It's Time I Must Admit

I will be the first to admit that all my life I have been a hopeless romantic. I jump in head first, fall in love whenever I can and can always find the silver lining on even the ugliest end to a love affair. But... I think I'm getting old or something because even though I was the one who came up with the nickname Sweetlips, I find myself annoyed at it each time I type it.

Not because he doesn't indeed, have quite sweet lips, but because...well it's just a little too cute. Like Disney Channel, Kids Incorporated / Mickey Mouse Club cute. SO. Henceforth I will be referring to Sweetlips as "The Boy*" (or maybe even Boyfriend). Let it be known that he's not really a boy in that sense of the word (you dirty minded potty brains!) but he is my boy. (Anyway we don't say "this is my Manfriend" do we??)

Whew. And that feels so much better already. Don't you agree Boyfriend?

*P.S. - Stare at the word boy for awhile. What a funny word!

The Cart Before the Horse

Even though I know I have to wait until I have my visa in hand to be one hundred percent sure that I will be staying in France I couldn't really wait to start looking for an apartment in Paris. For one, it's a process over here, involving a great deal of documentation, money and determination (like in NYC people stand in line to duke it out for the really great apartments). For two I'm really damn excited.

It's true, Meudon is really very close to Paris and I love my garden and having the birds sing me awake in the morning, but it lacks a few things - like, oh, PARIS. And I have been waiting a year and a half to find a place near the action.

What I realized quite quickly, and quite unfortunately, is that on my salary I won't be able to afford much. I could possibly rent a room in a flat but even that is dodgy at best as far as price, not to mention I hate having strangers as roommates. It just rarely works.

In a somewhat crappy turn of events, however, The Boy found out that he got a job he applied for before he met me. In Nantes.

Let me just tell you where Nantes is: NOT CLOSE TO PARIS. And he will be there for six months. You can believe I cried a little when he told me that.

BUT he also told me he would be keeping his apartment and coming home most weekends to see me (and I will go to see him in Nantes the others). This meant his apartment would be empty for the whole week - as in no one living there. And so I proposed a flatshare to him.

For us, of course, it's not really a flatshare as much as cohabitation and we had to think and discuss and talk and think a lot about this before we were both at an agreement about how and if it could really work. But The Boy, ultimately, wants me to be safe and this way we will both be able to save a little money.

So even before I have my visa, I now I have a flat to move into. In the Sixteenth Arrondissement, ya'll.

But honestly, the chi-chi zip code isn't what's exciting to me. What's exciting to me is this:

That, my friends, is the elusive Parisian "full" size fridge (American full size fridges are on the endangered species list). With a freezer. That means I can FREEZE THINGS. LIKE ICE CUBES AND MEAT. I am just beside myself. The only part I don't like about the kitchen is it's terrible lack of oven, but I will find my way around that, I am sure.

For now the flat has distinctly man-like characteristics such as being monochromatic and containing things like a weight bench and a giant man t.v.,
but The Boy and I have had many further discussions and he has agreed to let me add a few pieces of furniture to divide up the space. Like that we won't spend the weekends living on top of each other. This apartment is around 300 square feet (30 metere squared), INCLUDING the bathroom. We're going to need a division of space.

Because Boo Radley is the only acceptable cat to The Boy, he is making the sweetest effort to make him feel welcome. We are going to get him the Furminator and the Modkat in order to keep the apartment as clean as possible.

The only downside to the apartment is that even though it has these ENORMOUS windows,

the building is North facing and doesn't receive much direct sunlight (save a few rays early in the morning). But it does have a view of the Seine.

Which is pretty damn cool.

And so, Godwilling, in a little over a month the Boo-ster and I will be making a new home in a new neighborhood just a short bus ride from my office. Until then I am spending my time mentally redecorating, pouring over the Apartment Therapy and Ikea websites. And maybe probably driving The Boy slowly crazy.

What? I'm a girl! I can't help but be excited to be moving into my first Parisian apartment. With a hot guy, no less. I suspect you would do the same.

It's Just What I Do

Yesterday was the perfect day for a garden BBQ.

Everyone who arrived had to mention "It's so nice out today! You picked the most perfect day of the year!"

