Life of a Franco-American in the UK

Claire Rides 20

2008-06-29T15:44:00.004+01:00

I may not be blogging too much these days ( read: not at all) but my little sister who has far more real adventures, tests of physical and mental prowess and revelations of the soul than I do is.

Claire is currently riding across the united states along route 20 from Boston, Mass to Portland, OR. And lucky for you she is taking the time to write about it, and write about it well.

www.clairerides20.blogspot.com

Much better than me writing about getting over jet lag by eating meatballs and blue cheese while watching Columbo on the telly and my axolotl Pompydoo play with Stephane.

Check her out. Give her love. Try not to get too depressed that the walk home from the grocery store nearly left you winded while she is covering some 85 miles uphill a day while removing ticks from her body and depending on the kindness of strangers to maintain her minimal hygiene.

This one's for you mama

2008-01-28T23:38:00.000Z

moar funny pictures

What a load of Croc

2008-01-08T16:13:00.000Z

So I did something recently that I promised myself I would never do. Not only did I promise myself, I gave open looks of disdain to those that did and readily spoke about them and their poor sense of style behind their backs. Ladies and Gentlemen, I confess, I wore those hideous Crocs while flying. Trans-Atlantic.

While I admit that they are extremely comfortable, they also look like a piece of plastic cheese that you would find in a child's grocery store set. I let my croc wearing family and newly converted boyfriend convince me that wearing the crocs on our flight back to England would not only be sensible and practical, but would give my flight a whimsical air. Both of us wearing bright red crocs with wool interior, mine with Minnie Mouse sticking out of one of the cheese holes, boyfriend with Donald Duck. How cute.

I am someone who believes that while being comfortable on a long flight is of the utmost importance, it should never be at the expense of style. I broke this rule and paid for it.

You know you're not wearing cool shoes when adults look at the apparel on your feet with shock and/or pity and young kids run up to play with them. I was wearing toys for shoes. In public.

And just to confirm my feelings that the comfortableness of wearing red rubber on my feet would indeed be cancelled out by the sheer embarrassment of wearing red rubber on my feet our taxi driver put in his two cents.

Interesting shoes, he said. Yes. They were Christmas presents from my Mother in Chicago.
Well, your Mum sure has a good sense of humour, because the last time I saw a lady wearing shoes like that a house fell on her.

It's not Easter anymore folks

2007-12-10T12:42:00.000Z

So clearly there has been a bit of hiatus from this blog. Now this doesn't necessarily mean that I'm going to be back posting on a weekly basis, simply that I was sick of seeing that slightly cross-eyed photo of myself from Easter. So here are some photos from my recent trip to the Isle of Jersey. Highly recommend. Especially for fans of seafood.
View of Jersey from the plane

Champagne and oysters. A girl could get used to this.

Easter fun

2007-04-24T22:57:00.000+01:00

There are some memebers of my family who are of the persuasion that the best part of Easter is the egg salad the day after. For me it was always getting my hands dirty.

they say it's a sign of verility, non?

2007-02-19T20:13:00.000Z

I rarely talk about celebrities on this blog, which is probably because like most bloggers I secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) see myself as my own little star. But today I'd like to talk about poor bald Britney Spears. I'm sure the news coverage in the states has been the same over here - Celeb on the verge of a nervous break down.

Now her fragile psyche aside (be they rumours or truth), girl looks good bald. Beneath all those extensions; blurred make-up and beer sweat it was easy to forget that Brit Brit is not just a spiralling pop star on her way down but a pretty face too. She is just so purrty. And I'm jealous. I've always wanted to shave my head, but am too vain, too scared, too, well, normal to go through with it. How amazing it must feel to be able to exfoliate your scalp, to let it see sun, to breathe - and to give your hair a whole new start.

Britney - I hope you get the help you need if you do indeed need help, but most of all I hope you enjoy that beautiful baldhead of yours while you can.

Spicy Ham wears a crisp blanket

2007-02-07T22:31:00.000Z

I've just seen an ad for this lovely looking choice piece of meat - that is right, they are bringing back the Spam Fritter. A slab of spam battered and fried. I'd be interested in finding out why this no doubt light, healthy, all-natural, golden treat had to leave us and what genius decided that we were indeed a nation ready to embrace yet again this spam goodness.

Interestingly enough when I did a search for this photo on Spam Fritters, I found that it is also urban rhyming slang for Shitter.

Enough said.

Second hand comes in first

2007-01-31T23:04:00.000Z

Just thought I'd play the proud daughter and show off some of my Papa's sculptures, who frequently has pieces on display in various Cote d'Azur locations. All sculptures are made by recycled metals, giving used objects new life, be they window handles or tractor seats.

My my has it been that long? You're looking FAB by the way

2007-01-30T18:55:00.000Z

No, No, I didn't forget about you my little neglected blog. I'm sorry I stayed away so long. But instead of wasting time feeling guilty, lets waste time catching up.

Chrimbo and New Years were lovely. Tons of gorgeous home cooked food in France, beautiful countryside, and some long overdue bonding (especially with my youngest sister). Among some of the dishes I ate:

A succulent Venison

The ever popular Christmas treat in France, Oysters.

Tender and powerful Wild Hare

Spent some time with friends in Paris and then dabbled in my first role behind the scenes of a Television show in the making.

It's pretty hard not to miss a city that can give you a sight like this:

I'll do my best to update more often. I find that when I leave it this long there's so much to say, you end up saying nothing at all.

Corn and Fish.

2006-11-23T21:51:00.000Z

Another Thanksgiving spent miles away from the country that raised me on turkey, pumpkin pie and the joy of throwing around the ole pigskin on a brisk fall day in November. Of all holidays I think I find Thanksgiving the hardest to be away from family and friends back in the states.

This holiday to me is more important than all other holidays in America. Thanksgiving doesn’t take in account religion or race. It is a rare time in a vacation skint country where Americans get two full days off to spend time with their families, gorge themselves on good home cooking and relax.

It’s a time of year I find hard being so far away, but I’m making do with my own mini feast this Saturday with a stuffed turkey, green bean salad, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce and thanks to the help of a charming colleague, pumpkin pie for dessert.

I’ve had to field a lot of questions from my British friends about this strange American tradition.

Brit: So do you give each other presents?

Me: No. We just eat a lot and watch American football on t.v.

Brit: So where does the tradition of thanksgiving actually come from?

Me: Well, they teach us in school about how the Pilgrims and the Indians came together for a big feast. The Indians taught the Pilgrims how to plant corn and the Pilgrims taught the Indians how to fish.

Brit: I have a hard time believing the Indians still didn’t know how to fish at this point.

Me: Yeah, you’re right. I think it was more along the lines of the Indians taught the pilgrims how to grow corn by planting it with a fish.

Skeptic Brit: Uh huh….

Me: Well, I know there’s something to do with corn and fish and a big feast.

Brit: Ok.

Me: But of course in reality it was like hey Indian, show me how to plant corn. Thanks. Now here’s a musket in your face and a blanket of small pox. But yeah, pumpkin pie rocks.

So come to think of it, perhaps I don’t deserve to be over in the states for Turkey day

Check out my recollections of Thanksgiving pasts in last years past

Food Glorious Food

2006-11-14T17:55:00.000Z

As winter is creeping upon us I've been a busy little bee in the kitchen but somehow (as my friend the Southern Belle has pointed out) amidst all that cooking I forgot to blog.

Here are some of the dishes I made during my Internt hibernation.

This colourful salad was actually made by the Frenchie - it is one of his classics and tastes as lovely as it looks.

This was my first attempt at fried chicken and judging by the fact that Frenchie devoured all of it and then the next day told some of our friends that they should come over and have me cook them fried chicken all day I'm sure it will not be my last. There was also a chunky mushroom gravy to go with this dish, but the picture looks like fried chicken and mash smothered in baby poop so I decided not to post that one.

I picked up some Halibut at the fishmongers. Stuffed them with lemon slices, massaged a lemon pepper rub into them, wrapped them in tin foil with some leeks and sugar snap peas and a dash of white wine and threw them in the oven with a little water in a baking dish. Accompanied with wild rice. I loved this dish. Although next time I think I'll cook the sugar snap peas separately as they took on too much of the white wine flavour. And some of us had a hard time eating around the bones, but survived.

Stephane's favourite hangover cure. I'm not a big bean fan, but on this particularly fuzzy morning they hit the spot.

My usual roast chicken, nothing beats the classics.

Last night I made my dear friend S. Belle's winter soup. Unfortunately we gobbled it up so fast there is no photo, but I do have some in the freezer now so I'll try to produce a shot at some point. I had to substitute onions for leeks and rosemany for thyme, but the soup was delicious. And I loved the smell that baking squash produced in the house. I finally went out and bought a hand blender (which I've been wanting for ages) and tried it out on the soup. Between me and Stephane a lot of soup went on the walls of the kitchen, but we finally figured it out.

Sorry for the hiatus!

The proud owners of their home grown chili pepper

2006-10-21T15:46:00.000+01:00

Magic Beans and Sunshine

2006-10-04T19:33:00.000+01:00

The ankle is recovering nicely and thanks to everyone who wished for a speedy bipedal return. I am now sans crutches and sans bandage. Bruises are fading. My limp comes and goes as does the pain, but I am ever so thankfull to be mobile once more. I cannot wait to be able to run again. And we will even be attempting to play catch again with our super fast nerf football - although not in our hole-ridden back yard, but in the University park down the road.

I finally went to go see Little Miss Sunshine. I had been playing down my true feelings about this movie in order to not over hype it to friends and colleagues and have the movie not live up to my gushing praise. But I myself have had many a movie ruined for me by others this way so I decided, hey - fuck it. This movie is hands down the funniest movie I have ever seen. For the first time in my life I watched the credits roll in a darkened movie house with tears streaming down on my face - tears of laughter. I want to shrink the movie down in all its yellow honest goodness and carry it around in my pocket forever and ever.

So, as I recall, I had given a blurb about the New York leg of our trip and failed to mention Boston. Oh darling Boston - do not think it is because I love you less. I was wounded, remember? Wounded playing with the very football purchased in your fair city.

A quick rundown of our time in Beantown: First off the reason why I had not mentioned anything about this trip to NYC/Boston on my blog prior to departure is because mi madre had no idea we were going. She was wrought with guilt over the fact that she had abandoned her first born daughter in the middle of England never having visited her and yet had been to see her second child in her new Bostonian digs twice or thrice or something - a lot more than none is what I'm getting at here (you reading this Mom?)

The surprise was great as she had no idea and was impressed with the amount of people involved who had to keep our trans-atlantic voyage under wraps. We spent the weekend en famille - eating, walking, shopping etc. I only wish we could have had more time together.

After the parents left we had a fabulous greco-roman party chez Ondine with plenty of sexy togas, olives, dolmas, Ben Hur and impromptu cold readings of greek plays. Oh and copious amounts of red wine.

Stephane and I stayed in a beautiful B&B in Cambridge which had High Tea with a different type of cupcake everyday. There was a cute gray kitty that would occasionaly hang out in our room or join us on the patio while we tucked into breakfast.

There was a baseball game at Fenway park, a tour around the Museum of Natural History in Harvard, lobster, clams and oysters were consummed in the oldest restaurant in America, a certain Freedom trail was followed, and much drinking, eating and shopping.

Another one bites the dust

2006-09-20T14:01:00.000+01:00

So my view for the past day and a half has been this:

On monday night, while I was waiting for my photos to upload for my post on NYC, I asked Stephane if he'd like to go out in the garden and throw around the new nerf (american) football that we had bought in Boston. We played for about half an hour, me in the deep end making some spectacular catches which Stephane will back me up on. We then decided to switch sides. About 2 minutes into that I went running to catch the ball, my left foot fell into one of the many holes hidden in the field behind our house, my body went falling one way and my foot stayed planted in the hole.

