Two Weeks and Counting

Two weeks until I go back to my visit my home. Two weeks. That means I have two weeks to finish Christmas shopping, two weeks to order some dollars from the bank, two weeks to figure out what I want to pack and what things I can drag through customs as tokens of my Paris for my friends and family.

I don't think I am ready. I have heard people talk about reverse culture shock and just like I didn't believe I would have it when I got here, I can't fathom how the differences will strike me now. I know the sheer amount of space will knock me out with shock - I am flying into Houston which is a city that is probably geographically three times larger than Paris. Houston's Interstates are easily twice as wide as the Seine and that's just going in one direction. The amount of flat concrete will be the first thing, I am sure, to throw me off guard.

But I can imagine that. I can put myself there and envision the nervous expansion of my physical space. What I am not at all ready for is to see my family and friends again. To see my nieces and nephew, whom I've watched growing through pictures, and stand next to them to see just exactly how much they've grown. Like weeds, I know. My nephew's hair is darkening. He is nine now - halfway to eighteen and when you think of it that way it is truly frightening. His little sisters are shooting up right behind him, bright firey little characters with all the spunk of their mother and sarcasm of their father.

My other sister's children are nearly the same age as Sister L's two older, but blonder and a little wilder. They have a country streak and the chatterboxes to go with it but it feels as though the last time I saw them they were still babies, shy and barely talking.

What I am most nervous about is discovering for myself how my mother's health is. Some days I can hear her exhaustion but I don't know what she will look like anymore.

"You will be surprised how thick her glasses are," Sister L told me.

I am worried. For me it will be a turning point. Seeing my mother will determine for me what I will do next year because, even though I know I want to stay in Paris, I also know that she will soon need an extra hand. As the single one of the family I am the one most flexible, most readily available to do that. Right now I don't know how much help she needs - she won't really ever tell my sister or I. Though my sister has seen her fairly recently and can attest, I only hear my mother's voice. For a year and half I have had only that and voices change so slowly. She sounds the same as the day I left her. She sounds the same as the day I moved to Pennsylvania to go to college, and as the day I moved out of our house for the very first time.

It's her face that will have changed. Like my nieces and nephew I believe she is changing rapidly too, but in the other direction. She is aging and faster than she should all because of this miserable, shadowy disease lurking in her corner.

And yet I know none of this for sure. A year and a half seems like an eternity when you are so far away. So many things have changed. I know I have. To the point that my mother told Sister L that she was nervous that I was going to be "Fancy". I suppose there is somethings about me that have refined. Like any good Parisian I've developed my taste for champagne and fois gras. I prefer high heels and skirts and always wear mascara when I leave the house. But I don't think I am fancy, not really. I am still my mother's daughter who puts her foot in her mouth at the most inopportune moments, who dances on the Metro and spends all her money in one weekend thus being left with beans and rice for the following two weeks. There is nothing fancy about that.

Furthermore the comforts I am so looking forward to are less than fancy at all. I am making a list of fast food joints I want to frequent and resale shops I want to pay visits to. I am looking forward to sales and to going to the breakfast buffet with my Uncle after church on Sunday. I am looking forward to renting movies with my mom and watching them back to back with the gaggle of fat cats surrounding us. I am looking forward to helping her do the little things she can't anymore like shampoo the rugs and clip the cats toenails.

Yes, things have changed. Time keeps moving no matter where you stop in the world. In two weeks I will know exactly what it means to be an expat in the fullest extent of the word. And I hope I am ready.

On My Way

Off to the second Thanksgiving Dinner. I will not be making this because as it turns out I am fiscally irresponsible (but we knew that). Instead I am going over early to help Sarah and Gui prepare. It's the thought that counts I guess.

Aside from Thanksgiving Dinner number one this week has been basically miserable. That bright spot, though, has pictures.

(Aren't we lovely?)

(So yummy!)

Next week - even though I am still unable to do anything that costs more than sixty centimes - I have vowed to get my holiday cheer on. I don't know what that will entail, exactly, aside from hiding myself away from any negative energy that could rain on my happy little Christmas parade. It doesn't feel like Christmas - it's gone too fast once again - but I go home to see the people I miss the very most in two weeks and I plan to arrive with bells on. No one should try to stand in the way of that.

