The root of my Madness.

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It’s March. Do you know what that means? It means March Madness has begun! It means Husband will spend approximately 3-4 hours a night studying basketball stats! It means my first-round picks will still be better than his! And it apparently also means 80 degree weather.

That last one is kind of a bummer, because I’m gonna feel pretty guilty sitting inside all day for the next couple weeks, glued to the TV while the daffodils bloom and the sun shines down gloriously on Washington. Maybe we can pull the flatscreen onto the deck for the late afternoon games.

March is a holiday season in this household.  A special time to reflect on free throw percentages and mascot fierceness. A time to renew my faith in bracketology and hold out hope that my picks will reign supreme again, like they did that one time in 1997.

I can’t tell you why I love college basketball so much. I personally suck at basketball. I was once told that I shoot baskets like I’m mad at the backboard. But I suspect it has something to do with rocking a mini Duke cheerleading outfit in the Christian Laettner heyday.

And before you boo and hiss at the thought of that, understand that my elementary school self just wanted to support my big sister’s college team. I didn’t even know any other teams existed. In fact, I’m pretty sure I only watched games in the hopes that the players would spontaneously burst into a choreographed rendition of “Greased Lightning.”

They never did. But the games were still kind of exciting. I liked the idea of rabidly rooting for your team, like you actually had something personally invested in the outcome. So I kept watching. And my love of the Madness grew until I started playing sports in high school, when my savage competitive spirit was finally awakened by the sheer frustration of wearing a skirt while chasing around a ball with a goofy curved stick. I started filling out brackets. One year I ended up beating out all the dudes writing for the sports section of our high school paper. And it’s been a love affair ever since.

So good luck to all you March Madness fans out there. May lady luck smile upon your brackets and push your cinderella to the finals. Unless you’re in my pool, in which case I hope to crush you mercilessly.

Oscar couch commentary.

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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.

I always wanted to wear a uniform.

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better than mom jeans!Whoa. Guess I needed a few weeks to recover from the 9 year old birthday party. But I’m back! And I’m ready to share with you what I wear pretty much every day. It is what I have started calling the Mom Uniform. I did not know it was the mom uniform until Husband, after a week of seeing me in the same black yoga pants, said “You look like a Bethesda mom now!” I do not know if that’s a good thing.

The Mom Uniform was confirmed several days later when my sister, herself a mother of 4, walked in my door wearing the exact same ensemble as me, down to the cream hoodie and black puffy coat. Again, I do not know if that’s a good thing.

What I do know is that this uniform serves many purposes. It’s often the result of a morning workout cut short by The Babe that turns into a jaunt to the grocery store and 10 more errands, and then before I know it night has fallen and I think “hey, these are kind of like pajamas!” Even more often it’s the result of wishful thinking, the kind of optimism that leads me to believe that simply putting on the workout clothes will lead to some sort of exercise later in the day. Or that wearing spandex and sneakers somehow makes the walk around Target a legitimate calorie burner.

But really, this outfit is supremely comfortable AND practical. Stretchy for all your sagging post-baby body parts, yet sleek and sporty. Nothing has to be dry cleaned, nothing will be ruined if The Babe decides to make it rain carrot purée. Sunglasses help with the cool factor while also hiding the bags under your eyes. Could it get any better??

Well, I know it could get worse. If I start wearing mom jeans, someone please slap me.

Weekend getaway.

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It was my niece Anna’s birthday on Saturday. She turned nine years old. To celebrate, she wanted nothing more in this world than to spend the night with all her friends at Great Wolf Lodge, an indoor water park in Williamsburg, Virginia. So my sister rented a van, invited 6 other 9 year olds along and asked if I wanted to come to keep her company.

Now usually when someone says “indoor water park” and “car full of third graders,” I immediately think “seventh circle of hell.” But I have gone six months now without being away from Husband or The Babe for more than a few hours. And Husband hasn’t spent more than a few hours alone with the babe. Which means Husband was due for some serious babysitting and I was ready for a little me time. A getaway where I could sleep in, read crap magazines without someone drooling on them, and spend an extended period of time without having to wipe another human’s butt.

So I actually jumped at the chance to go along on the water park slumber party adventure. Can you smell the desperation in that sentence there?

And now that I’m back, I can say that I am really glad that I went. Not because I got to spend quality time with my sister or be a part of my niece’s birthday memories. Nope. I’m glad I went because I’m pretty sure that without my added adult presence, those girls would have run my poor sister into the ground. Or tied her up and left her in the back of the van while they shouted like banshees in the hallways and rode the Howling Tornado Tube Slide as much as they wanted.

Because you know what? 9-year old girls at a slumber party are insane. They have the attention span of gnats. Gnats with ADD. And they like to talk fast. And loud. The majority of communication seems to be achieved through high-pitched squeals, unless there is “drama,” and then everyone takes on a very grave and serious tone to work out their issues about seating arrangements and sleeping arrangements and sharing ipods and what to do after dinner.

Perhaps the most disappointing discovery of the weekend was that 9 year old girls at a slumber party hate sleeping more than infants. Especially when said girls are hopped up on ice cream, cake, and arcade games. They simply couldn’t be soothed into the slumber portion of the party, not with cozy sleeping bags, not with firm threats, not even with Selena Gomez movies.