A call to the ambulance later (with a very charming Stephane telling 999 that his "partnairs ahnkle his beeg, lahk a bubbal") Stephane finally got them to come over. Wheel chaired out of my house sucking on laughing gas for the pain.

Luckily one of my friends at the hospital is doing night shifts this week and so I had a friendly face take care of me, which made all the difference.

It started raining when we got home and I had to crawl through my front door with it pissing down on me and all the neighbors staring out their windows.

So If anyone has any pointers on walking with crutches let me know. I'm not very good at it.

On the plus side, my arms and back will get super toned from having to get up and down stairs on my butt.

Martini flavored cheetos redux

2006-09-18T07:46:00.000+01:00

Martinis to Cheetos and everything inbetween

2006-09-11T19:22:00.000+01:00

Our recent trip to the states started with an incredible cheese burger and a martini at our friend, the ever fabulous Miss O’s swanky local pub in Brookline, Massachusetts and ended with a much coveted bag of orange finger inducing Cheetos at Gate B36 at Logan Airport.

What? You went to America and didn’t tell us? Yes. Sorry for the secrecy but this trip was on a need know basis, as my Mama had no idea we were going stateside to see her for a transatlantic Birthday surprise. It worked like a charm.

And since you have all been so patient while I have been away – excluding those of you that send me threatening emails to write more often or pay the consequences – I will treat you to a long overdue Lauren photo-story.

We arrived in Boston for a single night, graciously put up by Miss O . Fell in love with her neighbourhood and apartment, which is impressive considering we were jet lagged and smelly, which is not a good state to fall in love with anything or anyone.

We then took the cheap (in every sense of the word) Fung Wah bus to New York City where we were picked up by the generous and patient Beau of my favourite jersey girl, Danielle . Dinner in Little Italy and a short walk to work off the copious amounts of pasta consumed.

Danielle, her Beau and her scrumptious dog Audrey (who is NOT a fan of Beyoncé’s new single in case you were thinking of getting her the album for her birthday) housed us for our short week in the Big Apple. I'll let the photos do the talking.

Despite having already been in NYC for a day and a half, this is the first photo we took. T. Rex in Toys R Us in Time Square.

A quick snap at Time Square.

Unfortunately I'm going to have to leave you in suspense. I was hoping to put up all my NYC photos tonight, but either a slow connection or a Blogger bug is causing my photos to take way too long to update. I'll update as soon as

On top of spaghetti

2006-08-03T22:08:00.000+01:00

This week's roundtable is a tasty delight thanks to the sexy Sereena
.

She discusses the food pyramid that is for all intents and purposes defunct, and takes it upon herself to start a new pyramid. But she needs your help.

Stop my Metaphor Dummy and tell Sereena what you think should be on the New and Improved Food Pyramid

You may call me Rose.

2006-08-02T19:01:00.000+01:00

Last night's quiz. We didn't win, but that's besides the point. The point is I out Englished the English.

The question was: Which English Football team's name starts with five consecutive consonants? And among the 6 or so English men ( plus a couple football loving foreigners) the only person who got the question right was the American girl sitting in the corner.

I have now been officially dubbed an English lass.

And it looks like I'll be supporting Crystal Palace from now on, so the fun stops there.

I also discovered the joys of shandy just to complete my transformation into a true English lass. What pure joy to be drinking what appears to the naked eye as pints of bitter from 5pm to 11pm straight and to leave the pub speaking with eloquence and perfect articulation (albeit a bit quickly given all the sugar from the lemonade) and then to wake up sans hangover in the morning.

Our local's beer festival is on until Saturday though, so I won't be tainting all these delicious brews with soda pop.

You don't look a day under 124

2006-07-27T20:07:00.000+01:00

Atul discusses the idea of living longer for this week's roundtable. If you live until 200 years old say, would you want to? Having to remember all those grandchildren's, great grandchildren's, great great grandchildren's birthdays. Stop on by Things I've Noticed and discuss.

Money, Money, Money... it's a rich man's world.

2006-07-20T07:56:00.000+01:00

Thanks to our darling chief roundtabler RW I now have way too many songs about money running through my head. RW wants to be rich. So start sending him cheques in the mail so that he can be happy. How much money would YOU be satisfied with?

Roundtable MIA

2006-07-15T12:06:00.000+01:00

So between going to LA to see family, recovering over jetlag, going to London on business, staying too late in the pub and mourning the loss of France I have been a completely terrible Roundtabler.

Which is really a shame because there have been some fabulous posts out there.

Take a gander at the following sites (or hell - go visit all of the Roundtablers on my sidebar, because they are all witty, intuitive, charming, prolific bloggers and deserve to be read as often and as rigorously as possible ( - do ya'll forgive me now?)

Prego

discusses whether you are perhaps too old to rock and roll even if you are too young to die

Debra

discusses why she can't handle these cutesy, obnoxious, demanding children (yes that's right - she's a pickin' on the youngins), you know, the ones you see in Welche's Grape Juice commercial

SK Waller

talks about the exciting emotional pull of an airport, the coming and going, hussle and bussle, the great people watching... a post after my own heart

Allez The Blues

2006-07-11T07:56:00.000+01:00

It is important to be reminded that our heroes are only human.

And we were reminded by our English friends that it is a great honor to see your country win the world cup, as many people will never get the chance to see it in their life times. So I shall hold on to 1998 to help wash down the bitter taste and look on to 2010

Here I am with hope and pride still running through me, minutes before the game, drinking Pastis and predicting our second world cup win.

And here we are wearing sunglasses to hide our tears. Ok, I'm wearing sunglasses to hide my tears, I'm a tad more emotional than my other half.

Allez les Bleus!!!!!

2006-07-09T16:08:00.000+01:00

So I'm back from L.A. It was short but fabulous. Starting with sushi and pedicures and ending with a relaxed and charming celebration of the addition of two kind, intelligent, beautiful women into the clan, as well as the happiest little baby ever.

Flying over the United States

I've missed out on two roundtables in my absence.... and promis to catch up soon. HOWEVER, I am now off to the pub to watch France play in the World Cup final. With every game I fall more and more in love with Zinedine Zidane. He is arguably the best player of his generation and besides being taken away by unbelievable sexiness and physical prowess, I am so honored to see him play in his last ever World Cup match.

Zizou - je t'adore. Allez les Bleus!

Hollywood here I come

2006-06-28T07:57:00.000+01:00

So I'm flying to Los Angeles tomorrow to watch France v Brazil and England v Portugal. Ok, that is not why I'm flying to LA at all, it's more of a fabulous family reunion with new wives and new babies. I was hoping to wake up earlier and give you all a long post before I leave, but sleep is sweet and deep and not nearly as seductive as you.

Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I leave you with this photo till tomorrow... (Willy S. ain't got nothin' on me)

Sipping champagne in the Johnson Arms beer garden for a belated celebration of my birthday after the first England match.

We may not be in the World Cup anymore, but at least we're good at making you hate us

2006-06-22T18:11:00.000+01:00

A very excellent Roundtable post over at Hairshirt discussing how America is so good at making the rest of the world hate them and some tips on how to improve upon this worldly hatred.

Don't agree? Think America is the bomb-diggity and deserves every man, woman and child's utmost respect? Go on over and tell him. I'm sure Joe will make you feel right at home.

Yeah, I still got it.

2006-06-21T17:55:00.000+01:00

I was asked out on a date last night, and while I’m sure this is no big news to you sexy singletons out there, it was huge for me. I’ve been with the same guy for nearly 4 years now, so it’s safe to say my dating scene has been limited (to one great man). Everyone new that I have met in the past 3 or so years hasn’t met me as Lauren, but as Lauren plus 1, Lauren and her French man, LaurenandStephane.

I didn’t even catch his name, but he was a Norwegian man nearly as wide as he was tall who had come down to the pub to cheer England on at beating the Swedes. After briefly being introduced, him trying to repeatedly catch my eye across the crowded pub and then unsuccessfully trying to buy me a drink, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found myself sitting with my partner on my right and a Nordic stranger on my left asking me if I was free tomorrow night. It just never occurred to me that he wouldn’t know that I was with Stephane. He generously accepted the fact that I was taken, told me I was with the wrong man, but hoped he treated me well.

God it felt good.

Roundtable: Concert Firsts

2006-06-15T00:05:00.000+01:00

Unlike hearing about what someone dreamt last night and dissecting its symbolism or sitting around talking about other people’s dead pets for hours on end I really love hearing about people’s first concert.

The first concert a person attended can tell you more in a few sentences than a poorly construed autobiography could do in months. One’s first concert marks a moment, a period in time, a fad that dates them, dates their parents or older sibling and is often a telling insight into their awkward pre-teen years.

Often the person was dragged to a concert by their parents, which explains a lot about their upbringing. Did their mom drag them to see Neil Sedaka? Or perhaps their father took them to an open-air Cream gig because he couldn’t afford tickets and a babysitter. Notice the completely different feelings these two sentences give. Cookie cutter kook or far-out rebellion on a dime.

Occasionally you hear of the person who went to some concert with their older brother or sister because their parents forced Bill to take little Johnny along with him and his friends so they could have a night to themselves. I always envied these people, as I don’t have an older sibling of my own. They got the chance to go to shows like Blondie, Madonna in her black lace fingerless gloves phase, Twisted Sister. They felt left out by being the tag-a-long little sibling at the time, but somewhere deep down inside they knew that this night would make them that much cooler for the rest of their lives.

Then you have the people who chose the concert all on their own. The actual age of the concertgoer at the time is crucial for this story – it indicates whether they had strict parents or not or whether they were late bloomers. Usually the concert that is actually chosen by the person happens around the awkward pre-teen years. These are the years when good taste has been often abandoned for any popular trend. Debbie Gibson and Tiffany spring to mind.

Technically my first concert was Joni Mitchell somewhere in California. I was four years old, taken there by my parents. My only memory of it is dancing on a hilltop in a sunflower dress while hippies clapped me along. If my parents hadn’t divorced I think there would have been a lot more of these concerts in my upbringing.

My first actual chosen concert was when I was 13 (a late bloomer in my eyes) to see Bob Dylan play at the Riviera in Chicago for my birthday. It was me, two friends and my mom. I felt kind of lame for having my mom there, especially when she refused to pass along an incense stick that was making the rounds through the crowd as if it were some kind of a drug, but I never would have had the guts to go without her.

I wonder if the fact that I chose Bob Dylan shows that I have a vintage philosopher’s soul – more likely it simply shows that the kids I thought were in cool in junior high were into our parent’s music, and with gusto.

What does your first concert say about you? Trendy teenybopper with a laidback upbringing? Late bloomer with a penchant for the oldies?

As I was scanning over the crowd at the Gomez concert last night (who kicked ass by the way) I tried to discern who were the young first time concertgoers. Which of these kids belonged to the tight-lipped parents standing against the wall hoping their child doesn’t get swallowed into the mass of bobbing heads and plastic cups filled with beer.

And what will people think of them when they say: “My first concert? It was Gomez in a dive bar in Sheffield in 2006”

Better late than never

2006-06-12T07:46:00.000+01:00

If you haven't already gone over to Donny B's Blog for last week's roundtable do so with a stiff drink in your hand - and make it a double. Donny is discussing X-Tina and Paris Hilton, their musical chops or lack their of and the disgusting fact that Paris Hilton is still in the media.

I had the unfortunate experience of downloading Paris' song (for the sake of the Roundtable, people, not on my own volition) and it somehow repeated itself 3 times into my iTunes.