So let us commence the second turkey, shall we?

Happy Thanksgiving From Paris!

This year I am lucky enough to have friends enough for TWO Thanksgivings. Tonight I will be attending something Parisian at a friend of a friend's place and bringing the stuffing. Saturday several of the same girls and I will be heading chez Sarah for her second annual Orphan Thanksgiving. Rumor has it that she and her husband have far more people than can fit in their flat, and damnit I couldn't be happier. Last year we were all pleased as punch to sit on the floor or in the hall and a wonderful time was had by ALL. I've no doubt for a recurrence in that theme.

Oh. And I am going to attempt to make this. Can we say YUM? If it turns out, that is. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted.

Any how the wonderful, sexy and talented Puntabulous put up this questionnaire yesterday and I am going to steal it! Here goes. Feel free to put your own answers in the comment section.

1. Watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on television. Yay or nay?

It's never been a tradition of mine, nor my families so I sort of don't care. I feel obliged to turn it on, but usually leave it to do something else instead. But I do love seeing Santa at the end. It makes me feel like the season has officially started (even though I usually decorate before Turkey Day. YES WAY.).

2. What is your favorite Thanksgiving side dish? You can’t say turkey!

Sweet Potatoes, which is ironic because I wouldn't touch them before I was in high school. They were ORANGE people. ORANGE.

3. What is your favorite beverage (alcoholic or nonalcoholic) to go with your Thanksgiving Day meal?

Egg Nog!! Spiked or not.

4. Cranberry Sauce. Delicious tradition, or evil jello wannabe?

I have never cared for the canned stuff but a real fresh cranberry compote can be SOooooooo delicious.

5. What is your favorite pie?

Pumpkin, of course! And my mom used to make a mean lemon meringue pie so that has a certain air of nostalgia about it. She could get the meringue so high on top of it and browned it just right. Mmm.

6. Match the following pies with the following toppings. Apple, Pumpkin, Blueberry. Reddiwhip, Cool Whip, Ice Cream.

Apple: Ice Cream; Pumpkin: Cool Whip; Blueberry: Ice Cream; Reddiwhip NEVER!

7. Complete this sentence: The secret to a delicious post-Thanksgiving turkey sandwich is:

Toasted bread, butter and extra salt. YUM!

8. What is your post-Thanksgiving meal ritual? Don’t say pooping, you gross bastard!

Watching a Christmas movie. Doesn't matter which one, I love almost all of them.

9. What is your favorite Thanksgiving Day themed movie or television episode?

Wow. I honestly have no idea. I fail on this question! But I WILL tell you that my favorite Christmas movie of ALL TIME is White Christmas. Closely followed by Elf, of course. (I love smiling, smiling's my favorite!)

10. What are you most thankful for this year? You can only pick one!

For not only surviving my first year in Paris (see last year's blog post), but coming out of it with an amazing group of friends and experiences with them that continues to grow and transform every day. It has changed me and I dare say for the better. I am the luckiest girl alive, I swear.

Single With Cat Pictures. No Really.

Which actually reminds me of a very funny story. Cover your eyes Aunty and Uncle.

When I was in high school my friend and I "stayed the night" at each other's houses but actually slept over at a guy friend of ours place. He was actually a very decent college boy but if our respective mothers had known they probably would have shat in their pants. So we lied. He and his roommates sublet a great big Victorian house from a woman who was off living in some other country. They gave us a tour of the house and we couldn't help notice she had a lot of photos of herself on the walls.

"Oh." Said Jason. We'll call him Jason because that's what his name was. "You should see the photos I found of her stashed in my bedroom. I mean, I guess it was her bedroom but..."

"Show us!" We demanded, sipping on our beers and giggling.

And he did. There they were, photos of his landlord buck naked with her favorite cat right between her spread legs.

Brings new meaning to crazy cat lady, doesn't it? Well. I promise not to share those kinds of pictures with you, mainly because I wouldn't dare take those kind of photos. Ahem. I joke about being the crazy cat lady but I still have a few years left before that happens.