So approximately 2.5 hours of sleep, 24 donuts, 6 pink gift bags, $80 worth of game tokens, 6 robot ice-creams and one inexplicably clogged toilet later, we packed up and headed home. I think the party was a success, judging by all the snoring going on in the back seats as we headed up 95. It certainly succeeded in making me determined to find a way to keep The Babe a babe for as long as possible.

Go ahead, stand in line at Georgetown Cupcake.

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get in mah bellahPlease. And send all of your visiting friends and family there, too. Maybe they’ll get on TV or something while they’re waiting for tiny, fancy-pants cupcakes served by perky Georgetown undergrads.

Me? I’ll be down the street having a real cupcake at Baked and Wired. A huge honking cupcake wrapped in a rustic parchment paper cup, stuffed with fresh strawberries or topped with chocolate icing so thick and smooth it could be mistaken for pudding. I’ll be shopping for homemade treats with names like “Chocolate Cupcake of Doom” and “The Unporked Elvis.” No mention of prestige ingredients (although I know they’re in there). No fussy decorations or perfectly piped frosting. Just a big messy hunk of love that shoots you back to the third grade and makes you wish your mom knew how to make these cupcakes instead of the crappy ones from the Betty Crocker box. 

And it’s not just the cupcakes. A lot of locals just come for the coffee and tea. I don’t drink coffee, but I still managed to make almost daily visits when I worked across the street. Homemade zucchini bread will bring you to your knees. Chocolate chip cookies, cream cheese brownies, homemade pie…are you kidding me with the pie?! And don’t get me started on the housemade granola, aptly named “Hippie Crack.” Seriously, don’t get me started or you might have to stage an intervention. 

But it’s also the atmosphere: laid back, offbeat, always friendly. Local artists decorate the walls. Except where the growing napkin-poetry collection is posted in the back. There’s a hot-pink beach cruiser out front, next to a chalk board that sometimes lists the day’s specials, but more often just shares a random message to make you smile. Or laugh out loud.

It’s just everything that Georgetown Cupcake isn’t. There’s no hype. A lot of hipsters, but no hype. And some damn good cupcakes. 

So good that Husband and I served them at our wedding. We had one giant cupcake to cut into and serve each other. We cut it in half and each finished our halves. 

So good that I engineered a cupcake taste-off at my old office across the street, complete with several rounds of head to head tasting and a full taste analysis report. 

So good that I became completely obsessed with winning the giant cupcake they used to raffle off each Friday, and would put my name into the bowl multiple times and refuse to leave my desk at 3pm when the drawing was held, just in case they called. When they never called, I daydreamed about stealing it. 

And now that I don’t have pain au raisins to keep me occupied, I have cupcakes on the brain. Thank goodness they’re on the other side of town. 

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhklahoma!

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Right after Christmas we packed up the babe and flew to Lawton, Oklahoma.

What’s that you say? You’ve never heard of Lawton? Never been to Oklahoma? Well, me neither. And before my visit, my knowledge of that midwestern state was pretty much limited to a hazy notion of dust bowls and the Trail of Tears. Not exactly the stuff of dream vacations.

But contrary to popular belief, Oklahoma isn’t just some bleak dusty place you’ve never visited and have only heard about in 8th grade social studies. It’s actually fun!

Granted, my trip was made exceptionally fun because of one awesome niece and some wonderful in-laws waiting in Lawton for us. But I swear, there are some really cool things going on in Lawton other than my extended family. Such as the Fort Sill artillery museum. Also known as the weirdest place I’ve ever whipped out a boob to feed my child.

Best exhibit: A stuffed mule that was similar to the mule used in the doomed-from-the-start Mule Cannon experiment. I am not kidding.

After the museum we drove around the historic grounds of the base and saw Geronimo’s prison cell, followed by his final resting place. The next day we had some excellent Tex-Mex food and played a little four-square in the golden prairie sunlight. But the highlight of the trip came on our last day, when we drove out to Meers for a world famous Meersburger.

The Meers Store is a ramshackle looking little place at a crossroads out in the middle of nowhere, next to a big wildlife refuge complete with roaming buffalo herds. They have world famous burgers, made from their own herd of Texas Longhorn cattle, which roam with the buffalo next door.

When we arrived around 2 in the afternoon on a Friday, the line was out the door. But that’s ok, because it gave us plenty of time to read all the old license plates and bumper stickers on the walls.

I could tell that these people had a sense of humor, which upped the odds that this was going to be one helluva burger.  As we inched closer to an open table, my in-laws briefed me on proper Meersburger etiquette:  Don’t ask for any substitutions or fancy additions, unless you want to be called a “sissy.” Don’t expect anything to drink other than beer in a giant mug or RC Cola in a giant Mason jar. And be prepared for a burger the size of a pie plate, designed to keep hungry cowboys full all day.

I know what you’re thinking: That burger is insane! And: They still make RC Cola? To which I say: yes and YES! Don’t sleep on the RC Cola! It’s delicious.

