Truth Pirates

Goodbye sweet pirates!

2011-06-11T22:44:00.000-05:00

Neenuh and Anna started Truth Pirates in July of 2007 as a way to share our adventures as recent graduates flung from coast to coast in pursuit of our dreams. TP was there as we moved from California to DC and back to Minnesota, as Neenuh decamped with the man o' her dreams to Portland for a few years, and as Anna started her first big-girl job. It's been with us through numerous signif oths, internships, jobs and travels to far-flung corners of the country. It's been with us through good times and bad, annoying coworkers, awesome concerts, embarrassing incidents and incredible triumphs.

But now, four years later, as we transition from being recent graduates to being kinda-sorta adults, we've decided to transition to different (yet as loving as ever) blogging endeavors. You can find Anna blogging with her beef Tom over at www.frecklemeat.com, and Neenuh at www.neenuhfranceypants.blogspot.com.

TP, it's been a pleasure. We love you. And we will miss you!

The most horrible thing you've heard all day.

2011-05-02T13:47:00.005-05:00

Last night I watched Hello Dolly!, the 1969 film adaptation of the Broadway musical. It stars Barbra Streisand and has a special place in my heart because I was in this play in high school. When I realized it was available on instant Netflix, I decided to spend my Sunday night knitting and reminiscing.

As I watched, I was struck by the amazing, downright acrobatic talents of the dancers. I mean they are doing flips, no-handed cartwheels, incredibly impressive feats. And one actor in particular (who had a small part with not a lot of lines - Barnaby) was the best of them all.

<-- This guy. Danny Lockin. Ever heard of him? Probably not. AND HERE'S WHY. As I was exploring the cast list on IMDB, I noticed that next to Danny's name it said 1943-1977, which meant he only lived to be about 34, which is a shame because of how obviously awesome he was. Figuring he died of cancer or some sort of a freak accident, I explored his bio further. After describing Danny's childhood and career, the last line of his bio states, "The life of this wonderful and multi-talented man was tragically cut short when he was brutally murdered in 1977."

BRUTALLY MURDERED?! My skin crawled and I screamed out loud when I read that. What happened? Who would, and why would, and how? I investigated further. Apparently one day in August of '77, Danny's mom drove him to a taping of The Gong Show, a sort of talent show that he and another guy were competing in together. Clearly, they danced for their talent, and ended up tying for first place. After the show, Danny's mother was going to drive him home, but he wanted to go celebrate the win with his dancing partner, so his mom went on home without him.

So Danny and his bud stopped at a nearby bar and while there met this dude named Charles Leslie Hopkins. Later that night, back at his apartment, Charles called the cops, reporting a robbery. When the cops got there they found Danny's lifeless body, stabbed ONE HUNDRED TIMES with various stabbing instruments. Charles was charged with Danny's murder because in the apartment, police found a porno mag with pictures of torture/sex orgies which prosecutors later said was used as a script for Danny's brutal murder.

But hold on a minute. It seems like a closed case, right? Well. Because of a delayed trial, and an ill-timed U.S. Supreme Court ruling that limited the use of evidence at a crime scene without a search warrant, Charles ended up doing only TWO YEARS IN JAIL. He lived jail-free for decades and then died at age 63 from a heart attack.

Prior to Danny's murder, he was teaching dance, writing a play, and recording an album. I mean think of all the things he could have done with his life. He could have been on GLEE, for frick's sake! You know, in a cute little episode starring people from Broadway's past. Instead, he rests in a cemetery in Orange County. TEARS. :( So unfair. So horrible. So unfathomable. So tragic.

Understanding the history, myths, and adventures of women's sizing

2011-04-29T11:13:00.002-05:00

I'm just going to put it right out there. Women's clothing sizes are not helpful. Consider the following images. Same person, same month, no major changes in body size or type (I would know; it's me).

Download this gallery (ZIP, null KB)

How does this even happen? What does this say about how we're marketed and sold to? And are we (the shoppers) participating in or even -- the cause of -- sizes changing and varying so drastically?

Read the rest here!

Summer of shows!

2011-04-25T16:20:00.003-05:00

You guys! It's show time. Steph and I just made it on a Six Ring team, which is the graduate level of the Brave New Institute, so we perform every other Tuesday starting tomorrow. Also, you may recall this delightful performance of in-the-dark improv called Batgirls. Well we'll be performing this three more times at a real show in June and July. Also, you might remember Zombie High School from last year. Well, the cast that brought you that piece of magic will be bringing you a new piece of magic this August. Get excited.

