Vocab Friday: The bees! The bees!

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Checking in here from Hostess land, where I have been on a marathon French touring adventure with Husband and his family. We have walked every inch of the city and climbed every tower, steeple and arch. There have been day trips to Versailles (drop-kicked tourists as necessary), hours spent in museums (where my 7 year old niece said “you know, we’re not really painting people. We’re more sculpture people”) and several exquisitely painful hours at the most hellish place on earth EuroDisney (more on that to come).

And you know, just because we approach every guest stay like it’s an episode of The Amazing Race, we decided to really test our sanity by packing everyone into a rental van and driving out to Normandy for the night. The secret motivation behind that bright idea? We could rest our feet during the 3 hours it took to get there.

Along the way I spied a sign for the town of Domfront, which boasted a medieval city and some kind of walled fort/castle/ruins thing. And boy do I looooooove me a good fort and total deviation from any kind of driving plans that Husband has mapped out! So of course I made us stop.

It was everything I dreamed of and more: cute winding streets, an old church, and some totally awesome castle ruins overlooking the rolling green farmland of northern France.

Oh, and killer wasp attacks. Yes, I leaned back on a bench to take in the view right as a yellow jacket happened to have the same idea, and he was all, I don’t think so lady. ZZZZZZING!

Bee: 1

Jen: 0

Sweet pain au raisins and baby jesus in velvet pants did that hurt. I think the last time I got stung by a bee was somewhere circa 1990, but holy lord I sure don’t remember it being that awful. Hot, stingy, searing ouchiness up my back. Big, swollen red bump that still itches like crazy.

I guess that’s why there are signs all over the parks here in Paris warning you about bees.

Don’t walk on the lawn.

Danger bees.

Not “Danger: Bees” or “Watch out for the dangerous bees.”  But Danger Bees, like an alterna garage band name. Or a cartoon nemesis. Look out Care Bears, the Danger Bees are coming! In my head it sounds like the old Spider Man theme song: Dan-ger beeeeeees, dan-ger beeeeees!

But as I looked up “wasp stings” on WebMD today to make sure I wasn’t having delayed onset anaphylactic shock or suffering from a skin-eating bacterial infection, I realized that the danger is real people. The danger is real! DANGER BEES!

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And on to vocab:

les abeilles

Pronunciation: lez ah-bey-es

Definition: Bees. Lots of them. With nasty stingers just waiting to ruin your afternoon fort viewing. As in,

“Les abeilles are nothing to laugh about children. Especially les abeilles who are overly protective of their park benches in Domfront.”

Vocab Friday: Fête foraine

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Of all the wondrous things to do in Paris this summer (eat duck fat fries, ride bikes, drink champagne), I keep finding myself back at the fête foraine in the Jardin de Tuileries. Why? Well, it could be the kitschy rides and alluring smell of barbe à papa.

It might be that I have a niece and nephew here who would much rather ride the carousel than spend another second in a museum looking at naked statues and crumbly old art.

Or maybe I just want a good old American hot dog. Squirting himself in the face with ketchup. With a glass of wine on the side.

But who am I kidding. The fête foraine is my new favorite spot because they’ve got trampolines.

No harnesses or helmets or safety waivers necessary. Just pay your 3 euro and jump until you can’t jump no more. Or until the french carny says it’s time to give the kids a turn.

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Short and sweet this week, since the in-laws are here and I am exhausted. From, ah, the trampoline. Here goes:

fête foraine

Pronunciation: feht for-ayne

Definition: fun fair, carnival. As in:

“My trampoline skills are so amazing, I could be arrested for being awesome at the fête foraine.“

Search humor.

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My blog has recently popped up in the results for the following google searches:

  • spandex pants
  • boob vocabs
  • naked french guy

Now if that isn’t a ringing endorsement for the material on UnlikelyDiplomat, I don’t know what is! But I can’t help but wonder – What kind of person is searching for “boob vocabs?” And did I deliver what they were looking for?

Vocab Friday: A little late.

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Today might be one of the saddest days of my life. Right up there with the last episode of Law and Order and the time my pony died and my dad came home and said, “Yeah, the old girl is headed to the glue factory!” Here’s what happened:

Despite drinking a margarita the size of my head last night, I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed, ready to seize the day. But not just any day. Lobster and duck fat french fries day! So after rushing through the market and doing a load of laundry, I hopped on my bike and headed to Spring.

I thought biking was a good idea, since I was about to eat my weight in crustacean sandwich and the most deliciously fatty potatoes one could imagine. Turned out it was not such a good idea, mostly because the weather in Paris is awful. About 10 minutes in to my ride, a cold gust of wind blew through and it started raining.

No worries! I was almost there. I would warm myself with the greasy heat of frites. This thought alone buoyed my spirits through the cold damp (August!) air, until I cruised up to see this:

CLOSED!? Closed. No lobster rolls. No duck fat french fries. No logical explanation. It was all I could do not to sit down on the sidewalk and cry.

Somehow I pulled myself together and pedaled home, stomach growling. And this being August/Apocalypse Month, absolutely nothing else seemed to be open. Sad and dejected, I finally found a boulangerie that just happened to be serving fresh beignets. So with heavy heart I kissed my duck fat dreams goodbye and settled for one of these sugar coated little guys.

Which promptly squirted red jelly down the front of my shirt. Are the gods telling me to go on a diet?

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Today’s (yesterday’s) word is: fermé

Pronunciation: fair-may

Definition: Closed. Not open. Doors locked. No one home. As in,

“My soul was completely crushed when I discovered that the mystical purveyor of lobster rolls and duck fat fries was inexplicably fermé.”

Ah nuts.

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It’s 12:31 here, so I have officially missed vocab friday. I could blame it on the cold August rainy weather. Or say that I was busy doing actual paying work. But let’s be real here: It was the gallon size margarita that came with my dinner. Arriba!

