Tag Archives: things that make me laugh

Oscar couch commentary.

27 Feb

Here’s a representative snippet of the running commentary from our couch last night as we watched the Oscars red carpet:

Me: “Holy Nick Nolte!”

Husband: “Whoa. Is he drunk?”

Me: “Probably.”

Me: “Oh Penelope, that hairdo is no bueno.”

Husband: “I bet that guy freebased cocaine on the way in.”

Me: “Um, that’s Jason Segel. From the Muppet Movie.”

Husband: “Whatever.”

Me: “Oh Brad…why the Legends of the Fall hair?”

Me: “Wait, how do you say ‘mustache’ in German?”

Husband: “Schnurrbart.”

Me: “Oh Bradley…why the schurrbart?”

Husband: “Holy JLo!”

Me: “Is it just me, or is half her nipple hanging out?”

Husband: “Definite nip-age.”

Me: “Ew. Well, at least she doesn’t look like the caped crusader. I’m looking at you, Gwyneth.”

Husband: “That dress sucks.”

Me: “I love you Glenn Close! But the bottom half of your dress is wacky.”

Husband: “She has huge tatas.”

Me: (eyebrow raised)

Husband: “What?”

*            *             *

Next year I think we should take over for Joan Rivers.

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Vocab Friday: Aiiieeeee!

6 May

It’s a good thing my French teacher spent part of Tuesday discussing les interjections. You know, the French equivalent of those little exclamations and phrases you shout when you’re stuck in traffic or stub your toe or step in dog poo. Because when in France, you should be able to say WTF?! or UGH! or Geeeeeezus! so everyone can understand you.

Husband must have sensed that I needed practice with this new vocab, because promptly after dinner he stumbled across a video of a water birth, and suggested we watch it.

Of course, my first reaction was beurk! Gross. No thank you. I’ve seen the miracle of birth firsthand (thanks sis!) and that left me with enough graphic images to last a lifetime. But I was kind of interested in seeing what the heck a water birth was anyway, so we gathered ’round the computer and hit play.

The video followed a nurse who was having her 3rd child. She talked a little about the calming effects of the water and having good water birth experiences in the past. And indeed, when she arrived at the hospital in labor, she was kind of like bof! no big deal.

Then allez-hop! It was time to jump in the tub. There this woman sat in complete zen-like silence, waiting for the time to push. This seemed absolutely crazy to me. Ah la la, c’est pas possible! I shouted, to which Husband said chut! Be quiet! I can’t hear what the midwife is saying!

And then out of nowhere, with nothing more than a slight grimace and a barely audible ouf!, this lady gave (under water) birth to a human.

Ah la vache! C’est super cool!  exclaimed Husband, who turned to me with a big goofy grin on his face.

To which I replied Aiiiiiieeeeeeeeeee! and promptly burst into tears.

Zut, these hormones are out of control.

*     *      *

beurk (berk): uggghhhh! or ewwwww!

bof (bof): huh! or pffft! Like you’re not impressed.

allez-hop (ah-ley op): alley oop! Used when an action starts.

ah la la (ah lah lah): oh my god/gosh!

chut (shoo): French equivalent of shhhhhh!

ouf (oof): Phew! Like when you’re done with something hard.

ah la vache (ah lah vahsh): holy cow!

aie (eye): similar to “oy vey” or “aye aye aye!”

zut (zoot): crap! or shoot!

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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.

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As if this city needed any help in the love department.

4 Apr

Walk down any Paris street and you will be sure to stumble upon at least 3 couples engaged in long, passionate, movie-star kisses that never seem to end. Old and young alike, these people certainly aren’t shy about making out in public like the world’s about to end. And apparently everyone else who’s not busy smooching en plein air is conveniently carrying on their love affairs behind closed doors between the hours of 5 and 7pm.

So I don’t think this lady gets much business. But if you did happen to find yourself having romance issues in the most romantic place on earth, I think Dr. Lovens would certainly be able to help, don’t you?

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Folie de Mars

23 Mar

So a classmate of mine (a crazy Duke fan, no less) suggested that we engage in a bit of cross-cultural exchange this spring by initiating our French teacher (and one poor British student) into the wonders of Bracketology. Simple enough, right? I mean, it’s just 64 American college teams with 4 extra play-in teams playing a totally foreign game all over a totally foreign country over a 3 week period, during which office productivity drops significantly and people who were once nice to each other come close to blows over “bad calls” and “free throw percentages.” Ça va?

Bless her heart, our teacher was totally following until we got to the bracket part. There doesn’t seem to be an adequate word for “bracket” in French. So we drew a picture and likened it to the seeding chart for the French Open, which she totally got. And then we told her to get picking– all of the games until the very last one.

