Tag Archives: Husband

Out of the loop.

4 Mar

One of the little-known benefits of living abroad is that you are relatively cut off from American pop culture. It leaves more space in your brain, space you can hopefully designate for foreign language skills.

Unfortunately this also means that our current American cultural context is pretty much limited to a dusty mental time capsule from 2009. Hit TV shows have come and gone and movies have made it all the way to the Oscars without us even knowing they existed. Music that’s blaring out of every iPod back home sometimes shows up on the radio here, but is often sandwiched between German pop songs and Shania Twain, which is very disorienting. That new hit single from Fun? For months I thought  it was Freddie Mercury, and couldn’t for the life of me figure out why the Austrians were playing obscure Queen songs every time I got in the car.

Anything that’s gone wildly viral in the States is also often slow to reach us, simply because we’re just a bit more disconnected over here: no TV, limited time listening to the radio, barely a few minutes to check email. Any cultural commentary we could read in print is in German. Which is how Husband and I found ourselves doing internet research on the Harlem Shake the other night:

Me: I keep hearing about this Harlem Shake thing. What the hell is it?

Husband: I don’t know! Let’s check The Wikipedias.

Husband: Hmm. It says here it’s some kind of internet “meh meh.”

Me: ? 

Husband: See! “meh meh”

Me: Pull the screen closer! I can’t see the text!

Me: Dummy, that’s meme.

Husband: I don’t know what that is either.

(we keep reading and then proceed to watch about 30 Harlem Shake videos)

Husband: Dude! We could TOTALLY make one of those! We could put the kids in it!

Me: YES!!!! And you could wear your spedo! We’ll plan it out after nap time. 

(At which point we both stopped for a minute and looked at each other in horror)

Me: F*&%. We’re not clueless expats. WE’RE JUST CLUELESS OLD PEOPLE.

Instead of Vocab…

10 Aug

I’m going to dig up old embarrassing photos of Husband. And once we all clean up the soda that shot out of our noses after seeing that winner above, I’ll tell you why he’s banned from the community pool in our neighborhood. Surprisingly it has nothing to do with risque European swimwear.

Right across the street from our temporary digs is a lovely little swimming pool that only costs 3 euros. We walk by it on the way to the grocery store (up and down that steeeeeeep freaking hill) and it’s always full of kids and parents having a good time. The Babe loves swimming, so I’ve taken her a few times to splash around and get a few good gulps of chlorinated water.

The pool itself is tiny, and definitely designed for kids- it never gets any deeper than waist high, and there seem to be very few rules regarding rafts, toys, and splashing other people in the face. Everyone is really friendly though, and The Babe enjoys it thoroughly.

I relayed all of this information to Husband one evening, and he said he’d actually like to go check it out. Husband is most certainly a creature built for land, not sea — so the kid pool would actually be just his speed. He figured some water aerobic conditioning might help work out a nagging muscle in his back.

So off he went one evening, just before closing time. And he was knocking on our front door just 20 minutes later, a sheepish grin on his face.

Apparently no one was sitting at the pool’s front desk to take his money when he walked in, so he just sauntered over to a bench, took off his flip flops and headed toward the water. As he did so the children in the deeper end took one look at him and scattered like minnows. All the remaining patrons cleared out as soon as he stepped in.

A little self conscious yet undaunted, Husband continued wading back and forth, checking around for sharks or floating poo or whatever else it was that scared everyone away. Within a few minutes the lifeguard came running out of the ladies locker room shouting in rapid-fire German.

Husband assumed she wanted him to pay, so he pulled a couple euros out of his swim trunks. But the lifeguard shook her head and motioned for him to get out of the pool. She continued talking in urgent German.  Husband shook his head to indicate that his Austrian dialect wasn’t quite up to par. She looked at him sternly and said,

“No man…no child…no swim!”

I guess men are not allowed to swim alone at the pool. So everyone thought Husband was some strange pervert trying to prey on Austrian kids at the local swimming hole. Which is 1) hilarious and 2) a very odd assumption to make at a public pool. Is there some rampant pedophile problem here that we don’t know about?

The lifeguard was understanding, but I don’t think Husband will be going swimming again. Even if he takes The Babe along as proof that he’s not a creep. In his words, “they’ll just think I rented a kid to get in!”

Dear Tom.

13 Apr

Husband (after watching Tom Brady break into tears talking about almost not getting drafted): Do you think Tom Brady could be our baby’s godfather?

Me: Um…

Husband: I mean, I wouldn’t be asking in a weird, serial killer stalker kind of way. I could write him a nice letter. Do you think he’d say yes?

Me: I’m sure he’d say yes to being the godparent of a total stranger’s child. That’s not weird at all.

Husband: Stranger?! I’ve known him intimately for the past 10 seasons!