No, the cat pictures I will share with you are the latest of my dear sweet Boo Radley who keeps my toes warm and gives me something to cuddle when I am feeling particularly lonely. Though Toady and I parted on the best of terms possible, I still miss the simple domesticities we had, if few and far between.

I have never had a terrible problem being single, but anyone can tell you I love being in a relationship. It's my nature. I love to nest and play play house and wake up together on Sunday and make pancakes while folding socks. And while I love being able to leave the dishes in the sink as long as I want (even though I don't. I could.) and stretching out diagonally across the bed and not having to shave if I don't feel like it... Well.

Let's just look at cute pictures of the cat, shall we?

This is Boo Radley's favorite place in the whole wide world: mom's lap. Anytime I sit down he has to get in my lap. He even tries this while I'm in the bathroom. Weirdo.

Beyond cute? I think so. The most precious bit is that he furiously burrows until he is under the covers like this. He will burrow anything he can.

Us working on the computer. He swears he's helping.

Second favorite place in the whole wide world. ADORABLE.


This is one of my favorite things he does (aside from tumbling off the bed in somersaults, which just cracks me up every time). In this picture he is not staring at anything in particular. Just the wind blowing. But I just love how his little belly curves out when he's on his hind legs. And then he mauw's at the leaves falling. GAH.

For the record, posting pictures of one's adorable cat does not make you completely pathetic. I promise!

How Could I!?

I just had the worlds poopiest day ever and I didn't even leave my house.

But we're not going to talk about that. No, we are absolutely not going to mention my nightmare/PMSing/busted sink with water all over kind of melodramatic day. Because I TOTALLY FORGOT to share something with you all.

I AM LEGALLY IN FRANCE!

That is to say after a year and three months I am now legally allowed to exit and re-enter France. I have my official carte de sejour! And it's valid all the way until June!

I didn't think it was going to happen, actually. After something like five separate trips to the sous-prefecture since August - each one lasting a minimum of three hours - and still not having that laminated magic pass in my hot little hands, I had begun to feel a certain sense of dread surrounding the place. Not that anyone really likes the prefecture (not even the French) but I couldn't help but feel like the forces were working against me. Or that I would need to wake up at 4 a.m. to wait in line for it.

'Cause here's the thing. Because I live in the suburbs of Paris (read: generally less expensive) there are a lot of immigrants at my prefecture. This means that on ANY given day there could be so many people that they stop giving out numbers to wait in line. And when you're like me and have gotten into the habit of staying in bed until well past any reasonable hour to stay in bed, this means you are shit out of luck.

Regardless, on Friday, I made my way there early but not too early, thinking that certainly one hour or two wouldn't make a difference. Except that it did, and low and behold I punched the button for "Etrangers" and received a "Service Fermé" (service closed!) ticket.

"Seriously?" I said out loud, gathering looks from the throng of French people who were waiting to renew their licenses, passports and change their address.

I went upstairs to the Foreigner windows anyway, not even sure why. All I knew is I would NOT be leaving without my card. I was determined.

I stood around the crowd looking bewildered and bothered (but not bewitched, thankfully) until someone started chatting with me.

"This is ridiculous!" I said. "The worst system in the world."

I played on the idea that gallows humor brings out the compassion in the people around you. "We're all in this together!" ("But I am going to try to cut in line in front of you and you will probably want to kill me.")

A woman beside me piped up.

"But you are just here to pick up a remise de titres, no?"

I brightened "I am! Is there a different line for that?"

"You have to press the last button on the machine downstairs. It's a different service."

I had no idea! But suddenly felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe...

I rushed down stairs and pressed the button. A big game show "fail" buzzer sounded in my head. 919.

Really? How was that even possible? The numbers showing at the windows were in the five hundreds. I sighed and went back upstairs.


There was a separate window for picking up remise de titres, but it was closed. Of course it was closed, why wouldn't it be closed? I began making up all kinds of plots in my head. I was going to wait until someone didn't show for their number and jump in line. I would pretend I had lost mine in the shuffle of numbers. If the woman asked I would say I was leaving tomorrow for the states - it was an emergency. I moved closer to the open windows.

