't be back here to blog for at least a week---Maybe 10 days....at which point I will tell you all about the bows and arrows and the Margaritas. And perhaps by then I will have solved the mystery of how I broke one of my ass muscles.

p.s. What the hell is there to do in London?

Two Days in Paris.

Last Thursday and Friday I had the pleasure of going to Paris to do yet another round of gallery research. As research goes, this is about as fun as it gets. I'll admit, gallery hopping is my favorite sort of mixing business with pleasure. To make the trip even more pleasurable I met up with my fancy fashion designer friend Natale and adorable bébé Esmé who were up to the task of wandering around the Marais with me.

After checking out abotu 15 mediocre galleries stocked with mediocre work, we all needed a drink. As luck would have it, Natale had been invited to a party Felipe Oilveira Baptista, who she did work for last year. We headed over to the Nike boatfor the AW77 party .....and for free champagne.

Nat's husband Sebastien showed up wearing his Baptista t-shirt that Natale designed for the 2007 collection I believe.

After my first glass of champagne I started to have the weirdest feeling of Deja-vu. Suddenly of course it became clear to me. Fashion parties are exactly like Art Openings. All the usual suspects were there: Hipsters, trust-fund junkies, models & fashionistas, they were all there.

If everyone hadn't been speaking French I would have sworn we were schlepping it around Chelsea on a Thursday night. Fortunately bébé Esmé stole the show of course with her huge blue eyes and her adorable haute-couture fabric "poisson" bib, hand-made and designed by her fashion mommy of course.

After my third glass of champagne I'd finally drank enough liquid courage to ask Felipe to autograph his book for me. He modestly obliged:

Roughly translated:

"For K, I'll love you always the most beautiful in the world (after my wife)."

And I swear I didn't tell him what to write. OK, I did. But whatever. It was the champagne talkin'!

Those Crazy Frogs #12: Secret Sales!

So this weekend we did some work on the Barbie Dream House. We’ve been moved in for almost a year now, but we’ve never had "La cremaillere" housewarming party, because we haven’t really finished the décor. We still have bare walls (yeah, yeah, yeah, I should just hang my own paintings.) and a few rooms don’t even have lighting fixtures.

So Saturday we headed over to Leroy-Merlin to get a light for the living room ceiling. (Note to self: next time you build a house, just install spots everywhere. OK? Duh.) Luckily we stumbled upon a very modern set of 4 lights in inox that we liked, and there was a sign stating that it was 20% off that weekend. We skipped on over to the checkout line to pay. As soon as the cashier rung up the light we saw the problem. For whatever reason, it scanned at the regular price. We immediately pointed this out to the cashier and told her that the sign on the shelf stated there was a 20% discount. After a moment of confusion, she turned to us annoyed and said, and I quote: “Well that doesn’t tell me anything. It’s not in the system.”

I, being psycho American and all, immediately flew into a rage. I not so calmly explained to her that I don’t work at Leroy- Merlin, so I don’t know why the correct price is not in the system, and that she should call someone to find out ("You betta aaassk somebody!" ) because I had no intention of paying the full price.

Without another word, Cashier Bitch gets on the phone, quickly calls the department and gets the discount code. She then turns to FrenchBoy (completely avoiding eye contact with me) and apologizes and then explains that when certain items are discounted, you have to take the item off the shelf, find the department manager, then have said manager hand-write the discount code on a special form for you to take to the cashier. Of course none of this is indicated on the big-ass sign that they went through the trouble of printing and posting next to the product.

Aaaah Bravo!

And this, my friends, is a perfect example of both French customer service and efficiency. It’s not good enough to know about the sale, you have to know all the “secret” procedures involved to get it. And I just gotta ask-- why piss off a customer who is about to plop down a hefty amount of cash for an item, when you could just as easily fix the problem with a five second phone call? And last but not least. Why, oh Why, oh WHY WHY WHY wasn’t the sale entered into the f*cking system in the first place?

*deep sigh*

Did I mention how much I love living in France?

A Month's Worth of Fancy lunches

French people hate Fusion food. Maybe it has something to do with their xenophobic suspicious culture or their absolute distain for change or anything new, but whatever the reason they like their recipes with a little dust on them. So the first time we went to Thierry, I knew it would take some time or FrenchBoy to warm up to the menu. I on the other-hand was about to do summersaults as soon as I started reading through the menu and saw the phrase “Wasabi Sauce”.

FrenchBoy of course was not convinced. His reason being that for the same price we could go to Pampre D’or and eat “real” French cuisine at a Michelin rated restaurant. The idea being that just because its traditional French food, it is immediately of higher quality.