Mais c’est pas possible! she gasped.

Tell me about it lady.

We said the seeding and rank could help you pick, but when it really came down to it, one just had to devine the outcome. And devine she did: Our 60 year old French teacher, who’s probably never watched a day of college basketball in her life, is currently 34 for 44 and rocking first place. Bien sur.



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So that’s where baby mannequins come from.

15 Mar

The fancy French fashion house Lanvin always has the best window displays at the store on Rue Saint-Honoré. So I had to stop and marvel at their latest offering, featuring several mannequin couples caught up in racy embraces. At first glance I thought, awww, they’re kissing! And then I saw this one:

And, oh my…this one:

A little old lady walked by as I was trying to take the picture and did a double take. I wonder if she was thinking what I was thinking: How did she get her leg up there like that?

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Vocab Friday: Boulder holder

4 Mar

Being someone who likes to call herself a “writer” and also someone who lives in Paris, I thought I’d go ahead and make my cliché status official by signing up for a writing workshop at a coffee place right around the corner from Hemingway’s house.

And not just any coffee place– the carrot cake from heaven place. The price for the 7 week class includes tea and a slice of cake at each meeting. How could I not sign up?

Anyway, Wednesday was class #2. It’s a really interesting group of women, young and old, from all over the place, from all different backgrounds. Everyone seems nice and sane so far. The teacher is a lovely Welsh woman who happens to also be pregnant, and during a break in conversation she asked how I was feeling.

But before I could really answer, the rather forward Irish lady at the end of the table leaned over and said, “Dear god, are you pregnant too? I was wondering why your boobs were so huge!”

And as I sat there speechless for a beat, another woman chimed in. “Yeah, they are really big.”

Ahem.

I’m not usually accustomed to near strangers commenting on the size of my chest. But to my classmates’ credit, my bazooms are huge. Like, they were pretty big to begin with, and now thanks to the miracle of life we’ve leapt past Pam Anderson territory and landed at the circus big. I should be in a tent out back with the bearded lady charging admission for a peek.

And sadly, I knew this day would come. Ever since the wide-eyed stares in the middle school locker room. Ever since I was asked to be the mascot of the Bombs. Ever since my doctor advised me to invest in more heavy-duty brassieres to avoid becoming a hunchback. Ever since then, I knew that if I ever got pregnant, I’d have to hire a midget to walk in front of me with his arms up, holding my boulders in place.

Because you know what’s harder to find than a midget willing to serve as a human bra? A bra that actually fits my lady bits.

It was hard enough in the States when these things were smaller. But here I am in Paris, a city filled with a million beautiful lingerie shops, not one of which seems to carry anything bigger than a C cup. Even before the pregnancy boob fairy roughed me up I found it difficult. I once pleaded with a sales lady to help me find my size, only to be met with a look of horror and a brusque “N’existe pas!“

And after I nearly blinded a woman on the other side of the waiting room when my coat button popped off from the sheer stress of holding my chest in, I decided I needed to act fast. So I went home and found Linda the Bra Lady online, and ordered up some of the biggest boobie slings I’ve ever seen.

Did you know that cups come in size FF? As in, W. T. F?  F!

Or how about G? As in, Good god how are you standing upright?

Well, I’m here to tell you they do. And like many aspects of being pregnant, it ain’t pretty. I’m also still holding out hope for a good, strong Parisian midget, so if you know one, please do let me know.

*     *     *

soutien-gorge

Pronunciation: sootee-ehn gorje

Definition: Brassiere. Bra. Boulder holder. As in,

“The cup size of my soutien-gorge is bigger than my head. And I have a big head.”

Hey, want more boob vocabulary? I’ve got you covered.


 

 

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Vocab Friday: Earmuffs!

25 Feb

Image: Conde Nast Traveler

If you live in Paris and like eating out, follow the restaurant scene or, god forbid, call yourself a foodie (please don’t), then you’ve probably heard of Iñaki Aizpitarte’s super popular Le Chateaubriand over in the boho 11th. You’ve probably also tried to get a reservation. And failed.

That’s because this place is so hot right now (please say that like Mugatu). Everybody is fawning over the market fresh, 5 course plus several amuse bouche menu, offered up in a hip bistro setting for a relatively affordable price. It even clocked in at #11 on the World’s 50 Best Restaurants.

So of course I was dying to go. And when I called last week for a reservation, they giggled and said no way. But they let me in on a secret: The last reservation is at 8:30. So if you show up after 9:30 on Saturdays, you can sit at the bar and wait for a table to open up.