I promise to make up for it tomorrow. For now though, bon soir.

It’s only Tuesday.

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And I’m already thinking about what I want to eat on Saturday. Because if I play my cards right, I will be digging in to a fresh lobster roll, fashioned out of the ocean’s best and a nice crunchy baguette. On the side I’ll be taking up with a golden pile of frites — but not just any old fried potatoes. These spuds will spend their last minutes frying in a glimmering pool of duck fat.

Excuse me while I call in for preemptive lipo and coronary bypass surgery.

I can only imagine that such a repast will indeed taste like a baby jesus in velvet pants. The waiter at Spring who invited us to come back over the weekend to try the lunch special hinted as much, folding his hands in prayer and gazing toward the heavens when he said “Eet ees sooo good!”

And that kind of spiritual endorsement simply can’t be ignored. That’s why  come hell or high water, I will be there Saturday to partake in some lobster/duck fat worship of the highest order. Until then, I’ll just have to nurse my salad and daydream about real lunch.

Also.

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For all you wondering what the one thing I didn’t do last weekend was……………it was watching Stealing Home.

Although I have since watched said film and can confirm that it is the worst movie ever made. What was Jodi Foster thinking?

Vocab Friday: Dégueulasse

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I really don’t like feet. Especially other people’s feet. And I also really don’t like toenails. I can’t put a finger (heh, finger!) on exactly why, but other people’s pieds just kinda gross me out. So the gods of love must have had a good, long laugh when they paired me with Husband: Man of Most Disgusting Feet Ever.

Now, you might be thinking that’s not a very nice thing to say out there on the world wide web. But I feel fully entitled because:

1. I have to sleep next to those horrific feet.

2. Those feet caused me tremendous amounts of pain and suffering this week.

I can hear you all shaking your heads, whispering that poor Husband! His wife is a nut! But this is justified insanity people. Because not only does Husband have feet that give me nightmares. He likes to put those feet on the bed, and then CLIP HIS TOENAILS FEET TALONS onto the bedspread. ON THE BED!! Where we sleep!

I’m crying sad scared tears just thinking about that.

So after several arguments about why this was maybe the most horrifying and disgusting practice ever, Husband agreed to at least clip/saw/trim those things somewhere other than my place of rest. Usually when I’m out of earshot, preferably when I’m not even home, so I can keep on pretending that he doesn’t even have feet to begin with.

And this plan was working well until I decided to do a little vacuuming this week. Because as I made my way into our bedroom, I stumbled upon some weird debris on Husband’s side of the bed. It was early and I couldn’t really see, so I leaned in for closer inspection. I almost put my hand out to touch the little white semi-circle scraps that came into focus.

And then I think I blacked out. Because do you know what the most horrific thing in the whole wide world is? It’s not nuclear war, it’s not festering, pus-filled wounds, it’s not even a broken bottle of champagne. Nope. It’s the sound of someone else’s extremely large toenail clippings being sucked up into the vacuum cleaner.

CLICKY-CLACKITY-CLICKITY-CLACK!

Oh. My. God. I think I’m having a panic attack right now just thinking about it: A pile of TOENAILS. On my floor. I’m trying to find the happy place…find the happy place Jen! But my happy place has TOENAILS on the floor.

After sucking them up, vomiting 10 times and then watching my head spin around exorcist-style for a few minutes, I calmed down enough to email Husband. I think the subject line was “Seriously.” The rest went something like, “How can I even consider bringing children into the world with a man who leaves toenail clippings in a pile on the floor?!” and “a pile of poo would have been 100 times less horrifying” and “I am not above chopping your feet off while you sleep.”

Harsh? Maybe. Irrational and inconsolable? Definitely. But Husband got my drift. He called to apologize profusely, and promised never to emotionally scar me with his toes or toenails ever again. But just in case, I’m wearing flip-flops around the house. And giving him a pedicure for Christmas.

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So can you guess what this week’s vocabulary word means?

dégueulasse

Pronunciation: dey-goo-lahs

Definition: dirty, filthy, rotten, totally and absolutely disgusting. As in:

“For the love of all that’s holy and true, why are your feet so freaking dégueulasse?!?!”

Just a regular old weekend in Paris.

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You know that lame ice-breaker game they forced you to play at college orientation? The one where you have to say 2 true things about yourself, and one false one, and then everyone has to guess which one you made up? I happen to be totally awesome at that ice-breaker.

It helps that I grew up with cows in my front yard and once worked a night shift unloading trucks at the Container Store. But I also want to win at everything, even lame ice-breakers. So while everyone else is all, “I have brown hair, blue eyes and a peg leg,” I summon my most nerd-tastic powers to scheme up 3 of the most confounding choices possible.

It’s a strategy that throws off even the most perceptive of minds. It also might be why I have approximately 3 friends from college. But I just can’t resist! So here are 10 things I may or may not have done this past weekend. You guess which one is the fake:

  • Jumped on trampolines under the stars at the Jardin de Tuileries.
  • Peed my pants on the trampolines. Just a little bit. From all the wine I drank beforehand.
  • Talked Husband into buying me some sweet new shades because I really needed them.
  • Ate the best breakfast burrito I have ever had. Ever. With real salsa and everything!
  • Biked through Paris at 2am on Saturday night. Carrying 2 bottles of wine in my basket.
  • Watched Stealing Home, possibly the worst movie ever made. Also happens to be one of Husband’s favorites.
  • Listened to opera at the Place de Vosges.
  • Slept until noon on Sunday.
  • Scored last minute reservations to one of the hottest/most obscenely delicious restaurants in town.
  • Ate yet another pain au raisins.

Now please picture me wringing my hands and cackling maniacally as you read this. Because I WIN!