A-ha! And there it is. “Real “ French food. Which is slightly problematic for all sorts of reasons. In fact I would argue that it’s just as problematic as describing what a “real” French person is. What is real French cuisine anyway? I’m not sure who gets to decide these things, but I often feel as though I live in the land of the food Nazis. “You can't possible serve this with that!” "Are you really going to drink that after you’ve eaten XYZ?”

Suddenly it makes sense. I’m not a huge fan of “real” French food because I’m not really French nor according to most, will I ever be “really” French. So technically it’s not that the French hate Fusion food, it seems they may very well hate all sorts of fusion in general.

Moving right along...

Last week we once again went out in search of a decent Chinese food restaurant. In general there aren't many, but finding one that is actually palateable has been even more difficult. For the last 5 years, whenever we've wanted good Asian food of any sort we've been forced to go to Luxembourg and pay an arm and both legs for it. And we have done so quite happily because we love good Chinese and Thai food. So this weekend we lucked out. I found a small little restaurant that had great food, good decor, friendly service, and a decent price. I forgot to take photos of our hot steamy food, but here is a photo of our cocktails, complete with jewelry!

And last but not least, sometimes you just want a greasy cheeseburger and fries. Hence..

The Mc Fancy lunch!

Why I Heart France Reason #11

I haven't done one of these posts in ages, so now seems like the perfect time since, It's that time of year again. Time for the Miss Mirabelle Pageant. You'll have to follow the link back to my original 2006 post if you need background info on what the pageant and celebrations are all about, because today in the right here and right now you are about to experience the loveliness that is the Mirabelle parade!

That's right. After living in Moselle for nearly 5 years, this year was the first time I actually went to the Mirabelle parade. The French in-laws drove into town just for the occasion, and that was all the impetus I needed to join in the festivities. French-father-in-law was so excited to go that you would have thought that Johnny Hallyday was performing.

Anyway, here are just a few low hi-lights from the parade:


There were marching bands.

Kids in costumes.

Hookers dressed like pirates.

Naked body-painted guys on stilts

And people in Black face.

Now, to be fair I should put the whole scene in context for you. The white people, who were dressed up as Africans were accompanying a float whose theme was Africa. (Why? We don't know.) On said float there were several real Africans (Whatever the hell that means.) joyfully playing drums.

Since the parade, I have had several discussions about the "Afrique" float --All of which have ended in ruckus laughter. The intellectual mind of course tries to understand why on earth you would dress a bunch of white people up as Africans. The only thing I could come up with is that perhaps the parade organizers couldn't find enough real people from Africa to participate. Lord knows my Black ass wouldn't be on that float playin' bongos. But then again as my husband often reminds me. "You're not African.". Hmmmm. And he has a point you know. Charlize Theron is technically more African than me. And while I'm off topic, I should state that what I find so interesting to contemplate is, why this type of costuming is considered totally playful and acceptable in France, but would surely cause a riot in the United States.

So, Why I Heart France Reason #11: White people dressed up as Black people.

While you're mulling all this over, please enjoy this video of a Big Blue Opera Singer!

The Last BBQ.

Well summer I officially over. I swear it only lasted 2 weeks! I hate that summers in France tend to fly by and that winter seems to last about 6 months. Weather-wise, this year was even worse than last year. This summer, each day was either scorching hot or pissing cold rain. The earth is clearly pissed off at us. But I digress as usual. This post is all about the end of summer.

Everyone is home from holiday; all the stores have re-opened after being closed for weeks on end for "congé été", and all the snotty French tadpoles went back to school on Tuesday! Now during the day I can open my windows without hearing their constant shrieks and laughter.

Ah, perhaps Le rentrée isn’t that bad after all.

I guess the thing I’ll miss the most is the summer food! Last weekend we held what is sure to be the last barbeque. Maybe it was the black billowing smoke, but I got tears in my eyes as I watched French-Father-in-law survey the fire. It’s simply too sad to think about how long I will have to wait until I can eat another properly grilled marguez.

But on a brighter note, as we waited for dinner to cook, we were lucky enough to catch a hot air balloon race!

How cool is that? Actually, I’m not sure if it was a race. From the ground they certainly don’t seem to be moving very fast, but they sure are purty!

Ahhhhh! I'm Hearing Voices!

When I opened and then posted my email address I didn't really expect to get so much freakin' mail. Y'all are some chatty bastards! I'm kinda compulsive when it comes to returning emails so not to worry if I haven't replied to you yet I probably will...

Unless of course you're the creepy person that requested a pair of my underwear. No, I cannot oblige you. However if you happen to pass a Victoria's Secret please feel free to mail me a few pairs of black Body by Victoria Hip-huggers. On second thought, just save the money and use it to buy your Haldol.

Thanks and good luck with your psychosis.