And it was true. It was the warmest, sunniest day in Paris so far this spring and I was lucky enough to have a garden and a grill all to myself to celebrate it. (Thanks to Crystal for taking pictures and posting them! I didn't get ANY!)

(Thank god I was able to take those white arms out for some sun! EEK!)

Originally I had told people to come over around 5, but knowing some peoples schedules and anticipating that we would all want to be in the sun as much as possible I changed the time to 2. Amazingly, somehow, by two o'clock I was showered, shaved, blogged (the wonder!) and had prepared nineteen hamburgers of three different varieties, a vegetable kebab making station (with various assortments of pepper, tomato and zucchini for choosing) and chopped and washed all applicable hamburger toppings without even slicing my fingers (That was later. Don't chop drunk.).

Homemade potato salad was brought, as well as baked macaroni and cheese, garlic butter, cheesecake, a tart and an array of salty snacky foods to go with the bottles and bottles of wine, beer and (of course) champagne.

Well into the night a revolving door of people came, ate, drank chatted with old friends and made new ones. My heart was happy as I scurried from kitchen to grill to boyfriend's lap to blankets to chat with my friends, all laughing and smiling and full. "Je suis si contente," I repeated, even while bleeding over the sink and washing the first round of dishes by hand so we could all eat more. I am so happy.

I must have learned it from my mom, the organizing parties. I've always associated it with my ex-Stepfather's crazy block party style fourth of July parties, but when I look back it was definitely my mom who put all that together, made sure there was more than enough for everyone to eat and drink, kept the kids out of the fireworks and kept the neighbors from calling the cops. It's maybe in our blood because I know my sister is the same way - something on the social, warm, communal Puerto Rican side.

Genetics or not, I am always my absolute happiest to bring people together in my home. My groups of friends mix well together and it's because I choose them for their openness, kindness and joy. We all find a similar happiness in meeting new people and learning about other peoples lives and interests. We're curious and fun.

Naturally, yesterday was no exception. The cat ran around the yard, old friends and new laughed too loudly in a quiet garden in the suburbs and grilled all the food I could find. It was bittersweet, too, knowing that it will probably be the last party chez the Host Family. Then - who know exactly where I'll be next April, and with all my blessings I can't imagine I won't be able to have another, equally wonderful barbeque for all my friends. Which is definitely something I can drink to.

Thus Begins A Day of Barbeque

Well, I've successfully become a sucky blogger. I would like to say that I had no time to blog this week, but actually I am on vacation. No, my lack of blogging isn't even lack of inspiration, it's sheer laziness. Well, that and I have been dying of a nighttime only post nasal drip cough which is rendering sleep nearly impossible - for poor Sweetlips as well.

At first I blamed the volcanic ash but then that cleared and the cough stayed. So then I blamed springtime allergies in general which is probably true but doesn't mean the cough shouldn't warrant a trip to my doctor to get some cough syrup with codeine care of the glorious socialized health care system. And so I guess I'll do that Monday, as I suspect SL wants to sleep a little next week.

In regards to the other fabulous things such as and The most beautiful Sunday Paris has had yet and How much Boo Radley LOVES HM's amazing garden, well that Sunday is going to be overshadowed by the NEXT most beautiful day and the afore mentioned upcoming BBQ which is happening today. I have the host families fridge full of vegetables and hamburger meat and am tinkering with a homemade BBQ sauce.

This particular celebration falls on the heels of yesterday when my hang ups and stomach knots with the visa came to temporary end. I still don't have a visa in my hand which means I still can't work but there is some promise - some light at the end of the tunnel - and it began to shine yesterday when I sent my file to New York to be reviewed by the French American Chamber of Commerce. I felt amazing not having those various peices of paper in my possession any longer, having every page filled out and signed. Now all I have to do is wait (and what better way to start waiting than to have a barbeque?)






Yes, on this magnificent spring day I am feeling pretty damn good (if a little tired from the coughing). I have something like twenty people on their way to my home to celebrate this fabulous weather. I also have something like eight pounds of tomatoes I have accidentally purchased that I have to figure out how to make into food (Tomatoes on EVERYTHING!) and five pounds of beef to make into hamburgers. (My secret recipe burgers, of course.)

I also have to shave my legs, or maybe I will just cheat and wear tights, but either way I should probably shower. Though I suspect I will inevitably end up smelling like a grill I do think my guests would appreciate if I made a small effort to be presentable. I mean, I think anyway.