Designer paper towels, France, and a pub quiz = this post

2006-06-01T22:19:00.000+01:00

Something a bit more lighthearted since last weeks brain scratcher, Serenade in green discusses the merits of some fancy paper towels to add some colour to your kitchen. Go on over and tell us what kind of paper towels you prefer...

I know I've been a long time coming with a new post, and you're going to have to wait even longer as I am off to the south of France - Millau to be exact - for a wedding.

But just so you don't feel that I'm leaving you empty handed for the next four days, here are the recent photos from last Tuesday's pub quiz (which we managed to win despite our bismal score of 22 out of 34). I have so many posts and fun weekends to share rattling around in my brain and my hard drive. Soon, I promise.

Is this a face that would lie to you? Perhaps. But it is the face of a quiz winner ladies and gentlemen

Remnants of a quiz...

Two very sexy women if I do say so myself

Even lying down, Stephane manages to be the life of the pub ...

... and his other half ain't too bad either

Does this mean I have penis envy?

2006-05-27T13:04:00.000+01:00

The results from my Freud test - because dead crazy cokeheads have all the answers

Freudian Inventory Results

Oral (53%) you appear to have a good balance of independence and interdependence knowing when to accept help and when to do things on your own.
Anal (23%) you appear to be overly lacking in self control and organization, and possibly have a compulsive need to defy authority. If you are too scatterbrained, you will not develop much as a person as you will habitually switch paths before you ever learn anything.
Phallic (83%) you appear to have issues with controlling your sexual desires and possibly fidelity.
Latency (66%) you appear to be afraid or averse to present or future real world responsibilities, this will only make your inevitable transition more difficult, so learn to deal with the real world.
Genital (66%) you appear to have a progressive and openminded outlook on life unbeholden to regressive forces like traditional authority and convention.

Take Free Freudian Inventory Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

Hmmm - not such good news for the boyfriend. Although I'm surprised there's not as much Oral given my thumb sucking issues.

It's the end of the world as we know it

2006-05-25T23:57:00.000+01:00

Sereena hosts this week's roundtable with another excellent question: The world is going to end in seven days - what are you going to do?

Stop on over and give us the details of your last week on earth. And next time you see me, remind me to tell you my "end of the world" joke - best told in person.

My own private zoo

2006-05-25T07:53:00.000+01:00

Last night having a cigarette in my garden, doing my best not to crush snails, I could have sworn there was a small black animal crouching at the back. I kept staring at it as it seemed to change shapes in the shadows. I then realised it was just a tuft of grass and that my eyes were playing tricks on me.

Just as I decide that an animal spotting will not occur tonight, a sly skinny little guy comes darting across the lawn and stops to stare at me. Our first fox. We shared a moment as he stared me down - the wild one and the domestic. He then darted on into the woods.

Is it too much to call him Robin?

We already have Hilbert the hedgehog, and our pigeon couple, Billy and The Kid. If we continue like this I'll have to start naming all the maggots that live in my garbage can. Baby fly #1, Baby fly #2...

We'll always have Paris

2006-05-22T17:25:00.000+01:00

I'm going through the same torn feelings as my dahling friend Miss O upon leaving Paris all over again. Part of me knows that Nottingham is a really good place for me right now, but it is hard to listen to that voice when it's being drowned out by the drunken singing of my friends, the sound of stylish French heels on cobble stone streets or the simple clink of your spoon against a porcelain espresso cup.

This city has become a part of me in more ways than one. It has seen me grow from an ignorant American girl into a self-confident woman. It saw me when I first became financially independent from my Mother. It has seen me through the rocky, exciting beginnings of the biggest love of my life.

We spent the days walking around the left bank and islands. Purchased some jewellery on Ile St. Louis, got kicked out of the jardin behind Notre Dame due to a gusty wind that would put Chicago to shame. The nights of course were used up by vodka and old friends. So much gossip to catch up on in 6 months - people leaving, people changing jobs, getting married, having babies, cheating on their wives.

Everyone asked me when Stephane and I are going to move back. We'll eventually return to Paris. Be it in 2 years or 20. I'm not worried about Paris changing - I'm worried that we will be different. But perhaps that's a good thing.

Shopping on Ile-St-Louis

Me and the girls in The Fifth Bar. Behaving ourselves...for the photo at least.

The Newlyweds

Our Frenchmen

Stephane and the new Shebeen team.

Rock on.

Hardy har har

2006-05-18T18:22:00.000+01:00

Make 'em laugh says Atul at this week's roundtable. But not by swearing nor by drawing attention to whatever minority group you belong to. It's a been there done that kind of a thing.

Stop on by and discuss your favorite comics. I'll be in my corner drooling over the idea of Eddie Izzard in jeans and high heels.

I'll also be off to Paris tomorrow (waking up at the disturbing hour of 4am, an hour I plan to be using as my bedtime while over in the City of Lights).

I'll be sure to come back with plenty of stories and pics.

gros bisous!

Here fishy fishy fishy fishy

2006-05-17T01:10:00.000+01:00

One of those nights when you go into the pub for 1 or 2 pints and find yourself 6 pints to the wind, talking to some guy from Victoria, South Africa and swapping odd family history stories;

A meal I made awhile a go. Cod I believe.

What the crap is that on your feet?

2006-05-11T22:27:00.000+01:00

The Roundtable's honorary Big Daddy discusses a nasty californ-I-A trend in foot wear that is just NOT ON. I totally agree with RW, the tassled loafers are lame. If you wear them - stop on by and try to defend yourself, but trust me, you'll be alone.

In other news our pub had it's last pub quiz before changing managment. While we didn't win the quiz, I did manage to win £75 in Deal or No Deal. Which we spent on one round of drinks and the rest we gave to a charity for the Blind. We also managed to win 45 lollipops, ate a few and gave the rest to the children's ward at the hospital. Made me feel all warm and fuzzy at the end of the night, and I don't think the Whiskey was entirely to blame this time.

I don't run after buses even if I'm late.

2006-05-07T22:22:00.000+01:00

I want to give a BIG congratulations and a holy fuck how'd you do that to my little sister who not only finished the Washington D.C. marathon in 5 hours and 12 minutes, but also beat out everyone in her age group AND managed to SPRINT the last half mile while the others practically crawled over the finish line.

What did I do today? Grocery shopping, laid in bed reading Cosmo when I should have been cleaning the house, watched Lost, made a Roast chicken and had two, count 'em two "low-fat" chocolate mouse snacks. Sometimes it amazes me that my sister and I come from the same gene pool. She's amazing.

My biggest accomplishment these past few months? Getting my hair cut. Enjoy:

I suck.

2006-05-06T00:16:00.000+01:00

I just finished the movie Thumbsucker. I had read the book years ago. My mother had given it to me. Not because it had rave reviews, or a friend had recommended it to her, she bought it based on the title alone. I am 25 years old, soon to be 26 in less than a month and I suck my thumb. I have since birth I suppose. And not just in my sleep. I suck it while watching TV, while taking a shower, while pausing to think of what next to write in my blog.

It was strange to see this movie. I related too much to it and those similarities ended up feeling like almost an invasion.

An interesting difference however between myself and the protagonist of Thumbsucker, Justin, is that I was never ashamed of my childish habit. I am not proud, and I don’t advertise it (yeah, good job writing about on your website Lauren, way to keep it on the DL) but I can count the instances someone made me feel ashamed of being a thumbsucker on one hand. And I think that’s mainly down to the fact that I didn’t let them.

While Justin hides in his high school bathroom to suck his thumb between classes, I used to suck my thumb in the middle of class. I’m sure that people used to know me as that weird girl who sucked her thumb during US History. Actually I KNOW that that is how people in high school knew me as. I just don’t remember caring.

I don’t suck my thumb at work. Well at least not when anyone’s looking. So obviously at some point what is socially acceptable has taken precedence over my comforting addiction.

I went to the dentist when I was back in the states and I asked him to give me a mouth guard to help with the sucking at night. I enjoy sucking my thumb and I don’t necessarily want to stop, I also don’t want to have teeth sticking horizontally out of my mouth in 10 years time and have completely wasted all the money my mother put into braces, expanders and retainers. My dentist later commented to my mother that she had an amazing daughter to be able to admit such an embarrassing trait so openly.

Is it that embarrassing? Something I should hide? Constantly in fear that I’ll fall asleep in public and wake up with my thumb in my mouth in front of a stranger?

We all have addictions, habits, quirks. Perhaps I’m too open with mine. You’d think I would have learned by now not to talk with my mouth full.

New Roundtable

2006-05-05T00:47:00.000+01:00

I'll do my best to hide my celeb crazy drive while drunk and give you all a heads up on today's roundtable with SK Waller. But it does appear that we have a mild celebrity in our group. Shhh, but don't make too big of a deal about it, ok?

All roads lead to Utrecht*

2006-05-01T22:19:00.000+01:00

(A rather appropriate piece of graffiti under a bridge in Weesp)

I do believe it is possible to fall in love with a place. To be ready within hours of your arrival to be willing to give up a stable relationship; give up the ability to communicate, give up any semblance of a career because you have suddenly found a place which feeds some hidden part of you that had been ignored for so long you forgot it existed.

Holland is beautiful, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Water seems to be the life force of this country, with canals coursing through it at each turn. We were staying in the town of Weesp, a small historical city of around 18,000 inhabitants – bridges, fortresses, windmills and WWII bunkers all lend to the charming atmosphere of this town a mere 10 minute train ride from the center of Amsterdam.

After a few hours of walking around in Weesp – I asked Stephane if he could possibly get a job in Amsterdam after his contract is up in Nottingham. After only a day there we were both looking at housing prices. I couldn’t imagine a better place to raise your children – water babies that are born on bikes.

We spent one day in Amsterdam, touristy boat ride through the canals – where I found out the interesting facts that one car on average per week falls into the canals despite the expensive addition of low metal railings installed in the 1960’s in hopes to cure this very problem and that all houses in Amsterdam have the exterior hooks at the top to raise furniture in and out of the windows as the staircases are too narrow.
We walked and walked and walked. I never tired of the site of dozens of bikes lined up against walls or the gentle curve of a house-lined canal. In order to feel that we were at least getting some culture in the city that has the most museums in the world, we made a quick stop into the Sex Museum – which had surprisingly clean bathrooms and fabulously tacky mannequin displays.

Amsterdam’s red light district reminds me of 7-11. Those seedy places where all morals are left at the door and people come to act like the lowest common denominator of themselves. A place where the store clerks give you a devilish grin because he knows exactly why you all of the sudden decided you needed a sweaty foot long hot dog, a big gulp and while we’re at one of those magazines in the back covered in a brown paper bag thankyouverymuch. Except in Amsterdam the hot dogs are replaced by sweaty dildos, the magazine is replaced with videos of women raping dogs - the big gulp stays the same – but it’ll cost you extra here.

In the defence of the Dutch, you’d be hard pressed to actually find one in this area. It’s a sordid tourist trap with dark men doing drug deals on street corners. As it was Sunday – not all of the prostitutes were working, so many of the windows were empty. Most of the girls I did see were tall and thin and plastic pretty, some were large black women with luxurious rolls of flesh spilling out of their lingerie, some were men dressed as women, all wore too much make-up and all of them had cold dead eyes.

Outside of this area Amsterdam is lovely and I am anxious to return and give this city more of time.
My work host took me on scenic drives between Tilburg and Weesp, where we rode on a narrow and winding dike that had a wide and clear river to one side and expansive farms with gorgeous homes and gardens which were dotted with cows, sheep and their young. Some of the farms had small ponds with ducks and lily pads. My host explained that this is because at one point the dyke broke causing the other side to flood and the pond to appear over night.

I did my best to pick up as much Dutch as possible. Not that it was necessary as most everyone can speak a little English, but I can now understand the majority of a menu, and can say Thank you, Good morning, Goodbye, Cheese, Chicken and Grandpa.