Me: Right. So what religion would we be baptizing this child into?

Husband (thinking for a minute): Patriotism.

Me: Patriotism?

Husband: Yes, Patriotism. And Giselle would have to be the godmother.

Me: Of course.

Overheard in our apartment 2 nights ago.

25 Feb

Me: My belly is starting to stick out, huh?

Husband: Yep, totally.

Me: It’s so weird!

Husband: Yeah! (pause) So do you feel like your butt is getting bigger too?

Me: WHAT?!? I actually liked my butt until you said that?! What the….!(&&#!*$

Husband: (looking at me honestly) No, I mean, do you feel like the rest of your body is ballooning out? You know, like…(puffs his cheeks out and makes a growing motion with his arms)?

Me: Do you have a death wish or something? I think we should end this line of questioning.

Husband: Um, ok. I think you look cute anyway.

Me: (shooting death stares)

Husband: I love you?

Happy birthday Husband.

14 Feb

Husband turns thirty-something today. I say thirty-something because he’s feeling old (older than me!) and not spelling out the exact state of his aged-ness might soften the blow a bit. But just in case, I prepared him a chocolate peanut butter pie in which to drown all of his old-person sorrows.

And since his sorrows did indeed need drowning, and I can currently consume twice my body weight in food, we cut into that puppy last night. Sweet jesus in velvet pantalones. I think if I wasn’t married to my best friend in the whole wide world, I would have tried to elope with that peanut butter mousse. I mean, it’s made with with real Reeses peanut butter chips and about 4 gallons of fresh cream for cripes sake. At this stage in my life I’m not sure I need anything else.

But in the end I came to my senses. Because even though he clips his toenails in bed, Husband does wear plenty of funny outfits to make me laugh. He brings me pain au raisins when I need them most. And he doesn’t get mad when I ask to watch another episode of Law and Order. Husband makes me sane when things are crazy, happy when things are sad, and all lovey-dovey when he wears those tight French suit pants. So in my little slice of life, he’s pretty much the Master Bite.

 

Harnessing the Power of Pudding.

18 Jan

Husband and I just had a moment over a bowl of Jell-O chocolate pudding: We were spooning the velvety goodness into our craws, discussing the possible health merits of Jell-O pudding made with skim milk, when my dear husband took a particularly large spoonful and stopped dead in his tracks.

I thought it might be a sugar coma setting in. But before I could slap him out of it, I noticed the wheels of brilliance starting to spin in his head. That’s when he looked deep into the bowl of pudding and said,

“If we could just gather it somehow,” his hand grasping at the air, fist raised at the idea of it. “And then jam it into a buttery croissant…”

The air was electric with the sheer possibility of it. And for a moment I nodded, fully understanding his pudding croissant vision and believing in the power of this dream of dreams.

And then I laughed so hard that chocolate pudding nearly came out my nose.

Granny carts are the new black.

13 Jan

As you may have already heard, I have to haul my groceries around the city in a cart. A 2 wheeled, pull it behind you and try not to roll through the dog poo on the sidewalk granny cart, in fact. And it’s kind of embarrassing.

Part of that embarrassment stems from the fact that I refused to pay more than 30 euro for a stupid grocery cart, so I ended up with a crappy plastic neon yellow and orange version. And a year later, it pretty much looks like a family of rabid street dogs has been living out of it for the past 6 months.

One wheel is about to wobble off and there’s a class 4 blowout in the back left corner from a too heavy load of sparkling water and pasta sauce. There are shriveled up green beans inside and blueberry stains throughout. My 7 year old niece wouldn’t even take the thing out for a spin.

Despite this, I have been hesitant to spend more money on a new one. But the sorry state of my cart really worried Husband. He claimed I needed something more sturdy and fashionable. Maybe bigger, too, so I could bring home more stuff. Heck, I could even use 2 carts at the same time! You know, to make it easier to do all the grocery shopping by myself.

Of course I truly appreciated his concerns. So I promptly starting replying to his offers of bigger, better carts with WHY DON’T YOU GET YOUR OWN BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP CART TO PULL AROUND ALL AFTERNOON! AND FILL IT WITH PAIN AU RAISINS WHILE YOU’RE AT IT!

Which, in retrospect, was perhaps a bit inflammatory. He was just trying to help after all. And I did need a new stupid cart, however much I hated to admit it.

So here it is: The BMW of grocery carts. It’s got a sturdy metal frame, a very preppy non-neon canvas bag, real tires, and it cost a small fortune.

I actually kind of like it. The somber colors make it slightly less embarrassing, and it’s got a nice comfy grip pad on the handle bar. But I just can’t help thinking: This is what my life has come to, luxury granny carts.

Time to go back.