And by “sit at the bar and wait for a table” they apparently meant stand in the rain for an hour and a half, wondering how all these people in line are going to fit into the restaurant. We were hoping that the doors would open and everybody would flood in. But that never happened, and at some point one of the wait staff came out and slapped his forehead in amazement. He returned a few minutes later and took a photo.

That didn’t seem promising, but he said if we stayed, we’d eat by 11pm. Several people bailed at that news, so we at least moved up under the awning. We decided to stick it out.

And promptly at 10:50 we were ushered in from the cold and offered a spot at the bar. The place was still hopping, but the staff seemed to be taking it in stride. The French guys in front of us got some champagne and started cracking jokes about people trying to cut in line. All was good.

By 11:15 we were finally sitting, ready to let the gastronomy commence. Our waiter was super friendly and pretty hilarious, which helped make the epic wait time slightly more palatable. Then we got our amuse bouche: some kind of bouillabaisse with tiny fried crab legs, a radish and parmesan salad, a tiny cooked duck heart. (Yes, duck heart. I couldn’t think about what it was as I swallowed, but it tasted like steak.)

The main courses were just as interesting, and if they didn’t blow our minds, we could at least amuse ourselves with the tables on either side: to the left, a foursome of the most uptight preppy young Americans you have ever laid eyes on, complete with navy sport coats and pearls. They complained loudly when the busy waiter wouldn’t call them a cab right away. I wanted to punch them.

On the other side was an increasingly rowdy group of French people. The ringleader seemed to be a middle aged guy who at one point pretended to pee into his carafe of wine, joking that the bathroom line was too long. Hilarious!

But somewhere around the roasted lamb dish, things took a turn for the worse. Funny French guy made a disgusted face and sent his plate back. A bit later he said in disdainful, very loud French that the place was full of Americans. At dessert time, there seemed to be some issue with the cheese plate, and all hell broke loose. Earmuffs, children:

Ce restaurant c’est merde! Absolument boulot de merde! He shouted.

Et le service? Le service! Connards!

Le chef? Il est un con!

It was kind of awesome and horrifying at the same time. The waiter refused to come back to their table. So the manager came over to appease them with discounts and desserts, to no avail. Then the guy had the nerve to order a round of digestifs, take one sip, and send them back. It was absolutely obnoxious.

So of course I leaned over to let him know that I was one of the stupid Americans in the place, and that I spoke enough French to catch his drift.

Quel est le probleme, monsieur? I asked innocently.

He blinked for a minute. “Oh I knew you were American! This place is full of them. The dinner was terrible, terrible! And we waited for hours. You know, when I eat something at a place like this that everyone is talking about, I want an orgasm in my mouth. And I didn’t have an orgasm in my mouth.”

Fair enough. So I asked him where he would recommend eating in Paris.

“Oh, I have no idea. I live in Seattle.”

Of course. Perfect proof that you don’t have to actually be Parisian to totally act like a stereotypical Parisian a**hole.

*    *    *

Today we’re going to learn some curse words, thanks to our jerkface of a table mate. I’m not totally 100% on the translations, but here’s my vague understanding of their various vulgar meanings. Enjoy!

1. merde

Pronunciation: maird

Definition: You know this one! It’s shit.

2. boulot de merde

Pronunciation: boo-loh de maird

Definition: shitty/crappy job

3. connard

Pronunciation: cohn-ard

Definition: stupid bastard, idiot, mother F*er. Not to be confused with canard, which is a duck.

4. con

Pronunciation: just make a nasally awh sound after the hard c

Definition: stupid jerk, bloody idiot, a**hole

5. BONUS! I found this one while double checking my definitions and it seemed appropriate:

Il a peté des plombs!

Definition: He blew a gasket! Flipped out! Or literally, He farted lead!


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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?

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The sweetness.

17 Feb

Sometimes the French language is hard to understand. But do you know what’s even harder? French menus that have been translated into English.

I’m telling you: Don’t ever ask for the English menu. You’d have better luck pointing randomly at the French one and just hoping for the best. I’m not sure if it’s the wider range of unique French ingredients and preparations that throws them off, or the fact that the French are generally way more poetic in their descriptions, but I have seen some completely insane English explanations of dinner. I’ve more than once handed back a translated menu because it was indecipherable.

The one exception thus far being this menu, found at the snack bar at the top of Aiguille du Midi in Chamonix:

I can totally get on board with ordering a Sweetness. Perhaps a dough’nut, or a jame pankake with extra of wipped cream?

(Yes, I know that I myself routinely butcher the French language. Heck, I routinely butcher English! And I know that restaurants in America probably screw up French things on menus. But it just seems more egregious here. And more hilarious.)

 

 

 

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