Equipped with large chunks of Gouda, a bag of Weespermoppen, a sweet cake that is a specialty of Weesp I made my way back to England. I had clear skies as I flew over the coast of Holland, which is all sand beaches. I think I have become so enamoured with Holland because it has been way too long since I have visited a new country and the joy of discovering a new language, culture and countryside over took me. Perhaps the grass is always greener. But then I started flying over the East Midlands and realised that the grass at home is pretty damn green too.

* It was explained to me that if anyone is ever lost in Holland, you simply tell them to find Utrecht. Because in Holland - all roads lead to Utrecht.

Till we meet again

2006-04-22T05:26:00.000+01:00

I will be away in Holland on business until Thursday night. I'll be sure to post pics when I get back (especially of new adorable haircut - that's right people, I took the plunge and got bangs!)

Kisses!

Roundtable: Tom Christ

2006-04-21T17:10:00.000+01:00

This week's roundtable (sorry I'm a day late) is hosted by Joe Wack over at Hairshirt. He gives a hardcore rant against not just the evil being that is Tom Cruise, but against our fascination with all things celebrity. They're like car crashes aren't they.

So go on over and jump on the TomKat hating band wagon, which probably includes Katie Holmes if she has a tiny sliver of humanity buried under all the Xanu propoganda.

But remember, when you point your finger at someone else, you have four pointing back at you. Well three really. Your thumb is not really pointing at you is it, nor is it technically a finger. it's a thumb.

Bunny fun with the Roundtable

2006-04-14T13:22:00.000+01:00

Trishy D takes us down a peep lined memory lane of Easters gone by with the Good, the Bad and the Touchingly Beautiful. Read, enjoy, and share your Easter memories (or painfull lack their of).

My mother sent me this for Easter:

Which I think gives a really good look into my upbringing. Happy Easter!

You'll soon see me in spurs

2006-04-12T22:50:00.000+01:00

Last night we went to see The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada after gorging ourselves with Tapas at Bar De Nada. We were originally going to have Tex-Mex at the cinema's cafe, but the place was full so we went for the next best thing.

The movie, Tommy Lee Jone's directorial debut, was fabulous. That man can do deadpan like it's his job. Which I guess is why it is his job. The movie made me want to roll around in the dust, drink tequila straight from the bottle and shoot from the hip. I dreamt in broken Spanish last night. Que bueno.

Welcome to my fruit bowl

2006-04-11T07:45:00.000+01:00

Another little snippet of my home. Our cosy kitchen where we listen to dynamo radio and drink too much wine.

Roundtable with a teaspoon of sugar and a shot of Irish Whiskey

2006-04-06T07:46:00.000+01:00

An old tale from my call centre days (no –not that kind of call centre)

Sometimes in the midst of call centre drudgery, amongst the head sets, the clicking of keyboards, the How May I Help You’s, the rude hang-ups. Sometimes in the middle of all this there is a voice, a single human voice with the need to tell a story that makes it all worthwhile. Today was the day I was told the tragically beautiful story of Aunt Nelly Sullivan. And in the dying tradition of true story telling, I pass her tale onto you:

The year is 1912, in a small village set in the hills of Northern Ireland, a young girl of 16 left her family, her life, her heritage to board a boat to America. She left alone, no kin to join her and on the long voyage over, amid soon to be immigrants all hoping for a second chance, she met the man that would become her husband. They settled in Dover, New Hampshire and the young girl found work at the Mill. She had 18 children. In a time of no television she brought back to life her home of Ireland to the ears and eyes of her 18 kids. The dusty, damp histories of the world and relatives she left behind was lovingly handed down like an heirloom. She told her stories so her children could remember and so she would not forget.

After the woman passed on, only one of her 18 children would make it back to see the homeland her mother had painted for them so many years ago. Her name was Nelly. Every year Nelly would send small gifts and Christmas cards to her relatives in Ireland. Her Irish family was impressed she knew even more about the tiny village than even it’s inhabitants thanks to her mother’s storytelling. The last trip Aunt Nelly took to Ireland she was 87. Within a year Nelly was fatally hit by a drunk driver in the middle of winter in her hometown of Dover as she was crossing the street. When they found her dead in the road her hands were full with Christmas cards all posted to a tiny village in the middle of Ireland.

No rant today. No snarkiness. I’ve wanted to share this story for a while now, and thought I best do it while I have a captive audience.

Poor me

2006-04-03T22:56:00.000+01:00

My little sister has been living in Boston for all of about two seconds and yet my mom is already planning to visit her. I've been living in Robin Hood country for almost an entire year and the only conversation we've had about a possibly visit was " we can always meet in Paris instead".

Two messages on my father's phone and three on my mother's and still haven't heard from either.

I'll be facing unemployment again in a month (so -if anyone has any interesting jobs leads let me know. Sassy girl. Will travel.)

But to cheer us all up, here is my pop art corner. I never thought I'd fall in love with these orange chairs, but I have.

And I also had a fab weekend. Friday I went down to London on business. Felt like a proper business woman talking on my cell phone in the back of the pre-paid cab to the tain station jotting down last minute addresses all while wearing my over-sized movie star sunglasses. After the work part of the day was over, I met with a girlfriend I hadn't seen since studying in Paris together, and shared a well-deserved bottle of wine.

Saturday, more girly-ness. From sushi and shopping in the afternoon (two fab dresses and a killer red necklace are now in my possesion) to way too much vodka and wine with Cosmo quizzes and a much needed game of "Never have I Ever".

Ok. So life ain't so bad after all. But come on Mom. Call me already.

Take another little piece of my alcohol soaked heart

2006-03-30T19:42:00.000+01:00

For this weeks roundtable my boy Donny B asks where are all the growling, spitting rock chics? These days Avril Lavigne and Ashlee Simpson are what passes for punk. Donny thinks this sucks, and frankly I agree. In fact I'm going to drink a double shot of tequila I'm so pissed off.

C is for Cookie

2006-03-27T21:48:00.000+01:00

Tonight, by pure coincidence I made not only my first Curry, but also my first Alliteration meal. At home I had curry powder and courgettes (as zucchini is known over in the UK), I went to the grocery store and bought some chicken, coriander and cumin.

So tonight we had a Chicken courgette coriander cumin curry. To drink we had a bottle of red wine from Cahors and for dessert (and I promise I didn’t plan this) we had…Carrot Cake! (By the way the curry turned out fabulous. Stephane thinks we should open our own curry house. )

After dinner we went outside in the garden for some fresh air (we turned the clocks back in England and spring is finally here) and we found out that we were not alone.

A hedgehog lives in our garden. We named him Hilbert. I love him.

One for you nineteen for me

2006-03-23T18:31:00.000Z

Oh yeah it's the taxman. Stephen V Funk discusses why taxes are so, well, taxing for this week's Roundtable discussion. I personally am quite enjoying the tax system here in England - the money just disappears from my pay check each month. And unlike other places, I feel the benefits of these taxes immediately. Ask me how much I paid for the doctor last week. Go on ask me. Nothing. Not a single pence. Yeah. And guess how much I pay for my birth control. Go on, take a guess. Nada. And they shove free condoms down your shirt before you leave.

But needless to say, Stephen V Funk is not as happy with the tax system in the United States. Is anyone? Go on over and give us your best rant.

Playing house

2006-03-20T20:32:00.000Z

The house is slowly starting to come along. Billy the book case is set up, full of trinkets, photos, DVDs and books. My pop-art corner is blossoming with an olive green glass lamp sitting on a bright orange chair. The dining room still needs a lot of work done, but the rustic kitchen table donated to us by Stephane's boss is perfect. We're actually eating at the kitchen table, listening to the radio instead of wolfing food down on the sofa in front of the t.v. I feel so grown-up! Pictures soon.

Yeah that's right. I'm the short one.

2006-03-16T22:19:00.000Z

I am often shocked at how lucky I am to have the person whose life is the most closely woven with my own also be the person I love the most.

For the first time I was able to see my little sister for the incredible woman that she is.
We talked and walked and pretended to visit Nottingham while really we were visiting each other.

We live oceans and worlds apart. Sometimes I think we couldn’t be any different. But I can see my childhood mirrored in her face. She brings me to my knees with laughter with a simple glance and forces tears from my eyes with a single word. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

We were going to give you a photographic rendition of the song “I love my Sister” made popular by the Barney show, but we became preoccupied with father issues, pissing on corporate billboards, flirting with scientists and just never got around to it.

For this weeks roundtable, Head over to Sereena X and join in on her plea for comments. Get a cold drink and saddle up. Because as much as we like the sound of our own voices, we'd like to hear from you.

You call that customer service??

2006-03-09T17:49:00.000Z

And now for the debut from our newest Roundtable member, Atul. He gives us a rant on customer service, something we can ALL relate to. Why is it so poor and why do act like children on christmas morning when we experience a sadly rare positive customer service experience?

Go over and give us your worst customer service experiences. You know you're dying to share.

In like a lion, out like a lamb

2006-03-08T22:50:00.000Z

March has started out like a Lion. Well, as Lion-y as the East Midlands can get. When I think back to some gruelling months of March in Chicago, with freezing rain, wind, and snow, this English lion, is more like a lion cub, but a rebellious one at that.

Here we have the first snow in our backyard. I can’t wait to buy a pair of Wellies and start exploring in the woods/trash yard that encompasses the end third of our garden.

My little sister will be our first guest (if you don’t count certain “homeless” scientists). It’s amazing how clutter and squalor that you deem perfectly acceptable for a Couple just having moved into an unfurnished home with only a coffee table and a TV to their name suddenly becomes shameful evidence of the unkempt dinginess that is your life when you know family will soon have to share the squalor with you. At least it’s just my sister and not my mom who is coming to see the new place before it’s ready. Otherwise I’d be having kittens right now.

I’m sure the house would be in a more finished state if I hadn’t got the Nintendo Game Cube. MarioKart Double Dash is sure to be the end of this happy relationship. But hey, we had a good run.

I had a request from Neil to a) Post more often and b) put up a picture of me setting up house in my underwear. Unfortunately for Neil, it is simply too cold and curtain-less in my home for such photo shoots. But since it is his birthday, I will give him this:

Not only is it a rare photo of me smiling, but my right breast is practically leaping out of my dress. Nothing but class.

If I could paint a picture of Love it would look like this:

2006-03-06T07:42:00.000Z

A man taking a shower while his severely hungover girlfriend is sitting in front of the toilet with a bowl of plain rice he has made her. He tells her, " It's ok, you can throw-up. I won't look."

Is it Thursday again?

2006-03-02T21:08:00.000Z

Well well well, we have another roundtable. By the master himself , the man sitting at the head of the table, is a rant on how Brokeback Mountain has made gayness so mainstream, it, well, kind of sucks.

The Oscars are looming, and I'll probably be trying to listen to it on the radio over in England at three in the morning.

Throw in your two cents. Lord knows we could use the change.

How much did you miss me?

2006-03-01T21:15:00.000Z

Do you want to know how much I enjoy unpacking? () This much. And that is actual size people, actual size. The house is slowly coming together, thanks to shameless charity that we have been taking from anyone willing to give. Fabulous plush chairs, wine glasses the size of my head, a lamp that I couldn’t live without, and a plant that I’m sure to accidentally kill within a month’s time – all free. One man’s junk is another woman’s fortune. Wait. Gross.

I get swirls of pride and elation when I walk up MY stairs, when I see a cat stop by MY garden before moving on to his next prowling grounds, when I hear the sound of the Boy taking out MY trash cans to the curb. But here in lies the problem. Having my first proper house makes me realise that I have control issues. All those "MY"s in bold? They should be OURS, but I’m having a hard time sharing the interior decorating tasks. Each room is an empty canvas, and the end result in mind’s eye is so perfect, I know that if I want it done right, I’m going to have to do it myself. I guess I prefer to play house alone. Which has not been easy on the other occupant of this house, who certainly deserves equal say in how his shelter will look. All I can do is thank my lucky stars that I am with a kind and patient man, who far from a doormat – at least knows how to pick and choose his battles.