10 Dec

It’s my last weekend back home, and while I love love love being here with my fam and friends, I think it’s about time for me to be returning to the land of pain au raisins. For one, I really miss those pain au raisins. I also think Husband can only survive on cereal alone for so long. But mostly, I’m tired of having run-ins with the law. At this juncture I’ve received 2 parking tickets and an untold number of photo enforced speeding tickets. I’ve been pulled over once for disobeying a do not enter sign. And I’ve witnessed 2 car accidents.  Drivers of the DC-MD-VA metropolitan area will most likely all sigh a breath of relief when my plane takes off.  And I’ll feel so much safer when I’m back in Paris walking everywhere, with only the scourge of tiny pickpockets to deter my wanderings!

Also, I’ll be back to my regularly scheduled blogging next week. Get ready for the 100th post, it’s gonna be a doozy!

 

Master bite.

12 Oct

Yesterday I think Husband and I had what could be considered the best lunch of all time at Le Comptoir du Relais. For starters, it was a Monday. Thank you Mr. Columbus for getting yourself a national holiday celebrated by U.S. government workers around the world!

On top of that, it was the most gorgeous fall day here, one with that electric blue sky and special sunlight that gives everything a golden glow. Which, let me tell you, is all the more enjoyable when viewed from a cozy café table set with a meal that looks like this:

Yes, that was my lunch. Well, part of it, anyway – because before I engaged in a love affair with that belle pièce de boeuf, I dallied with a warm bowl of bisque de homard and a nice glass of rosé. It was lobster soup like I’ve never experienced before, velvety smooth yet somehow still light; intensely lobster-flavored without one single chunk of lobster meat. And at the bottom? Something that I can only describe as lobster tapioca balls, which you wouldn’t even know were there unless you really dug down to the bottom. Like a reward for scraping your bowl clean!

But back to the boeuf – a supremely cooked piece of steak, bathed in an earthy mushroom sauce. Perfect on its own, but raised to a level of ungodly pleasure when dabbed with a bit of tangy-sweet champagne mustard. And it was this combination, my friends, that I deemed the Master Bite.

You heard me. The Master Bite. The most perfect combination of ingredients, balanced in harmonious wonder at the end of your fork. And it doesn’t just happen, people. One must take great care to ensure that every bite reaches its fullest taste potential. That means a forkful here and there of just mushrooms or just beef is fine, but only if it’s part of a larger inquiry into the best taste ratios when eaten together.

The Master Bite doesn’t just apply to fancy french food, either. I use it regularly when hunting and pecking for the fully fluffed piece of popcorn, enrobed in salty butter but not drenched. Or searching for the ever-elusive crispy-but-not crunchy french fry. And let’s not forget the daunting task of balancing the icing-to-cake ratio in an oversize cupcake (which should have rich, creamy, not-too-sweet icing and dense, moist cake).

Obsessive? Sure. But why waste valuable stomach space on a less than worthy morsel of food?

I am such a firm believer in optimized food enjoyment that I’ve been known to spy a Master Bite across the table on Husband’s plate, and, unable to resist its siren call, go in for the kill. That’s usually about when I get stabbed in the hand with his fork. Which brings up a very important tenet in the religion of extraordinary eating: Thou shalt not steal thy partner’s Master Bite.

Unless he’s not looking.

Vocab Friday: Oktoberfest edition!

24 Sep

This is going to be a short, sweet lesson this week, and when you get to the picture below you’ll really see what I’m talking about. You see, as you’re reading this, I’m actually sitting in Munich, under a beer tent, hoisting mugs of frothy German brew to my face with both hands.

But wait - How are you typing and drinking those gargantuan beers at the same time you ask? Well, it’s a miracle of technology, really. In a rare but powerful moment of NyQuil induced clarity, I realized that I can write ahead of time and set this puppy to post whenever I want.

Yes, I am slow with figuring out basic WordPress stuff. I am also suffering from an ass-kicking cold that better be gone or at the very least muffled by the medicinal powers of bratwurst by the time you get this. Because attending Oktoberfest has been a lifelong dream of Husband’s, and I just can’t be sick for it. Something tells me I’ll feel plenty sick afterwards, but that’s nothing a little rest and maybe a big soft pretzel won’t fix.

In preparation for this momentous occasion, I followed our good German friend’s advice and made a little stop at a store called Finn Austria. And because I never, ever, EVER miss an opportunity to dress Husband in ways that make me amused, I went ahead and purchased these:

Am I the best wife ever or what?!

*   *   *

culottes de peau

Pronunciation: coo-lots de poh

Definition: Lederhosen. Leave it to the French to give a very German thing their own name. As in,

I don’t know about you, but I sure as hell can’t wait to see Husband in his new culottes de peau!”

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