Tra la la! Photos of BBQ to come!

Should Post

As seems to be the norm lately I have let go of posting. But right now Sweetlips is curled up on my stomach like an adorable Daily Squee photo and I am feeling somewhere between a nasty case of the allergies and a cold (but I could just be dying from Iceland's Volcanic ash).

I would like to discuss at length with you, later:

• My new flatshare
• The hang ups and stomach knots with the visa
• Including how the stupid volcano is trying to Fuck My Life
• The most beautiful Sunday Paris has had yet
• The up coming BBQ in HM's amazing garden
  
• and
  
• How much Boo Radley LOVES said amazing garden
• (even though he is an indoor cat. Whoops.)

I promiseI will deliver. Like, seriously.

For now, sleep.

With Some Fava Beans and a Nice Chianti (Pft Pft Pft Pft Pft)

Last night - knowing that I'd had a week of rough ups and downs - Sweetlips invited me to a nice dinner (after bringing me tulips *SWOON*).

We dined locally at a restaurant I've passed a million times by bus and always thought "oh that place looks so warm and inviting, I should eat there." It was only an added bonus that it's smack between his house and mine.

It was quiet in the restaurant - only three tables including us. Lights were low and Spanish music playing; the waiter was amiable and accomodating. Things looked good.

We were starving so we skipped appetizer and went straight to main course. We were both undecided about what to get, choosing between two items on the menu.

"I'll get one and you get the other," I said. He agreed. "What is a rognon, though?"

SL didn't know and instead of asking, I just ordered. And any of you who actually know what rognons are know exactly where this is going.

I knew there was something amiss with my plate on the first bite.

"This meat is strange," I said aloud. I chewed, mentally examining the texture in my mouth. I looked closer at the piece itself.

Oh God." I said aloud, mouth half full of food, "I am eating an organ."

I forced myself to eat the plate (because I was starving!) before asking the waiter exactly which organ I was eating.

"Oh, he didn't tell you?" He said, motioning at SL, "It's the kidneys."

"Oh hrmmm, yes, thank you," I said, stomach lurching.

In case you were wondering, kidneys of veal taste exactly like you think they would - like a kidney of a baby cow. And oh how those kidneys landed like a rock in my stomach.

Now it's certain - I will never again order so confidently off a menu I don't fully understand. Delicacy or not, I'm just not cut out for the various innards of animals. Even if they are washed down with good wine.

Occupied

I have been a tad pre-occupied these past weeks and no, it's not the fault of Sweetlips. Okay, a lot of it has to do with him but it's not entirely his fault, I swear.

I try really hard not to be one of those girls who stops hanging out with her friends and gives up her passions for her new boyfriend. I also try not be the kind of person who speaks endlessly, non-stop about her new significant other, because GAH we all know how annoying that can be.

Of course I allow myself a grace period - we are all allowed a little honeymoon phase where we are completely in luv and completely obnoxious. I think a month is sufficient. But in case my friends already think that is too much, they have been blessed by my new romance coinciding with my new job. Which has not started yet.


This, dear internets, causes a great deal of anxiety for me. Not because it's not happening but because there are still a number of variables that still need to be sorted out and most of them lay over on the side of the field which is currently numbered with hundreds of French government officials. They are snarling at me from across the line of scrimmage (am I making a football reference here? Oh yes, I think I am...) and though it's hard to resist the urge to tinkle in my tights, I am pretty sure that I can outwit the big oafs on account of my wiry "go-get-em!" attitude. I plan on wriggling underneath their hairy armpits, and before they know what's happened I'll be on the other side waving my right to work under their sour mustaches. And then I will pop a bottle of their best champagne and we'll all "tchin-tchin" and sing the Marseillaise.

But seriously I've not been doing anything else with my time besides focusing on the two afore mentioned distractions. Everything else receives my demi-attention - including the cat, poor beast. (Oh but he is the fun new friend of SL!)

I predict at least another month before my life settles again, given that all things fall into place as they should. When I have visa in hand I can set up a move date for my new flat share (which I couldn't be more excited about). Boo Radley and I will leave behind the quiet bird chirping suburbs for a noisier, trash truck crashing, right there by the Seine with a full sized fridge kind of life.