The Boy was outside the other night for a whole of two minutes and came back in having met two new neighbours and managed to acquire a dinner invitation for us both. Stephane’s French charm draws people in like flies to honey. A little social butterfly.

After scrubbing the kitchen clean with my own toothbrush, removing how ever many years of pizza’s and ready-made meals from students of yore I have finally made my first meal in the new place. A plaite fish on a bed of tomatoes and courgettes with dill couscous. A delight.

Besides the house being a bit chilly, the fact that I have to walk over a different pile of broken car glass from all the break-ins, the fact that bailiffs are approaching us because the previous tenant is in serious debt and that I’m convinced that one of our neighbours makes crystal meth in their kitchen and they haven’t even approached me for a trial taste, I am utterly content. A kitten asleep in a sunspot with a belly full of warm milk kind of content.

Well we’re movin’ on up.

2006-02-19T16:59:00.000Z

Since May 2005, I have been living with the Boy in what may or may not be Kevin Pietersen’s old bachelor pad. The place was chosen out of consideration for me, a central location (i.e.; high rent, small space) so that no matter what job I found, public transportation would be easy. The studio was modern, and bright, and despite one peeping tom and a tomato plant snatcher, it served our purposes well.

But now that we both work on the other side of town, and frankly, living in such close quarters has become detrimental to our relationship, we have finally, finally found a new place.

Moving has begun, and while it is still stressful and I still want to pull out my hair and his, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. And the light looks like this:

My new garden of Eden.

The bedroom, equipped with defunct fireplace and wardrobe (Frenchman sold separately)

The fireplace in the second bedroom, also known as the guest bedroom, the library, the office and the place Stephane will sleep when Lauren's mad at him.

The stairs that sold me on the house.

Once I get my decorating groove on, I'll show more, but an empty room is an empty room.

Moving has made me nostalgic for all the houses I've called home in my 25 years on this planet.

House # 1 (well, not really number one, but the first I can remember). It was in Los Osos, California. This is pre my little sister, when I had the full attention of my parents. The house was on the sand dunes, and I had a big bedroom with a balcony. This house was very brown and filled with bugs. Hence it's nickname, The Bug House.

House # 2 San Louis Obispo, CA. A yellow ranch-style. It is here that acquired my first cat Chili. There was an orange tree that held a bee's nest. A big dirt hill with a cute boy my age at the top. I was four.

House # 3 Hollywood; CA. This apartment saw the birth of my sister and the end of my parents’ marriage. This is the house that I remember my mother teaching me how to drink water out of my cupped little hands when brushing my teeth. And where my French grandfather became a god in my eyes by pulling penny after penny from behind my ears. An old couple lived next to us, and built me a wooden swing in the garage. The wood gave my thighs splinters, but I swung on it anyways.

House # 4 Winnetka, IL A small grey townhouse on a busy street. Our neighbours were all retired, and would give my sister and I glass bottles of coke and saltines whenever we stopped by. This was my first home without my dad. This house saw the babysitter from hell. It saw the first time I remember making my mother cry when I told her I wanted her home more often. It saw an amazing bond form between two young girls, a single working mother and a cat living on their own. This house had the best backyard ever, with a trench like in wartime and birch trees whose paper would call out to be peeled. This house saw my imagination run wild.

House # 5 Still Winnetka This house is probably the one I think of first when I think of the idea of home. This house saw the death of 4 cats. The house saw friendships made and broken. With this house I had a new father and brother, albeit briefly. This house saw my mom finally meet mr. right. This house saw me drunk, saw me get caught smoking pot in my bedroom alone by my mother. This house saw me almost lose my virginity at age 14 by my first boyfriend. This house saw me to the prom. This house saw two girls and a mom turn into three women. Three bestfriends.

House #6 5th arrondissement, Paris. This studio saw me reap all the nocturnal benefits of being a bartender

House #7 Ithaca NY above a tattoo parlour. This house saw me and my best friend through senior year of college. It saw depression, it saw bisexuality, it saw terrible boyfriends, and it saw the best wine and cheese party this side of the catskills.

House #8 13th arrondissement, Paris. This house was by far the physically coolest house. A converted meatpacker called les Frigos. This house didn't see enough of me. It did see my friend's giant newfoundland Yogi eat through half of my clothes.

House #9 14th arrondissement, Paris. This house saw me drunk more times than I want to admit. Still inhabited by one of my closest friends in Paris, this house is bright and colourful. This house saw me try to make breakfast and fail too often. I still miss this house.

If these walls could talk, right?

My internet access will be scarce while moving is still in progress - so if you don't hear from me in awhile it is not because I'm trapped under a bunch of moving boxes. I just don't have the internet hooked up yet.

The Bi-Curious Roundtable

2006-02-15T19:42:00.000Z

The French woman’s magazine Psychologies has since launched the English version . Finally a magazine for women that doesn’t talk about which sexual positions make your boobs look bigger, or how to cook a five course gourmet meal and plant the next award winning geraniums all while wearing the latest power suit from Prada. Psychologies is like your direct, tell-it-like it is therapist at a fraction of the cost. But I’m not here to up sell this magazine, because, well, they’re not paying me to. What I wanted to discuss was an article that I read in one of their issues a couple months back. I tried to find the article on-line to no avail, so my recap will have to do.

The article was discussing female sexuality and comparing it to the rigidness of male sexuality. From Cynthia Nixon , Miranda in Sex and the City doing a 180 and dumping her boyfriend for a woman, to Mischa Barton’s character in the OC dabbling in some Sapphic love to Kate Moss and her crew switch hitting in drug filled orgies to the recent girl on girl action Danni Minogue partook in at a club in London, women are getting it on with each other. While the article discussed the growing trend of “bi-curious chic” among women, it also said the trend is not surprising or even new. According to many, women are genetically programmed to be more lenient with their sexuality than men, stating that most women have a certain degree of bisexuality, where as men are much more black and white.

I personally have to wonder if this is more of a nurture versus nature phenomenon than genetics. Women are encouraged to divulge lesbian fantasies, to kiss their girlfriends when out drinking to attract men. How many women have a “well, it was in college, I was drunk…” story about their ex-roommate? Now imagine your boyfriend mentioning a little drunken romp with one of his frat boys – doesn’t quite give off the same feeling does it? Now is the difference between these two scenarios and our reaction to them due to genetics telling us male bi-sexuality is abnormal, or is just because society says it’s abnormal. Perhaps if we lived in Ancient Greece or during the Renaissance, where sexual lines were more blurred, we would be more accepting. Or maybe you guys are getting it on too, you’re just not telling us about it.

One doctor’s reasoning in the article for why women are genetically able to find both sexes attractive is because they have to be comfortable with breast feeding both male and female babies. Um, what? Now I’ve never breast fed a child, but I have a really hard time imagining that I would be worried that people might question my sexuality just because my new born daughter needed to be fed. “I swear, I’m not Gay. I can’t speak for her, but…seriously, I’m straight! I swear. Damn it! Why did I have to have a gay baby”? I mean come on.

It just seems unfair that women can have their cake and eat it too while guys are more often forced to make a choice. What do you think?

But those photos of Danni Minogue with that stripper? So hot.

2006-02-15T01:04:00.000Z

A homemade card, a dance to La Vie en Rose just past midnight in front of the bartenders and last dregs of the regulars, by ourselves on a cigarette strewn floor.

No chocolate, no flowers.

Perfect.

And on top of it, we won the pub quiz.

All by myself

2006-02-10T19:28:00.000Z

A bottle of Chilean Chardonnay Sauvignon, 3 Cadbury's cream eggs, a copy of Heat and Cosmo (the UK edition - so much raunchier) and Will and Grace is on in an hour.

I am going to have to let the boy go to the pub on his own MUCH more often.

Soap boxes abound - yet another roundtable.

2006-02-09T18:53:00.000Z

My dear friend Donny brings up some interesting questions in this weeks Roundtable rant - among them the responsibility of a blogger/writer, the cowardliness behind anonymity and the idea of telling it like it is with no fear of a slap in the face.

Go over and let us know what you would say and to whom if you had the cojones to do so.

In Lauren news, my apologies for not having updated sooner. I'm not going to give excuses - but hope you all agree with the cliche that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

The house is so close to being ours I can almost feel the strain in my muscles from lifting heavy boxes upstairs, can almost feel the plaster beneath my nails and the paint in my hair. We're not opening the bottle of champagne yet though. I've been bit once, and until I have those keys in my hand there will be no celebrating.

But we are anxious to move. As I lay in bed at 9PM, nursing a full fledged cold, and listening to the Boy watching the Godfather part III on low volume a mere 7 feet away, it was dreams of a two story house, with stairs and many walls separating me and him that eventually lulled me to sleep.

Work has gone from part-time to full-time and then some. I'm beginning to enjoy this 3 month contract deal. Work a few months, get a bottle of champagne upon leaving, go on vacation for two weeks, get re-hired for another short-term contract and repeat.

This photo is neither here nor there, but I figure since you have all endured so much by having to wait an entire week for a new post from yours truly, I should give you a little treat.

The boy, me and our friend JC at our usual haunt, The Fifth Bar in Paris. And yes, I am wearing that green sweater again. Get used to seeing many more pictures of me in this sweater, because it is physically impossible for me to look unphotogenic in it.

This Thursday's Roundtable

2006-02-02T18:23:00.000Z

For today's roundtable discussion, go on over to Stephen V. Funk'sblog and deconstruct the fab myth that is Mozart.

MEEEE YO!

2006-01-29T20:33:00.001Z

And finally the vacation photos are coming to an end. If you recall, we last left off in Chicago.

Back on the plane, this time for Paris before changing airports and planes to go to Montpellier where my Boy's parents picked us up to do the hour or so drive to Millau (pronounced Mee-Yo - we just watched a British documentary on the building of the Millau viaduct and they insisted on calling Millau Mill-O. Grated on our ears).

We arrive in a snow covered Paris. Odd that we had to leave the Windy City and go to the City of Lights in order to see snow. We quickly changed airports and exhaustedly waited for our next flight. South of France here we come! By the time we get to Millau, the light rain that followed us from Montpellier had turned into a full feldged ice storm. Tree branches bent down to the ground with the weight of the ice, everything was crisp and cold and slippery as hell. I had to hold hands with the father-in-law in order to safely make it to the front door.

Now as excited as I was to revisit Millau and see Stephane's parents (who are the loveliest people you could possibly meet) I was even more excited to see a certain little someone:

My cat, LeChat resides with the in-laws ever since I moved to Nottingham. She's been so happy there, I decided to let her stay as a permanent resident with her "grandparents". They treat her like the princess that she is, so as much as I miss her, I think we've found her the perfect home. I have to say though, it was quite hard putting her well being before my selfish desire of having her around.

LeChat decides that the table is were all the action is. Rightly so.

Stephane and I took advantage of the couch a great deal while in Millau. The second to last leg of our vacation, we took great pleasure in doing nothing. Allowing ourselves to be completely taken care of, fed to the brim with delicious duck, homemade pate, and the best Roquefort you could ever imagine and then nestling into the couch in front of the TV to channel surf and pet the cat.

Here we have Stephane actually doing some work - he's learning to shuck oysters from his father. A skill I'm quite happy for him to aquire.

New year's eve was spent at our friend JB's house on the river Tarn. Homemade fois gras, raclette, plenty of champagne and good French 80's music. A fabulous evening.

Here's Stephane getting down.