But back to the burger. It was awesome. Ginormously awesome. I was slightly alarmed at the thinness and well-doneness when it arrived, but let me tell you – it was still fabulously juicy and full of flavor, topped with the Meers-standard pickles, mustard, onions, lettuce and tomato.

It was indeed enough to keep several hungry cowboys full all day. But that didn’t stop us from ordering peach cobbler with homemade vanilla ice cream. It was a thing of beauty. I didn’t get a picture of it because I was in a food coma at that point.

After the Meers experience we drove up into the Wichita mountains to scramble over the rocks and watch the sun set over the wildlife refuge, one of the few places left with real bonafide prairie grasslands. The light washed over the orangey stone and muted greens, giving everything a rosy golden glow. It was lovely.

Lovely! Did you hear that? Oklahoma was actually lovely! I had a great time there. And hearing anyone say otherwise? Well, it really…

Americanization.

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 It’s official: the baby human hitherto known here as “le bébé” shall now be referred to as “the babe.”

Why? Well, I need to slowly let go of Paris. I’m not going back. I’m not French. And I’ll be damned if I go all Madonna and adopt a foreign accent when we all know I’m from Maryland, and people from Maryland don’t have any accents at all. Unless you’re from Bawlmore, but that’s another story.

Anyway, I’m in America for the next year, so we’re going native, in our language and cultural explorations (look for reports on things like the siren song of Whole Foods and Oklahoma cheeseburgers the size of a pie plate). But more importantly, I’ve recently decided that my child’s perfectly round head and so-chubby-they’re-sagging cheeks make her look more and more like the Sultan of Swing every day.

Should I be worried?

I’m alive.

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Just not finding much time to write, what with the moving and the baby and the steady rush of family and friends to catch up with. But now that my internet connection is secured, I promise to set up a work station and get back to sharing all the funny crazy stuff that makes up my life these days. Sneak preview: suburban mom uniforms, German language children’s books, and one wild trip to Oklahoma. Whooohooooooooooooooooooo!

I’m not in Paris anymore…

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Just to give you an idea of just how much reverse culture shock I’m in for over the next couple weeks, let me  describe my morning:

I woke up with le bébé and instead of feeding her under 12 foot moulded ceilings in front of a marble fire place, I fed her while sitting in my brother’s old bedroom – which is plastered with old surfing posters and broken skateboards. It’s a wonderful room, but kind of like waking up in a time capsule from 1997.

Then we went for a walk – not through the majestic Parc Monceau, but up the steep winding suburban street of my youth. I passed the house I grew up in, the house where my grandma lives, and a few neighbors I didn’t recognize.

And then on the walk back, I noticed two guys in full camo gear scaling a tree in my dad’s back yard.

Ahhhh, the local deer hunters. Mind you, it’s not so rural out here anymore and I’m not sure which direction those guys could shoot their crossbows without spearing someone’s window. But they were up early looking for wild game. In my back yard.

If I had known I would have brought back my crappy French oven for them – they’d probably be pumped about the gibier setting!

Home.

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Well, that was crazy. In one of the biggest surprises in the history of Paris, the cable company actually disconnected my phone and internet service early.

Which is a bummer for many reasons, but mostly because I had to spend a good 2 days holed up in the bathroom with le bébé as the movers packed everything up around us. And sitting in a bathroom with a squirmy infant for hours on end without the internet to distract you is kind of like chinese water torture.

Of course it also meant that I was completely unable to write the beautiful farewell post I had planned. And now, after living out of suitcases for couple days, then hauling all 8 of those suitcases to the airport, boarding a plane with a 4 month old and 3 carry-ons and then somehow surviving a 10 hour flight (complete with unscheduled stop in Bangor, ME), I’m home.

Not exactly the long lingering au revoir I imagined. But perhaps it was for the best. No time to get sappy and nostalgic, no time to think about all the things I’m going to miss. Like:

  • pain au raisins
  • Coca-Cola in glass bottles
  • walking in Parc Monceau
  • the little old ladies at the grocery store who stopped to kiss le bébé
  • my Saturday market
  • foie gras showing up in every entrée
  • the fact that entrées are actually appetizers
  • my chance to visit the sewer museum (sorry Madhu!)
  • butter. ohhhhhh the butter!

Yep, it’s a good thing that I’m going to be too busy reacquainting myself with the motherland and catching up with loved ones to pine away for la belle France. And if I do find myself daydreaming about champagne straight from the source, I will just have to remember all the things I’m not going to miss. Like:

  • dog poo
  • little old ladies at the grocery store telling me what to buy
  • crappy TV
  • endless forms and rules and regulations for everything
  • cold dark rainy months
  • super pasteurized non refrigerated milk
  • the lack of egg and cheese breakfast sandwiches
  • the annoying dogs barking upstairs

Yeah, keep thinking about those yappy dogs and their stinky poo all over the sidewalk. And remember how those glass bottled Cokes cost 10 euros. Totally awful. I can’t believe I survived 2 whole years there!

(sniffle)

Who am I kidding. I miss it already. And no matter how much I love being home, I can’t shake the feeling that home is also over there across the pond. Stay tuned for hilarious tales of reverse culture shock.