Dear Tom.

UncategorizedWrite a comment

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.

Joyeux anniversaire, Big Daddy.

Uncategorized1 Comment

Yes, my dad is wearing a tshirt that says “Not dead yet.” And if that isn’t a happy approach to getting older, I don’t know what is. Happy birthday Big Daddy!

Je suis désolée.

Uncategorized2 Comments

I went and totally skipped out on our Vocab lesson last Friday. Now I could blame the outrageously beautiful Parisian weather (sunny! warm enough for flip flops! Which means we’ll be wearing turtlenecks in July) or attribute the lapse to baby brain. But the truth is, I was just really pumped about scoring a Baby Bjorn thingy at the thrift store for 15 euro!!! CHA-CHING!

Granted, with the crappy exchange rate that’s still something like 500 USD, but no one has to rain on my parade by reminding me. I’d rather relive my glorious thrifty moment and continue patting myself on the back. You see, I just happened to be strolling through a charity thrift shop in the 16th with a friend, perusing the old books and dented silverware, when I saw it: perched on a rack between the dusty Easter hats and two old ladies trying on knockoff Chanel suits, a brand new-looking baby carrier contraption.

Not having purchased any baby items yet (other than RedSox onesies), I thought, Hey! We’re going to need something to lug around this baby human I’m growing! Because I don’t know much about babies, but I’m pretty sure it’s not going to just walk on out of my hoo-hah.

So I lurked around a while to see if anyone had just misplaced this Bjorn thing with no tag. And then I grabbed it and sprinted to the cashier before anyone could say it was theirs. And thus I am now the proud proud owner of a Baby Bjorn baby holder. I cannot WAIT to strap Husband up in that thing with a watermelon for practice.

But aside from feeling ecstatic about finding a truly miraculous bon marché and setting up a precedent of not spending precious champagne dollars on my child, I am slightly saddened by what my life has come to: gloating about discount baby carriers.

And for that, I am so so sorry.

 

 

A glorious day.

Uncategorized5 Comments

It was (oh wait, still is since the sun doesn’t set until 8pm!) a glorious day in Paris today. Sunny, crystal clear skies, topped with a light breeze and enough warmth to warrant bare legs and luxuriously long lunch hours.

Which means tomorrow it will probably dip into the 40s and hail. So it was imperative that I stop all productive work and get outside to profitez.

I actually put on my running gear, thinking that a little fat lady jog would do me good. But a few trots into my run, le bébé let me know that running was not really in my repertoire anymore by fiercely kicking my bladder. It’s hard to argue with a kicking fetus, so I got lunch and power walked to the park instead.

And by “park” I mean the stunningly gorgeous, golden gated, formally planned garden space known as Parc Monceau. It is amazing. It puts U.S. parks to shame. And on the weekends it has pony rides. But on days like today, it’s full of Parisians lounging:

And strolling:

And sunning their bellies:

Ahhh, I can feel the vitamin D slowly returning to my system.

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

Uncategorized2 Comments

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?

Vocab Friday: Creepy Crawly Edition

Vocab Fridays!5 Comments

I really, really wish this was an April Fool’s Day post. But it’s not.

It’s the sad, horrifying truth that I arrived home from home, well rested and excited to see Husband, only to find out from my dear sister that I may or may not have brought back some little souvenirs, compliments of a certain niece who’s name rhymes with banana.

That’s right: my sister called about 8 hours after my plane landed to say she was sitting in the waiting room of a professional nitpicker, and that I should have Husband check me out for lice just in case.

And despite feeling immediately itchy and paranoid, I kind of laughed it off. That is until Husband took one look at the back of my head and pulled a bug out.

PULLED A BUG. OUT OF MY HAIR. Do you know what’s WORSE than the horror of toenail clippings on the floor people??? Your husband pulling BUGS OUT OF YOUR HAIR like an ape.

Now we have no idea if it was an actual louse or just a gnat or even a piece of lint. But I didn’t wait to find out. I immediately started high-pitch screaming and ripped all of my clothes off and jumped in the shower, where I compulsively washed and scrubbed and scoured my head for about 45 minutes while sobbing uncontrollably. I then made Husband douse my head in vinegar, because I read that that might help, but it only went up my nose and seared my eyeballs.

That’s about when he emailed my sis to say “I have a hysterical pregnant lady in the shower who smells like a bad salad. Help?”

But there was no help to be found. Husband refused to share a bed with me. I stayed up all night googling “lice removal.” So the next day I went to the pharmacist and got a special anti-poux comb and shampoo, which was not really shampoo at all but some kind of non-chemical, silicone smothering agent that was the approximate consistency of motor oil. And I put that on my head, even though we couldn’t find any further evidence of lice. And I scraped my poor scalp to death with the comb, just to make sure there was no chance in hell that any living creatures could have survived.

And that, my dear readers, is why I have not been updating the blog this week. Because I’ve been running around picking at my hair like a cracked out meth addict.

In other news, I can’t wait for my next trip home!

*      *      *

And that brings us to this week’s vocabulary lesson: the creepy crawly edition.

les poux

Pronunciation: poo (so yes, that shampoo is probably pronounced “poo-it”)

Definition: Lice. Plural of “louse.” Horror of horrors. As in,

“If my child ever comes home with les poux, I will probably just abandon her on the side of the road.”

 

I’m home from home.

Uncategorized3 Comments

And enjoying what I like to call a perfect pregnant lady sandwich: jambon, beurre salé et cornichons on a fresh baguette. That’s ham, salty butter and pickles. Sounds like a gross combo but it’s truly awesome, trust me.

Back to writing more soon, I promise.

Folie de Mars

UncategorizedWrite a comment

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.



Travel alert.

Uncategorized3 Comments

I’m awake at 6:30 am. And while that may be good practice for le bebe, it also means I’m cranky, disoriented, and very, very hungry. The good news is, I’m going home for a week! And Air France gives you your own TV screen with a million movies! The bad news is, I don’t have time to teach you Vocab today. So just hold your horses and I’ll get back to you when I’m stateside.

So that’s where baby mannequins come from.

Uncategorized1 Comment

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?