Cecile, me and her dog Minnie. Cecile has since given birth to an honestly adorable baby girl, which you can see here..

I'll finish up the rest of the photos in the next post. I'm full of the roast chicken I cooked for Sunday dinner and ready to go to bed. I will however leave you with one last picture of my adorable cat. (You have no idea the amount of restrain it takes not to publish every single LeChat photo I've taken)

This Thursday's Roundtable

2006-01-26T22:47:00.000Z

And so the Roundtable continues. Sereena discusses schadenfreude: Pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others. Is it a masculine trait? I get immense pleasure seeing people fall down. Or animals. In fact my one qualm with that Penguin movie is that there weren't enough shots of penguins falling on their asses. Does this make me a man? Go visit her site and discuss.

And I shall call you little dalmatian post.

2006-01-24T20:18:00.000Z

So I leave work early today in order to view another house. It's on a busy street, has no garden and is more of an appartment than a house, but with all the stress of possibly facing a homeless February, I'm looking at anything right now. Little miss impatient over here decided not to wait for a bus outside of work that would have dropped me off directly in front of the property I was supposed to view, but to walk there. Despite the fact that I had forgotten my sneakers at home and was debarking on the 2 or so mile journey in high heels. At 12:30 - the time by which I was supposed to be meeting the estate agent, I was still almost a mile away. So I phoned to tell the agency I'd be 5 minutes late...or so. I honestly thought it was only a 5 minute walk away. Turned out to be 15. By the time I got there, the estate agent I was supposed to have met had left and I had throbbing, friction burnt feet for nothing.

I then decided to stop by a local cafe to rest my feet and grab lunch. I went to a small place run by some old sweet English ladies that I had discovered the other afternoon. Only now the place was over crowded with a thick fog of cigarette smoke hanging still in the air, with ash trays pilled up with still smoldering bent cigarette butts. The regulars were a scraggly toothless bunch with long unclean nails and greasy hair. I liked them right away. Since place was scarce, I joined two chain smoking old men drinking out of mismatched mugs full of tea. They called me duck and told me to take a seat. I took out my copy of The Bell Jar that I had picked up for a couple quid at the independant book store down the street and tucked in among the ashes and smoke into my turkey and cheese bap. Down and Out in Nottingham ladies and gentlemen. Somehow, despite the squalor, it feels like home. I am more determined than ever to make this little corner of England mine for however long they'll have me.

Photos of the French part of our vacation will come soon, but what with all the house hunting, I'm much more Notts focused right now. The photo up there is one I took of Nottingham with my SLR. Nottingham's very own Riot Area. Rock.

This just happens to be my 100th post

2006-01-23T07:49:00.000Z

And so I join the world of the 9 to 5ers again. Actually it is more like 9 to 1ers since I'll be working part-time. It's with the same company I was working with last time, but now I'm helping them out in the purchasing department.

House hunting has become more and more depressing. The ambiance in the French-American studio of Nottingham is a stressfull, nail biting one.

I've viewed two houses that I fell in love with. Just as I did when my heart was naive in the ways of men and love, I have pictured my life, my future with these homes. I've imagined the little feminine touches I would add that show the world "Lauren was here". Pictured the pitter-patter of a future feline's feet filling the house with comforting noise. I could smell the Sunday roasts I would make, while staring out the kitchen window to my garden, sipping a cup of tea while I wait to baste.

Needless to say both of these adorable 2 bedroom houses have been taken away from me. Do you know what unjustice is? Getting a glimpse of the best version your life could be and then watching someone else live it for you.

I've been given 5 more days to find the house of my dreams. After those five days, we take whatever affordable roof over our heads we can find. Pray for me. Pray for me and the dream home I have yet to find. Pray we will find each other before the clock strikes midnight this Friday. Pray.

And so the Roundtable begins...

2006-01-19T10:51:00.000Z

Some of you (the highly observant ones at least) may have noticed a new addition to my sidebar. The Roundtable. What is the roundtable, you might ask? Well Donny B gave me the hook up to an idea that RW Spryszak had: To pay homage to the creative clash of artistic minds (Dorothy Parker being one of the most notable attendees) that came to meet at the Algonquin Hotel in order to pick each other's brains, pick at each other's food and probably swill down a few dirty martinis.

So while distance and responsibilities of the real world do not permit us to pay homage by physically meeting up for a boozy artsy-fartsy chat everyday, we will be raising our goblet of creative juices to the Algonquin gang the blogger way. Each Thursday of the week, a member of the Roundtable will write a post. We shall gently nudge you over to the post in question and all hash out our ideas, thoughts, musings, critiques etc. in the comment section of the "writer of the week's" site. Want to add your two cents? Please do - it is encouraged. Want to pull up a permanent seat at our Roundtable? Have your people call our people - we'll discuss.

And the first Roundtable discussion is of course by the Godfather himself, RW Spryszak. He discusses the rather lacking acceptance speech of Sir Anthony Hopkins at the Golden Globes. Go on; take a look for yourself...

From Buckingham Palace to Bucktown and back again: Part Four

2006-01-16T16:02:00.000Z

The rest of our trip to Chicago was filled with parties and sightseeing, restaurants and too much wine. I'll let the pictures do most of the talking.

A little slice of Bucktown life the day after Christmas. Perhaps even the night of. I once was stuck at Charles de Gaulle airport for 7 hours with a bunch of other people trying to get to Chicago. We bonded over the delay and over a comped meal we discussed where we were from. When I told them my mother was living in Bucktown a lady close to my mother's age said " Wow. Your mom must be really hip". Yeah. She is. Hipper than me, but I live in an obscure part of England so we're even.

But I digress...

Lake Michigan Ladies and Gentlemen

Ice formations underneath the pier.

The striking shores of Lake Michigan. The waters don't start to warm up until mid-July, but us hardcore, blue lipped Chicagoans jump in around the end of May. My little sister and I would sneak out of the house on sweltering summer nights, run to the beach and skinny dip by the moonlight to cool down. Ok, we only did that once, but doesn't it sound wild and free and so Tom Sawyer of us?

My Boy calling up to me from my stance on the pier.

Rooftop views from S's mom's grill deck. It is up on roofs like this that you feel why Chicago bares the name "Windy City".

Driving into the city from Lake Shore Drive. If this shot doesn't make you want to pack your bags and get a one way ticket to O'Hare airport right now, then you have a heart of coal, my friend, coal. Or you're just not much of a city person and are more of a country mouse, which, you know... fair enough.

The imposing John Hancock Tower. Which has fabulous views of the city, not that we would know anything about that because I decided not to go up the day this picture was taken, no, I had to go at night when it was cloudy de chez cloudy. So poor Stephane saw, well, white. And white only.

View from Michigan Avenue just over the Chicago River.

A little bit of salvation in the middle of a steel corporate playground.

The crummy view from the Hancock.

Tommy the Tiger had one too many when we went out for drinks. Hey, it happens to the best of us.

The Boy showing his unbridled enthusiasm for his Chicago trip. I have succeeded in converting another to the charms of the Windy City. (This photo also happens to be the first picture taken with my new camera - Canon Powershot S2 1S. I love it. But I also noticed that it takes a billion times longer to upload to my site. Must be all those fabulous extra pixels)

And so on to the final leg of our vacation: France. I'll make that post short and sweet. Not because it wasn't interesting, but because less photos were shot, and because even I'm getting bored of seeing my vacation snap shots, so I can't imagine how bored you all must be. Almost over. No! Don't turn the lights back on, I just have one more box of slides to show you...

Fat geese and bells all a-jingle: Part three

2006-01-13T11:08:00.000Z

This was supposed to be a daily update because good lord I have so many photos to show you people. That'll teach me to not update during vacation only to be stuck with picture ridden posts bucking and grunting in the starters gate just waiting for me when I come back to reality. But my last post took me over an hour to create (which wasn't helped by the fact that that I was also eating a box of Frango mints and watching Murder She Wrote - ah the life of the unemployed).

But honestly I have been running around these past few days, fixing my CV, calling all the agencies I work with to let them know I am back on the market, house hunting, setting up times to view houses and then walking my slave to public transportation ass half way across town and back to go see these deplorable, dilapidated homes that have accumulated over 20 years of student scum.

So, Christmas! On the eve we went out to dinner in the 'burbs. It took me an hour to get dressed. You know those times when you can't find a thing to wear from the overflowing pile of clothes that you brought with you and despite all members of family and boyfriend telling you you look fine in each of them, fine just ain't good enough? I ended up wearing my black dress with a blue cotton shrug and my mother's glorious silver necklace. I looked hot. But I was cold. The Boy had to lend me his sweater in the restaurant (brownie points for Boy for being chivalrous in front of mom).

My Sister and The Boy at Christmas Eve dinner.

Christmas morning, I was still waking up early due to jet lag. I look out the window and it is snowing. Hallelujah it is snowing on Christmas morning. I wake up Stephane (it's snowing, it's snowing) and we run out to the balcony to see the flakes. The flurries stop before my family wake up, so it was just a special snowfall for him and me. (cue cheesy RomCom music here).

My mom had made us take one present into our rooms that we had to open before we came into the living room. Matching pyjamas!

The shirts all say "Greetings from Chicago Christmas 2005" Awwww.

Here are some of my favorite gifts I got for Christmas in no particular order:

1. My "L" necklace from the Boy that I wear everyday and which I forced him to get me
2. The Jon Langford CD's from G. which are so good I don't know how I lived without him before
3. The calendar my sister made of her hiking the Appalachian Trail
4. My green sweater that I have been dreaming about for months and months
5. Mini-Sushi making kit from Santa
6. Silver bracelet from my Grandmother
7. The poster of Marseille from my Mom

Ok, I'm going to stop there before I ramble off every single gift I received. An embarrassment of riches this year.

Our trooper of a cat Monty in the Santa "thank God they only make me wear it once a year" Hat.

Me in my beyond fabulous green sweater and the boobs that force me to pay them overtime in outfits like this.

So happy belated Christmas and Chanukah. I'll be back with more glamorous photos of Chicago and then on to the French part of our extravagant vacation.

Vacay in Chi-Town part 2

2006-01-10T16:25:00.000Z

The best way to fall back in love with your home town is to see it again for the first time through the eyes of a tender new comer. Not only was this the Frenchman's first time to Chicago, but the first time outside of European soil.

He survived the flight without having to stop the pilot for a cigarette break. At the airport he's already astonished at the size of O'hare. I had to leave him briefly at customs as I was in the U.S Citizens line and he was in the VISITORS line. Once we find ourselves at baggage claim he mentions how friendly the customs agent was, wishing him a happy holiday in Chicago - a far cry from the smokey grunts you get off customs agents at Charles de Gaulle airport.

His next observation: the cars are huge. He reads out loud a sign that says "Over sized cars use right lane" he ponders this, then says, " But zey are all oversized". "Zey have school buses just like on les Simpsons!". Ahh, America as seen by the French, oversized and littered with pop culture references. I love it.

And so we arrive to my mom's place in Bucktown.

It has been way too long since I have had a Christmas in Chicago, dirty snow on the ground, biting wind and my mother's fabulous Christmas flourish.

We turn on our electric fireplace and I mention to Stephane that this is America - you can have everything at the flick of a switch.

Frenchie on the balcony taking in some winter Chicago sun.

We relaxed the first night and ordered Lou Malnatti's pizza - I made sure to get my favorite - Deep dish with anchoivie. Mmmm, Sweet Home....

The last three or so times that I have been back to Chicago I have tried to rope some poor soul into going to the Shedd Aquarium with me. Finally I had a captive audience in Stephane that basically had to do whatever I told him. So off we went with my sister in tow to the fabulous Shedd Aquarium. Whales, Sea Otters, Penguins and tons of Fish (and yes, my reverence for marine life and delight in all things aquatic does require capitals for these darling creatures)

Here we have the view of the Chicago skyline from outside the Aquarium. Blue steel.