All this change at once is giving me an ulcer. But somehow I've cut down my cigarette intake. Go figure.

And what are you up to?

Midnights

SL has a the strangest habit of waking me up in the dead of the night to talk about really important things. This must be when his brain finally digests our Franglish conversations or something, but I'm worried that this is giving strange results. I have been known to hold entire conversations (and answer the phone!) in my sleep.

Last night around three he woke fully and turned to me.

"Baby, why did you say that thing you said when I was asleep?"

"Mhmmmmnnn?" I replied.

"You know, when you were about to go to bed."

"Huh? Oh. It's because of the donkey in the garden darling. Just the donkey."

At least this is what I imagine I said because I wasn't actually awake.

In the morning I scratch my head trying to decide if I dreamt our conversation or not. Then I peer outside trying to find the donkey. Where'd that ass go to this time...

NCIS is BYOB

I'm home on a Friday night. This is very unusual, but what's even stranger is that I'm thinking of going to bed at ten thirty.

I'm watching NCIS in French and SL and I have already finished a bottle of wine and some chinese food. My broken clothes drying rack is positioned perfectly in front of my TV and the boy is snoring lightly beside me.

I feel like I should have something to write after having not blogged for basically a week but my brain is tired and feeling terribly unoriginal. All my creativity is being sucked up by the television show and translating the obvious romance between Agent Gibs and the cute secret service girl who probably murdered her baby daddy to get closer to the President.

Sometimes I really wish I could just click the language over into English, just for me shows. Not because I don't understand them but because the dubbed voices are so off base. It's like listening to my best friends after they've just sucked a bunch of helium. Kinda funny for a minute but eventually just annoying.

In the end, even if I understand everything I still feel like I've missed something.

Which, in many ways, is like a Friday night out drinking. Except I'm not spending money on this priceless entertainment. That's never a bad thing, I guess.

But if someone wanted to send me my shows in English I'm sure this whole Friday party would be a million times more hilarious. I'm just sayin.

What a Sweet Bunny

There were no colored eggs or chocolate rabbits for me this Easter (and no church either), but I did celebrate the long weekend the best way I could, thanks to my sweet Mr. Mister (you know the one with the Sweetlips!).

On Saturday morning he surprised me with a rented blue Peugeot and he drove me to the sea. The coast of choice was Normandy and a little town called Dieppe.

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(If your browser is as old as mine, see the photos on Flickr HERE.)

Neither of us had ever been to (or really heard) of Dieppe. It was chosen for its proximity to both Paris and the ocean. And, as a tourist destination, Dieppe doesn't have all that much to offer. Like much of this part of the Normand coast, the town is known for it's (failed) battle against the Germans. Here, during the Dieppe Raid, a total of 3,623 of the 6,086 Canadian soldiers who made it ashore were either killed, wounded, or captured. Because of this not much remains of the original town and the main ocean promenade is lined by boxy 1960's buildings and a large car park. But like much of this part of the Normand coast, the landscape is positively breathtaking. This more than makes up for bad architecture.

Of course the town itself was not the object of myself and SL. We just wanted to be together, alone, in which we succeeded. We strolled along the beach as the cold wind whipped up off the channel, only going back because it started to rain. We ate dinner, drank too much wine and tried our hands at the 20 centime slots of The Grand. We each lost twenty euros. We watched the Simpsons before bed.

By the suggestion of the uncomfortably chipper reception lady we took the following day to drive up the coast before heading back to Paris. Apparently the coast is known as "The Alabaster Coast", and there is a route that goes through all the towns along it which is named "The Route of Ivory and Spices". Lead by a picto-map given to us by the hotel we set out, mostly in search of food. Easter Sunday didn't promise too much would be open for our growling bellies.

The road meandered through the coastal country side, brilliant green littered with little thatched roof and gingerbread style cottages that looked good enough to eat.

"Oh my god, it's so cute," I kept saying. And then in again in French for emphasis.

After about an hour of passing un-opened restaurants we came across a sign "Hotel Restaurant". And lo! There we found lunch and the sweetest little bed and breakfast I've never stayed at. Hotel de la Terrasse fed us our delicious Easter lunch (and emptied our wallets). Even though I just read a rather scathing review of the Hotel, the price is very reasonable and I think we'll go back. The location was amazing and there were ponies next to the tennis court. I imagine it's amazing in June and July.