And then it happened. The administrator at the window leaned out and yelled through her bullet proof glass.

"Remise de titres, s'il vous plaît!"

A throng of people rushed on her window like blood hungry wolves. I apparently wasn't the only one who had the crappy 900 ticket, as I had foolishly thought. I looked around at the other numbers as the woman began gathering people's paper work. 905, 907, 908, 909...

"Go sit down," she said to people, "I'll call you when I'm ready for you."

A man next to me asked his wife for their tickets, then looked back to me.

"What number are you? Would you like one closer?"

I nearly jumped for joy.

"Wow that is so sweet, thank you!"

"Well," he said, "We don't know anyone else." He gave me a ticket from his stack of three: 910.

I thanked him again and then went to sit and wait till the woman returned with my paper work. Within the hour I was at the window, nervously forgetting I needed to sign for it, watching her file all my finally-in-order paperwork. And then there it was, shining like the most beautiful piece of laminated colored paper I'd ever seen, my carte de sejour.

And man did I look like a thug.

You Make Me Feel Special (And Not In A Creepy Inappopriate Way)

Scrap means left over, fragments, discarded material. Many times truth and honesty are discarded material, considered fragments and left over. People like us need to tell it like it is, and let the scraps fall where they will.



The loveliest, sweetest Faux-aussi I know, Diedre from DecoyBetty awarded me with the Honest Scrap award. Thank you so much dear!!

This is how it works:

1.Thank the person who gave the award and list their blog and link it.
2. Share "10 Honest Things" about yourself.
3. Present this award to 7 others who blogs you find brilliant in content and/or design, or those who have encouraged you.
4. Tell those 7 people they've been awarded Honest Scrap and inform them of these guidelines in receiving the award.

Them's the rules.

Here I go.

1. I am currently boycotting buying groceries so that I can buy Christmas presents and have spending money when I go back home in (OMG!) THREE WEEKS.
2. But this did not, somehow, stop me from spending this weeks paycheck and most of next weeks all in one weekend.
3. For which I have incredible, painful buyers remorse.
4. But I can't do anything about because virtually all of my spending was done dining out. (I said I'm boycotting grocery shopping, not eating!)
5. So anyway, now I'm looking for a random odd job to make up for it.
6. Which sounds terrible and awful to me and most likely will not work out.
7. Because any extra holiday job I have ever taken on only lasts two weeks before I crack and feel like I want to kill someone (usually a holiday shopper).
8. But I would be more than happy to do freelance work from home.
9. But doubt I can dig THAT up in three weeks. Do they give advances for selling kidneys?
10. Regardless, I am buzzing because I am going to be HOME in THREE WEEKS and frankly if I don't have a dime, I won't mind (much) because being with my friends and family will be priceless. (Maybe I could get a holiday job at Hallmark?)


I am going to give awards to some people who already have gotten said award because I love them. These people are of course not obligated to reaward (unless they want to.)

Right back at

DECOYBETTY - because she literally makes me laugh every day that she posts. I am never so funny. ALSO? She has AWESOME hair.
BIDDYSWORLD - this bitch cracks me UP. She's sassy and crass, not to mention a sweet dear friend.
IAMBOSSY - Dude. She's totally famous but not in a creepy Dooce kind of way. She's the reason I started blogging!
BADGERMEETSWORLD - I don't know how I started reading but her and the next lady are two of my favorite daily reads.
SAYLAVEE - A working mama of three almost grown boys. I want to be a mom like her someday.
(Actually, I love the mothering styles of all of the above three women. They are amazing, and I sometimes want to be adopted [but I love my own mom too much.])
IDEAOKAY - My good friend K.L. Parr who not only has a lovely blog is probably one of the best writers I've ever known. (And I'm totally jealous of it too!)
and lastly but not leastly
DIARYOFWHY - This beautiful girl came to my Christmas dinner last year and was delightful. Now she's back stateside and is noholdsbar about her love life (among other things), keeping us all waiting on baited breath for her next tale.