And here we are outside of the Shedd.

My favorite: The Sea Otter.

Baby Beluga, oh Baby Beluga....

The next night friends came over for a Christmas cookie party. Stephane was a walking zombie due to jet lag. And the cookies came out, well....

Interesting, to say the least.

Well, I don't want to overwhelm you. Tomorrow: Christmas and all the fabulous presents I got! Oh how I spoil you.

Hello? Hello? (tap, tap tap) ....Is this thing on?

2006-01-09T16:39:00.000Z

I know, I know. I said I’d write while I was away and I didn’t. But you know what? It was really nice focusing on my friends and family and leaving my new found blog family behind for a few weeks. Does that make me a terrible blogger? Do you still love me? Do You?

A picture is worth a thousand words and after flying from Nottingham to Paris to Chicago to Paris to Montpellier to Paris to Nottingham, I can barely type a few hundred words let alone a thousand, so I’ll let the photos do the talking. Oh, I bet you all feel so lucky that I am just so snap happy.

Leaving Nottingham, a grey and rainy morning. Both of us stressing because Stephane doesn't think he locked the front door which he decided to mention while we're already in the taxi on our way. (He did, he always does, but he always has to double check).

Here's the view from our flight from Paris to Chicago. A girl could get used to this...

A bit of a race with the plane next to us. We totally won.

Stephane asking for a ginger ale from the flight attendant. (Yes, we were that annoying couple taking pictures of the mundane and boring and redundant apparently. I tried to keep the flash down to a minimum - but I'm sure we were obnoxious as hell)

Tommy the Tiger was of course with us the entire flight. He is a very easy travel companion.

And many inflight movies later, our 9 and some hour plane ride is nearly over. Stephane spots the Chicago skyline piercing through the clouds. Sweet Home....

Stay tuned for the first Windy City segment of our vacation. Are you salivating for more already?

From Robin Hood to Deep Dish Pizza to the highest bridge in the world and back again

2005-12-21T23:30:00.000Z

And so we are off. I have finished my last day at work, no tears were shed, but I did get a nice bottle of champagne and a very heart-warming card signed by my colleagues. 4:45 am wake up call tomorrow. And by 2:30 the Frenchman and his new haircut will step foot on American soil for the first time.

New years eve in Millau, France and then back up to Paris for a few days of debauchery.

We're also taking a stow away... Tommy the Tiger has been put in our possession to help him start off his journey across the world and back. You can find out more about our travelling companion HERE

I will be updating the blog on my travels as often as possible.

Merry Chrimbo to all and to all a goodnight!

PS. We are in desperate need of the last five episodes of LOST from the first series. This is a matter of life and death. Please help our cause. And if anyone gives anything away about the second series I have ways of causing you severe physical pain. Happy Holidays!

My short lived career as a hairdresser

2005-12-18T22:42:00.000Z

You may be asking yourself why I am crying. Why would a young, happy girl with her life in front of her, at this joyous christmas season just days before being whisked off with her boyfriend to spend snow filled holidays in Chicago have her big blue eyes full of tears?

Why? Because I did THIS to my boyfriend:

I told him I didn't want to cut his hair. I didn't want anything to do with his electric razor so close to his neck. That'll teach him to trust me again. Thankfully I was the only one crying, choking on my tears surround by piles of his hair on the bathroom floor saying " I broke your head, I broke your head". He however just laughed and said, "it's only hair". Poor thing is going to have to not only meet my friends for the first time, but bare the cold Chicago winter with a friggin' hole in his hair.

But seriously, I broke my boyfriend's head. I am officially this season's worst girlfriend ever.

Food glorious, Food

2005-12-15T19:07:00.000Z

Fresh bounty from the local market. Half of which went rotten and we had to through away. I don't know weights and measurements, so I always end up unwittingly asking for too much - as in two kilos of potatoes for me and Stephane. We got spuds coming out of our ears.

Corned beef hash with poached egg. My first time eating corneed beef... tastes like cat food.

Bangers and Mash. We had this the other Sunday watching the Royal Variety Show - never felt so English in my life.

Cous Cous with roasted tomatoes and aubergines...I think. Actually, I don't even remember what I put in this, but it was good.

A dish I often fall back on: pasta with courgettes in a blue cheese sauce - usually I put shrimp with this.

And last but not least, my belated Thanksgiving day meal: Turkey and stuffing (good lord my stuffing was good), mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and gravy.

Birthday festivities

2005-12-12T23:36:00.000Z

An affectionate Birthday boy. Sometimes it's a fine line between Gay and Continental European...

Showered with cards, free beer and, uh, a male clothing catalogue (like I said - it's a fine line)

Bob and I in deep English banter

And me and the Birthday boy - like a fine wine, I'm finding that Frenchmen get better with age.

Joyeux Anniversaire

2005-12-09T07:52:00.000Z

In honour of my favorite Frenchman’s birthday:

What I love about Stephane

1. His childish smile
2. His intelligence
3. His ability to put everyone around him at ease
4. How he handles and diffuses all of my bad moods
5. His generosity with everything
6. His ridiculously thick French accent
7. His mushy hugs
8. How he talks to himself when he’s thinking
9. His soft mountain man beard
And the top reason I love Stephane is….
10. He loves me back

From Black Elvis to Baseball

2005-12-07T18:37:00.000Z

I know, I've been terrible about writing lately, but in my defence I have the flu and I got fired. So there.
Ok, not really fired, but the extended contract that I was promised by my boss was taken away from me by a bigger boss. While up until Monday I have been turning down job opportunities, shortening vacations and spending as if I actually have a salary waiting for me in the new year.

But I shall not dwell - on to bigger and better things.

After the rather upsetting job news, I decided to meet up with the boyfriend in our pub despite my cough and cold. I knew going home to an empty unkempt studio would have been too much. So I had a few ciders and a few marlborough lights, and after Stephane let me sufficiently vent we decided to steer the conversation to happier things.

New Years Eve. We are invited to one of Stephane's friends house in Millau (where the darling Stephane is from). The theme is "Fan de.." (Fan of...). So we have to dress as something we are fans of. I quite like the idea of going as fans of Baseball. I would get to wear a flirty baseball uniform, complete with short skirt, and barely buttoned baseball jersey and I'd get to dress my Frenchman up in a baseball hat, which warms my heart just at the very though of his little framed bearded face. The only problem with this is that Stephane is not a fan of baseball. He's never been given the chance to be a fan, having never seen a game.

Some other ideas were tossed around, but none stuck.

Until I came up with a brilliant idea: We can get married and be... wait for it, wait for it...Fans of our Love.

He said only if we could get married in Las Vegas by a black Elvis.

So no wedding day yet. But if anyone has any cute ideas for our New Years Eve outfits, I'm all ears.

Here is a list of what Stephane and I are "fans of" collectively:

1. Elvis
2. Pasta
3. Paris
4. Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends
5. Lost
6. Blondie
7. Red wine
8. Drinking at our local
9. Johnny Cash
10. Pub quizzes

post # 374 that contains photos of me

2005-12-01T19:01:00.000Z

I swear I think my eyes are getting bigger... maybe the bug eyed look will come into style soon.

Here I am with bangs. I actually just flipped my hair over to create fake bangs (aka fang bangs). I was thinking when my hair gets a bit longer to try getting real ones. What do you think? Does it make me look like a four year old? It does doesn't it. But a cute four year old, right?

Better than marmalade and logarithims combined

2005-11-29T07:54:00.000Z

The great country of Scotland has brought us many wonderful things: the invention of the television, marmalade, the discovery of logarithms, and now, possibly their greatest invention ever, Franz Ferdinand.

A friend of mine, L., who is rock goddess supreme with her name on every guest list of all the most fabulous after parties of any decent rock show was gracious enough to give me her extra ticket to this night’s concert of Franz Ferdinand at the Ice Arena of Nottingham. Opening for them were The Rakes, and Editors.

I’ll fast forward to the good part. Franz Ferdinand are so solid, such pure rock. Incredible to think that they only have two albums out and yet their show already sounds like a greatest hits tour – every song is fucking brilliant and single worthy. They were non-stop. At one point three of them were all banging away on the drum set at once. My voice is shot, my body is covered in cold sweat, my feet are aching from constantly jumping up and down – all proof of an amazing show.

We unfortunately only heard the end of the last song by The Rakes, who are adorable, and had the entire crowd bouncing up and down like a spasmic snake. Just from that 30-second tease I heard, I already know I’m going to try to get tickets to their next gig. Editors, who although apparently much more hyped up than The Rakes were a disappointment. The musicians were fabulous, fast furious drum driven, solid guitar but the blandest singer you could imagine. It was like seeing a fabulous film with a terrible lead actor.
Here are the Editors, who stole my best photo of the night.

Oh, but Franz, sweet sweet Franz – may you have a long long success. May my progeny one day find my old and dusty MP3s of your first album lying in the attic, and say, “Mom – You listened to the Double F’s? I had no idea you were this cool when you were young. They rock.” Because this little lassie from Chicago sure as hell wants to hear more from you Glaswegian boys.

And if anyone can tell me how to transfer a movie from my Canon A60 to my iBook, you can delight in a little Franz performace for yourselves..

The ghost of Thanksgiving past

2005-11-24T19:40:00.000Z

I never used to miss Thanksgiving when I lived in France. Which I think is mainly due to the fact that there was nothing over there to remind me of the holiday. French and American culture are so different, I would usually even forget Thanksgiving existed. But here… America and England are different, but no where near as different as France and America.

England is like Adam, and America the rib taken from him to grow in to a sprawling, massive version of Eve. Both cultures certainly share the same idea of comfort food. So as I walk around my local grocery store, I still see bloated turkey carcasses taking up room in the oversized fridges, there’s even Ocean Spray cranberry sauce in the canned food aisle, and I find myself missing home. Because it’s so close, but not quite.

Last night I got a bit teary eyed talking to Stephane about Thanksgiving. How difficult it was for me to be so far from home at this time. How Thanksgiving is more sacred than Christmas in America.

But then I remembered that my family has such a sporadic, non-traditional, un-warm fuzzy feeling inducing Thanksgivings that there really was nothing to be homesick for.

Here’s a list of some of the Thanksgivings my family has had:

The memorable one with just me, my mom and my little sister. We all had the flu, sick as dogs we were; sitting at a dinning room table so big it just drew more attention to the fact that we were few and we were sad. Food was pushed around plates. I think we eventually gave up and all went to bed.

There were many Thanksgivings were we would go to the Ritz for their hotel feast buffet. This was a dressy affair, surrounded by other families who a) were wealthy enough to be able to eat there b) couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of preparing a home cooked meal and cleaning up afterward. I always enjoyed myself, but it felt hollow and very “un-American”.

Then there is the year when again, my mom, little sister and I found ourselves alone without invitations from anyone else to join them in Thanksgiving festivities. We went to see a double header at the cinema and had popcorn with a bunch of other people who were either foreigners, desperately wanted to see Tim Allen in The Santa Clause, or like us, had no place else better to go.

There is the time we flew to LA to do Thanksgiving with my Uncle. This was a lot of fun, but I still couldn’t get over having a “warm” Turkey Day - it just didn’t seem right to be playing touch football to help digest the massive amount of food my Uncle provided while wearing a short sleeved shirt.

There was also the time we went to a Mexican restaurant with my Mom and her Husbands’ funky wine friends who proceeded to drone on and on about wine the entire dinner. Once my sister and I realised that a full hour had gone by without either of us uttering a word or being spoken to, we ran off to the bathroom to dance in secret for a few minutes before quietly returning to the table. Ok. That was actually Easter, but it fit in with the others.

