100 Funny Things.

This is officially my 100th post – Cue the fireworks and free bottles of champagne! Yaaaahoooooooweeeee!

(I’m totally ignoring the fact that this being only my 100th post in about a year means I really need to try harder to post more often. But who wants to rain on their own champagne infused parade? Let’s just consider it New Year’s Resolved.)

Looking back through all my anecdotes and diatribes has made me realize just how much we’ve all learned over the past year. You readers are so totally prepared for life in France now! You’ve got Paris covered, no sweat. Why? Because I’ve shared all there is to know about dog poo covered sidewalks and how to call someone a “nice beetch.” You know all about hoo-ha molds, danger bees, and of course, baby jesus in velvet pants. You have been well versed in the many merits of champagne and pain au raisins for breakfast. And the looming danger of butter brain.

And let’s not forget the informative pieces on pictogram ovens, boob vocabulary and most importantly, sharts.

There have been bike trips and toenail clippings, giant vats of chocolate mousse and master bites. There were lessons on pre-pubescent pickpockets and avoiding Sephora at all costs. I’ve given you the lowdown on castle dwelling in the Loire, excessive wine sipping in Bordeaux, and tan seeking on the Cote d’Azur. I’ve shared the critical details of proper Oktoberfest attire. And just for your sake, I’ve repeatedly tasted and reported on eating oysters, rabbit, rare steaks, pigs feet, kilos of pizza, duck fat fried anything, beignets, baguettes, croissants, pâté, fois gras, pork belly, and cheese. Lots and lots of runny, dead-body-smelling cheese.

After all that, I’d be shocked – SHOCKED! – if you felt you needed a real travel guide to France. Fodors and Lonely Planet? Pshaw. They’ll just recommend a bunch of touristy restaurants and point you straight toward hell on earth, otherwise known as the Louvre. Me? I’ll show you how to get nice and tipsy at the perfect picnic, then make an ass out of yourself trying to speak french to the locals.

So yes. You’re welcome.

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Update: I’m back, I’m no longer jet-lagged, and I’m ready to write. So we’ll return to our regularly scheduled programming starting next week!

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In other news, DANGER BEES ARE REAL!

I got a comment last week from musician David MacMichael, informing me that his alterna garage rock band is in fact called The Danger Bees. Dan-ger Beeeeeeeeeeees, Dan-ger Beeeees! They’re pretty good, although I think their current set list is severely lacking in the spider man theme song department. If Homer can do it, so can you David. So can you!

Now if only we could convince him to use the photo above as his next album cover…

Vocab Friday: The bees! The bees!

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.”