Go give these ladies some love! Maybe you'll find a new blog addiction too? Honestly, I want to list pretty much ALL of the blogs I read daily, in addition to my fellow French Expat bloggers but that would be against the rules, and I never break the rules. Never!

Thanks Deidre for rocking my socks off! (It was just the pick me up I needed after the Creepy Metro guy this morning.)

The Monday Morning Tweak Brigade (Or Why Drugs Are Bad!)

I don't normally take the local metros on weekday mornings. Hell, at the moment I am not normally AWAKE on weekday mornings, but in such this instance I was and just barely. I was still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes when I boarded the train with off-to-workers. The car was neither empty nor completely full offering me a wide birth from the man already sitting who appeared to be passed out near the doors of the car. I regarded him warily as I passed and shuddered when he let forth a slow gutteral growl.

He wasn't so dirty at first glance but his hunched body was revealing of a battered state of being. A thick wool cap was pulled down past his nose and that was covered by a baggy hooded jacket. It gave the illusion that he didn't have a face, just and angry growling body.

"Geeeeaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh," he breathed out as I passed.

Just behind me the doors closed and suddenly he sprung to life, throwing his body at the doors. They slammed shut on him and he yelled something angry and incomprehensible at them. I shared a look with another female passenger, sharing my "What the hell!?" emotion. And then he yelled something court and head butted the glass pane of the locked metro doors.

THUD!

Everyone around him cleared, jumping as far back away from the man as possible in a confined space. The entire car went silent, watching as he verbally abused his reflection, glowering and growling. I couldn't make out what he was saying, and even though I felt like I should keep one eye focused on him in case he moved again, I also had the distinct impression that if I somehow caught his eye we would turn and rip my throat out. I cast my eyes to the floor.

It seemed like forever until the next stop where I had planned to get off. It was clear he was as well so I moved to another door, nervously watching as he rushed off the train throwing his hands out and yelling at the incoming crowd. He disappeared into the masses.

Still shaking I made my connects and got on my RER to go home. I almost began to settle when my ears were perked by the sound of hysterical laughter.

Nervously I peered down from my seat to the entrance of the car to see where the noise was coming from. His laughter almost sounded like sobbing and for a moment I was scared that the creep from the first train had made his way along to here. In his place stood the laughing man - also wearing a baggy hooded get up but thankfully not the growler.

For a moment I watched him, trying to discern if he was a safe or a scary, and on deciding he was a safe I vowed to start carrying a switchblade on Monday mornings should I need to commute for some reason.

And then I went back home and tried to forget the whole thing every happened, to go back to sleep and hopefully have a second try at this miserable beginning to a week.

Fifteen Minutes?

Last night C invited me to a taping of "One Shot Not", produced by Arte. She is one of those amazing connection people who seems to always have a line on something fabulous to do.

Though I'd only heard of the show and only knew of one of the bands performing it was free and it was only five stops on the RER for me. This translated to an awesome, cheap evening.

And so it was. I admit to being worried that I would be massively bored by a "stand now, sit now, clap now" sort or filming regime, but it turned out to be more like an intimate little concert with lots of great bands. Hosted by drummer Manu Katché and his sequined german speaking assistant Alice Tumler, One Shot Not is well into it's second season and has just received the go ahead to move from a monthly to weekly show. (In case you're interested in seeing a taping you can try your hand at it here.

By far the weirdest thing, though, was being filmed. As it's a concert show they turn the cameras onto the audience to see them having a good time, and C and I happened to be in the prime filming location. Even if we hadn't wanted to be, we would have likely ended up on the show at some point (which, obviously, is a chance you take when going to a T.V. show filming), but as it was I couldn't escape the feeling that this one camera guy was just in love with us and ever time I turned around he had returned to put his lense in our face. I am a princess so I sort of loved this, but can I just tell you how hard it is to NOT look at the camera? And Lord help me if I end up on television whilst subconsciously chewing a fingernail or clapping at the wrong time.