Anyways, my point is that I don’t have a family Thanksgiving tradition. I never grew up with a “every year for Thanksgiving we go over to Aunt Mabel’s house in Cleveland and she makes too much food, Grandpa falls asleep on the couch before even getting to the table, my mom and her sister get drunk on schnapps in the kitchen pretending to help Grandma with her gravy which no one likes because it is too lumpy but we’re not aloud to tell Grandma that” kind of a Thanksgiving.

I guess my family’s Thanksgiving tradition is simply making the most with what you got. Which is why I will be celebrating Thanksgiving on Sunday, but making a small Turkey, maybe some mashed potatoes and opening a jar of cranberry sauce. Perhaps I’ll rent something like “Home for the Holidays” and my French boyfriend and I will pick at my bird in our little studio in Nottingham in front of the telly. Works for me.

Love me. Love my Science.

2005-11-23T18:25:00.000Z

The other night I found myself in the company of men, and only men. And not just men, but scientists. This often is the case with my soirees in Nottingham. Me and a bunch of scientists drinking beer. While I do occasionally have to silently sit through bouts of conversations discussing archaea and gene transference, I for the most part find this company of men entertaining and witty (and thanks to them I now know words like “archaea” and “gene transference”).

Last night one of the boys was discussing his girlfriend troubles and the fact that she complains that he is too involved with his work.

“That’s not fair,” responded Scientist # 1 who has a tattoo of a DNA strand on his upper arm “Love me. Love my Science”

Stephane then made a lighthearted comment about how I should adhere to this motto, implying that I was not supportive enough of his career.

I looked at him in shock.

I don’t love your Science? You think that I don’t love your Science?

I moved to the middle of nowhere, bumblefuck England for your Science. I left Paris for your Science. I sacrificed my career for your Science. Don’t tell me that I don’t love your Science.

Sweet Victory

2005-11-23T00:58:00.000Z

We won the pub quiz. And by "we" I of course mean me, stephane and various others who contributed a hell of a lot more than us. And as always if I am ever writing on a Tuesday night, it means I am drunk. So I shall make this short and sweet before I make an ass out of myself. We WON!!! Oh lord, two alcohol related posts in a row. I'm a good girl, really. I'm sober 5 days out of 7. And for an "ex-bartender" living in a pub culture, binge drinking infused country, I say that's pretty damn good.

You know you have a drinking problem when...

2005-11-19T15:21:00.000Z

....the Scottish bartendress compliments you by saying "Your a woman that knows how to drink" and that I could "probably drink all these lads under the table".

This post can also be known as The One My Mother Should Ignore.

Winter hat blues

2005-11-18T08:00:00.000Z

I need a new winter hat. This Sherlock Holmes crap just ain't cutting it now that the wind is biting and the frost is abundant.

Dontcha wish your girlfriend made you midnight snacks with love letters like me? Dontcha...

2005-11-16T23:23:00.000Z

Stephane went out on a pub crawl not too long ago. I stayed home. Before going to bed, I made him a chicken and tomato sandwich with a baggie full of pretzels and left it in the fridge for him with a little note, knowing he would need something to soak up the alcohol when he eventually stumbled home.

Am I not the cutest girlfriend ever?

Saucy

2005-11-14T20:02:00.001Z

Roast chicken? Check.

Quiche? Check.

Garlic pesto Pizza? Check.

These are all meals I can now make with my eyes blindfolded, (I know not an extensive list - but I've only just started learning how to cook). However until a week ago, I couldn't for the life of me make a decent sauce.

First try at a cream mushroom sauce ended up like this:

Lets just say I was a little over zealous with the flour for my roux.

Next attempt - a sauce au poivre for a nice rump steak, accompanied with roast potatoes and garlic spinach.

I did however buy some gravy from Marks & Spencer as back-up. The sauce caused some watery eyes as this time it was the pepper corn that felt my zeal. Nothing a little extra cream couldn't fix, and the sauce was a mild success.

Saturday my friend Rohan came over for dinner and then clubbing and I was finally able to make a perfect sauce.

Tuna steaks smothered in a tomato and caper sauce with a white wine cream base. Roasted eggplant, courgettes, and red pepper with plenty of garlic, and boiled new potatoes with rosemary.

Damn I'm good.

But if you want to see a real pro, go visit my friend Stacey's blog Just Braise She is my cooking mentor. From pork stuffed with chorizo to pumpkin cheese cake. You'll never need to buy another cook book again.

Getting the Boot

2005-11-10T18:31:00.000Z

As my good friend Danielle already touched upon on her blog, it is very difficult for a woman with fuller calves to find a pair of boots that fit. Lord knows there are some sexy ass boots out there at the moment, and frankly I do not think that I should be left out simply because I have womanly, yet muscular calves (it would have been too easy for the gene fairies to have given me my mother's legs that go on forever - instead I get my Father's insanely defined rugby worthy lower half). I became determined to find my perfect pair of this season's latest boots. I started by ducking into swanky shoe stores on weekends, quickly grabbing a pair of boots in my size off the shelf, slipping off my own worn shoe and yanking on a dark knee-high alternative only to feel my face burn bright with embarrassment at the sound of the zipper getting stuck on my protruding calf muscle.

After various self-esteem killing tries over the past few weeks I finally came to the conclusion that my boots are unfortunately not residing in swanky shoe stores. Their half-way house is actually discount department stores, ones that sell Christmas decorations all year round, have an insanely large selection of bed slippers and are never without a plus size section. And so it came that I found myself on a Wednesday night after work basking in the sweltering heat and fluorescent lighting of a T.K. Maxx (for whatever reason, the J has been replaced by a K in the English version - now who's got their annoying theme song stuck in their heads).

I was a woman on a mission.

25 minutes into my shopping experience finds me with sweat trickling down my face into my collar and hobbling around the wide aisles with one shoe on and one shoe off (this was of course my “trying on” foot). Out of the perhaps 20 or so pairs of boots that I tried on, 2 fit. That is one, two. Out of what might have been a billion for all the effort I made. One pair that fit was a frumpy black snow boot. The other was a slouchy brown boot that fit like a glove.

Worth every cent of my Mother’s hard earned money and every bead of sweat shed.

Could you resist me?

2005-11-07T23:48:00.000Z

My sad pouty face. Who could say no to this?

2005-11-03T19:32:00.000Z

The beau is out on a pub crawl with his science buddies. I have just made a deliciously simple goat's cheese salad, poured myself a chilled glass of white wine and am settling in front of the telly to watch EastEnders. Pure Bliss.

2005-11-01T20:32:00.000Z

Is this pomegranate half bad or half good?

Drunken Birthday post

2005-10-27T23:52:00.000+01:00

Happy Birthday Danielle!!!! The 28th of October is my darling Danielle's birthday, and I have had a screwdriver too many in her honor. This is the girl that has gone through hell and back with me. We were randomly put together as college roommates and instantly clicked. Between bouts of Wicca, various therapists, townie republican boyfriends (I can never say sorry enough for draging you through the "relationship that never should have been"), fabulous wine and cheese parties, student films, trips to my family in France, cocktails on top of the Hancock, sucking on pickles, trapping giant rats, and sleepovers overlooking the statue of liberty...Danielle, I celebrate you.

Everyone stop by her blog and give her wet messy bloggy bithyday hugs. Because this chica deserves it. She's not just "cleavage to die for", she is intelligent, beautifull, caring, open, inquisitive, driven, creative, loyal, and above all my friend.

Click here to wish a HAPPY BIRTHDAY to DANIELLE!

2005-10-27T07:46:00.000+01:00

Why is it that whenever I reach for the milk in the fridge for my morning cereal I first reach for the chilled bottle of Absolut before realizing my mistake.

Homesick

2005-10-26T00:18:00.000+01:00

I've never felt homesick until now: The Chicago White SOX are in the World Series and I am far away. In a land where not only is Baseball a joke, but the idea of one nation claiming their final matches of their "favorite pastime" as the WORLD series is more than laughable.

True, I am a cubs fan, but I am happy to see any team of Chicago rise to greatness.

All I have here is this

Neon lights on a carnival ride in the East Midlands of England....

How to score brownie points with me

2005-10-25T07:48:00.000+01:00

Tell me my unstable nature and firey spirit reminds you of the young deciple Jen in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

The Lone American

2005-10-21T18:15:00.000+01:00

On my bus home from work the English were the minority. The small cramped bus filled with different accents and languages. I heard Japanese, Indian, Spanish, an African language, and rising above the din of this multicultural scene were four very loud, very brass American accents.

To paraphrase David Sedaris, an American abroad will find no harsher critic than another American. Oh how true. Now that all the students are back, different languages and accents are heard all over Nottingham, which is great. Except for the Americans. Every time I hear a close cousin to my own voice coming out of some bland blond American mouth I cringe, my stomach turns.

It’s like they embody every ugly stereotype of someone from the U.S. of A. No, not just embody, embrace. It’s almost as if they are over here simply to perpetuate the rest of the worlds view of us as loud mouthed, gun chomping, idiots.

In France I never minded other Americans as much as I do here. In France I got to be superior. The Americans I met were all on vacation or studying abroad, where as I lived in Paris. They could never contain the respect and awe in their eyes when after asking me how long I was staying in Paris for, they heard my response: Indefinitely.

Sometimes the Americans I met could also fill in for a good cultural Americana refuelling. We’d drink screwdrivers together and talk about ALF and The Snorks, 7-11 slurpies and Cheetos. Those were good times. But in England I don’t need cultural refuelling. I have the Friends and Simpsons over here. I can eat Cheetos whenever I want.

But really the reason I recoil as the site and sound of my fellow countrymen is because I want to have a monopoly on the whole “obnoxious American in Nottingham” bit. This town ain’t big enough for the both of us, and the way I see it, I got here first.

It will be my harsh accent they fall in love with, my loud laugh that can be heard above the din of the pub that they will seek out, it will be me and only me they come to to find out what America is really like.

Fellow Americans in Nottingham, you are doing it wrong. There should be charm in your brassiness, there should be wit in your blunt remarks, and there should be endearment to you gullible, honest nature. Step aside and let a professional take over. Because you are SO cramping my style.

2005-10-20T18:25:00.000+01:00

You know what sign you don't want to see outside of your home?

Road closed due to Sewar work.

Mmmmm, tasty.

one last photo

2005-10-19T00:15:00.000+01:00

There's two more photos that I forgot that are hanging in the gallery of la Lauren.

This photo doesn't do them justice. These photos are taken near Marseille. The lighting there is insanely perfect, like the sun is slowly caressing everything in its view with long languid brush strokes.

mi casa es su casa

2005-10-16T18:46:00.000+01:00

Welcome to my humble home.

Here we have my wardrobe.

The "lounge".

And now my photo gallery - all taken by yours truly.

Here is our cat, Lechat. Who is currently living with the parent's-in-law in the south of France. Sometimes I'm jealous of my cat.

Grapes on a vine in a vineyard in California

My aunt, father and cousin (and aunt again) in France

Lechat again, along with a photo of what I think to be the windows of the Rodin museum in Paris.

Lemon's in my uncle's garden in L.A.

A chess board, moments before battle begins.

If you can't get your photos to an art gallery, bring the art gallery to your photos.

This is what happens when you mix cider and a digital camera

2005-10-13T23:22:00.000+01:00

A night out at the pub after a day at the fair (Oh yeah, and there was a football game in there somewhere too...England vs Austria):

Here is Rohan and Stephane wearing Rohan's hat

This is me and the horse I won at Goose fair. I think we eventually settled on Diamond Blue Runner for his name.

Here we have John and Caine

And here is Ed and me.

Nothing terribly interesting, put I promised to post some photos until I found time to write.