We continued onto Etretat then, bellies full, and were greeted on our arrival by the perfect blue sky. I, of course, left my camera in the car for this stop. But trust me, it was stunning. The ocean was glittering in blue green, reflecting the brilliant sky and smashing against the pristine white cliffs. The hills around the tiny village were jeweled in emerald. Cold wind whipped up fresh clean sea air. So perfect. You should be so lucky to have such a wonderful boyfriend take you away for such a sweet Easter!

(And what a great way to celebrate a new job!)

It Really Happened

I had the second interview with Pharmaceuticals Inc.* and was offered the job the same day. Oh my God interfriends I'm going to be employeed in the country of France. In Paris!

There were no words to describe the elation I felt yesterday as I left the office - my new office. I quite literally did a dance in the elevator. On the street I stopped walking to I could call SL.

"I don't think it went very well." I said, glumly.

"What? Why?"

"Well, I don't think the President liked me."

"Why do you think that? What happened?" he prodded, sympathetically.

"Because he offered me the job!"

"Oh that's great!" SL replied, mustering as much enthusiasm as he could while still confined to his office. I squealed enough for the both of us, and later he admitted that he had been so excited on the inside.

After I hung up I had time to kill before a dinner with Jas and friends but I couldn't think of anywhere to go so I went directly to her apartment - not before buying a bottle of champagne though.

Finally, finally, my day to celebrate has come.

(The only person I really wished I could have called, but couldn't, was my mom. There are still some moments when being an expat spoils the fun.)

Insert Bad April Fools Joke Here

I'm a terrible practical joker, actually. I can never come up with anything really funny that wouldn't cause mild strokes in my loved ones. A friend gave me the idea to email my family and tell them that SL and I are getting married but I don't think Sister L would buy it and I'm pretty sure my mom would cry. If she didn't get to meet my husband before we were married she would most definitely weep. And then maybe stop talking to me.

So no April Fools jokes for me.

Despite that I am feeling rather jolly. Yesterday I was a mess, with the nasty giboulées making the weather positively bipolar. At one moment there was rain pouring from the perfectly blue heavens. Every hour it would the sky would clear and then the clouds would roll back in with cold darkness. I felt crazy and anxious.

Add to this my increasing distress about not being able to find work, coupled with disheartening calls from recruiters that went something like "Oh, you don't have a work permit? I assumed you were married because you've been here so long. Sorry, we can't help you." and you have a very wound up me.

So I did what any sane girl would do and met my friends out for one too many bottles of wine.

Low and behold all my fretting was for naught because I woke this morning to an amazing clear blue sky. Even though it was cold I couldn't help but dance a little to the appropriate shuffling songs like "Mr. Blue Sky" and "I'm So Excited".

Midmorning I got a call for a second interview at Pharmaceuticals Inc.*. Even though it's floor cleaning day I could care less (ha! kidding! I still hate cleaning the house!) because it's finally April and we've no more excuses to stay in gloomy winter mode. I even painted my toenails pink to get ready for sandal season.

Other things that make me feel all blissed out on spring?


This cherry tree, whose beauty far surpasses what this photo can contain. It's obviously in my neighbors yard but I want so badly to lay beneath it. I think it's so much prettier than the apple trees.

Host Mom's garden, which is right now giving blue bonnets and fresh lavender. They just these alone make such a lovely little bouquet.


Her first blooming rose bush. I want so badly to pluck some of these - they are delicate and fluffy like peonies and I prefer them to regular standard hybrid roses.

My marker board mirror, which Sweetlips has made good use of. It's lovely to wake everyday to something as sweet and positive as that. And of course he himself is making me feel like singing with a choir of small woodland creatures, but he swears that he doesn't want his image to be on the blog. As if he has a real choice! Oh what people don't think of when they start dating a writer.

This weekend I don't have any particular celebration planned for Easter but I am looking forward to the swimming lessons that SL promises and to spending the entire weekend with him. We've yet to spend one whole day in the company of each other and I simply cannot wait.

The only thing missing is the heat, really. (Enough with the gloves and hats!) But that too will come. See how optimistic I am when the sun is shining? I wish someone would bottle and sell that already.