C and I did look fabulous though, and we were legitimately having a good time dancing so hopefully that all translates well into our fifteen minutes seconds of fame. And if not, well no bother because neither of us have a T.V. with which to watch said possible catastrophe. Now, I won't stop any of you however, from watching and reporting back (Canal 7, Arte in France). At any rate it's worth watching for the bands, because they really were good.

Don't believe me? These guys were on there, and if they don't make you shake yo' ass you might be dead.

I Would Have Stood In Line For That

On Sunday before my train we watched a Serge Gainsbourg DVD. Aside from being a musical genius - a man Francois Mitterand called "the Apollinaire of our time" - he was a man of the ladies. He was with some of the most desirable women of that era, even if he was considered ugly. And...I have to admit there were times in his life where I found him sexy. In all the videos of him with his women he appears downright uncomfortable, and he has an air about him that is seemingly detached, but oh those EARS, and those buggy eyes! SIGH.



Oh how I wish I were kidding.

So they've made a film about him that, in France anyhow, will come out at the end of January. (January 20th, to be exact). It looks to be a somewhat depressing recollection of his life but, well, that happens sometimes doesn't it?



And I found out that - because I am obsessed with IMdB.com and absolutely have to read all the trivia on every movie I see - in post production of this film the actress who plays Jane Birkin (Lucy Gordon) hung herself in her Paris apartment. Morbid, no?

I'll see it anyway. Like that I can imagine what it could have been like to be one of his discarded lovelies, and drool over his cabbage head for a good solid two hours. Who's with me?

Equation

Wonderful amazing weekend in Caen + Hilarious (and delicious) Monday dinner with friends + Arte taping of good music tomorrow - the house smelling too much like cat pee I can't find - prefecture tomorrow + carte de sejour (finally!) + dancing on Saturday + kid asking to work on his english homework - cleaning day (if/then) there are no more nightmares where I am possessed by the devil = Generally Good Week.

I hope.

Does anyone have a solution to the peeing cat? Cause honestly? That would make for a STELLAR week...

3 a.m.

Yesterday, after a girls night out, I woke up with what could have been confused with a mean hangover. That's what I thought, anyhow, when I got up to vomit. But then I didn't feel better. At all. And proceeded to dry heave every thirty minutes for the next several hours.

Grossed out yet? Well I am right there with you. Sorry, about that. But folks for a few hours I thought I was dying. I had terrible chills and couldn't move from bed. At some point the whole nasty business stopped and I slept for several hours - one of those dead to the world coma sleeps only a sick person knows.

When I woke up I was able to imbibe some food and a little tea even. Maybe it wasn't the flu after all? But no, the fever came back and has stayed with me ever since.

Meanwhile I am having killer spasming back pains. I knew that I hadn't ever totally healed from the Spain trip but I had been feeling mostly normal in that area so I forgot about it. That is, over course, until I spent an entire day in bed. Why should that make it worse, I don't know, but it did. No matter what position I tried to sleep in there would be an occasional shooting pain all up and down my right side, reminding me that I probably need to go back to the chiropractor.

Needless to say, come three a.m. I am wide awake. And less conveniently, I am hungry. After a day of barely being able to keep things down I am now starving to death. Because why not, really?

And so I've gotten up to make noodles - currently the only thing in my house to eat - and mindlessly surf the internet wondering why I am awake. I have rearranged the pillows in the hopes that after I am full I can pass out with moderate comfort. The cat is going berserk, darting around the house with glee that I am awake when he wants to be. I certainly wish he would use all that energy for the good of the household (but I'll let him off because of his lacking opposable thumbs).

All my plans for tomorrow are screwed. God I love this time of year...

We Are All Basically Alone

I don't feel like writing this week. I've got things to say but I don't want to talk about them. Not yet. I will cheat and post photographs and links to entertain you.



Fall for me is always the longest, often hardest, transition time. The darkening, shortened days. The cold. The rain. Things will never be the same, but they will keep constantly changing.

Hold a place for me in your heart, your's is already written in stone in mine.

Say What's In This Drink?

This morning I woke up after a terrible dream about a giant black squid who was on a killing spree. We couldn't touch the water or else he would surface and eat us whole, so we had to crawl into this giant unbalanced rock creature to transport us to the next safe land surface.

Though it sounds pretty ridiculous, I was surprisingly disturbed by this dream. I thought about going back to sleep to try to dream something else but instead got up and put on Christmas music. It is, after all, November. And since all of the massive conglomerate stores the world over (Yes!! Even in Paris!!) started decorating for Christmas on Halloween I think I can safely reserve the right to listen to cheery, festiveness on November 5th.

And can I just say, right here and now, that I am a Christmas addict. I realized, with that very first note of "Santa Baby", that I have been withholding my urge to listen to Christmas music all year long. Honestly. It makes me feel so happy and light footed. Immediately I imagine the smells of baking cookies and Holiday hams. It gives me the urge to hand paint Christmas cards and dress in red and green.

I used to say that Thanksgiving was my favorite Holiday because there was no obligitory gift giving and all you have to do is eat, but ever since I've lived alone Christmas has become my time for over indulgence (though not on myself, of course!) and child-like whimsy. I think it's to make up for so many years that I pretended to hate Christmas, which was mostly because I felt like an inadequate gift giver. So silly were those years! Christmas isn't about presents! (...Though I DO so love spoiling my loved ones.) I was so lost! And so, obviously, I want to drag it out as long as humanly possible.

Yes kids, I absolutely one hundred percent did sing along at the top of my lungs with a smile on my face with Ella Fitzgerald to "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas". I mopped the floors singing "Baby It's Cold Outside" and definitely googled the lyrics at the beginning of "Happy Xmas (War is Over)". For the record, Yoko and John respectively whisper "Happy Christmas Kyoko. Happy Christmas Julien."

SO. To get you in the spirit - and because it wouldn't be the holidays if I didn't post this song - I offer you a little somethin' to brighten your scroogey, bah humbuggy days.



And if you ever reference the fact that the Jonas Brothers covered this song I will take you off my Christmas list forever. Seriously, that's just wrong.

Worthless Blog Of the Week No. 2

I am so exhausted I can barely spell 'exhausted' correctly. No, don't feel sorry for me, I just drank to much last night. It's amazing what a horrible nights sleep one gets when inebriated. SO STUPID. Especially because the two nights previous I had horrible nights sleep completely unrelated to my blood alcohol content. I'm not sure what it was but I'm willing to blame the full moon and call it a day.

The strangest thing is that now that I've had several bad nights sleep in a row, I don't look forward to falling into a slumber. Waking up - even after more hours of sleep than normal people regularly get! - and feeling so...still tired... it just doesn't sound appealing. I would rather read a book till my eyes burn or surf the net mindlessly than fight the good fight with my malfunctioning body. I would rather watch French TV for hours and hours until the words sound like gibberish. I would rather do anything in my apartment to try to stay awake instead of struggling to stay asleep.

Anything, that is, except move from my bed. Because, did I mention I'm exhausted? So much so that I am fairly certain the cat just peed on something but I don't know that I can motivate myself to get up and find out.

God bless, listen to how pathetic I am! Let's hope to baby Jesus that I don't have kids who poop or need feeding because I'll never be able to handle it. My life is a questionable mess.

Is a Very Very Bad Blogger

I haven't posted in six days? Oh my oh my. I have become, it seems, a very bad blogger.

It's awful because, on my new (growing) Master List of goals and how to achieve them, one of my personal goals is to write at least four blogs per week. That would be a total fail at the moment, non? And I'm not even going to try National Blog Writing Month. After having missed the mark several years running I just won't offer myself up for that kind of stress. I have my "more important" career goals to worry about.

Thankfully, the weather here is feigning winter and so we've begun to see miserable rainy days again. This forces me indoors, generally, and with a warm fuzzy kitten to curl up with and plenty of computer projects to occupy my time why torture myself in the wind and wet? I'll probably make a new pot of soup for the week, stay in with my black tea and try to actually get things done.

Then, when my career as a ridiculously famous blogger fails miserably, I will have a real career to fall back on. What a truly novel idea...