Six Ring Circus improv ($1):
Tues. April 26 at 7:30 pm brave new workshop
Tues May 10 at 7:30 pm brave new workshop
Tues. May 24 at 7:30 pm brave new workshop
Tues. May 31 at 7:30 pm brave new workshop
Tues. June 14 at 7:30 pm brave new workshop

Batgirls at Improv-a-go-go ($5):
Sun. June 5 at 8 pm HUGE Theater
Sun. June 12 at 8 pm HUGE Theater
Sun. July 3 at 8 pm HUGE Theater

"History Camp" Fringe shows ($12):
August 5 at 7 pm Mixed Blood
August 7 at 2:30 pm Mixed Blood
August 9 at 5:30 pm Mixed Blood
August 11 at 7 pm Mixed Blood

See you there! Unless you don't go. Then I'll just pretend you're there and do my best anyway. It'll still be fun. Don't worry. Ok love you bye.

Monster Stink Storms.

2011-04-19T14:29:00.003-05:00

Watch TB Reed and his soul patch explain the intricacies and delicacies of fresh pit bull farts. Fun suggestion: follow my eyes as his lies deepen.

Lady Napkin Face

2011-04-06T23:22:00.000-05:00

Our late night post-class happy hour was joined by Lady Napkin Face herself tonight. She sure does leave her mark. Especially on her wearer's tongue.

Pioneer woman pasta!

2011-04-06T23:19:00.002-05:00

You guys! Look what I made in my teeny kitchen! It's this with a few exchanges and additions if you wanna make it too.

Adventures in Big World!

2011-04-04T08:26:00.002-05:00

Things can get a little crazy at Ladies Weekend. They can also get a little...helpful. Don't you wish you knew how to operate your daily life in Big World? Well, now you do. Learn how to floss, brush your teeth, apply makeup, knit, drive your car, and so many other things in this very helpful and instructional video. Just...you're welcome.

You live on Avenue Q!

2011-03-25T11:25:00.002-05:00

Avenue Q opens tonight! Starring TB Reed! The puppets, the singing, the antics, so great. Also, see the lady top right? She was so good that after the show I gave her an attack hug. Luckily she was nice and didn't even mace me.

Here's a little info about this show. It is an "autobiographical and biographical" coming-of-age parable, addressing and satirizing the issues and anxieties associated with entering adulthood. Its characters lament that as children, they were assured by their parents, and by children's television programs such as Sesame Street, that they were "special" and "could do anything"; but as adults, they have discovered to their surprise and dismay that in the real world their options are not unlimited, and they are no more "special" than anyone else.

Top 5 reasons America's Got Talent is a farcical piece of crap.

2011-03-24T13:06:00.002-05:00

The audience is taught how to boo before the show starts, asked to practice it, and encouraged to standing-ovation boo anytime they don't like someone.
Audience members who scream out in the middle of acts or while the judges are talking are not only allowed to do so, but also rewarded with free gifts and camera time.
At least every other act, at the celebrity judge audition level, is put in to be a fall-guy for people to laugh at and the judges to berate.
Out of 12 people that I saw audition, some of the ones that passed on to the next level are a talking parrot, elderly bottle players, and a woman who sang a mediocre-at-best alto version of Ave Maria.
The judges ask contestants the same questions multiple times until the contestant finally answers the way the judge wants them to, then that's the take they keep.

There are more, so many more, but I'm too seething with rage to type.

New presents for your ear holes!

2011-03-16T13:58:00.003-05:00

Clearly, I upgraded my Shazam app to unlimited song tagging. Here are two new playlists categorized into Up songs and Down songs. Both so, so good. I promise. Your ears will smile. Enjoy!

Up Songs (for when you need to dance!):

Down Songs (for when you need to take a chill pill):

Last night I became a Minnesota Woman.

2011-03-15T14:42:00.004-05:00

You guys! To celebrate living in Minnesota for almost eight years (minus one year we'll call "bi-coastal internship year") I decided last night that it was high time I conquer the almighty tater tot hot dish. Turns out it's so, so simple. And tasty. LOOK!

Pre-cheese.

Post-cheese.

Basically, brown some ground beef (or ground turkey), mix in a cream of broc soup and a cream of potato soup, some frozen veggies, some extra corn because corn is scrumptious, and some milk because cows are nice, then line the top with frozen tots, cook for 30 min. on 350, add some grated chee' on top, then pop the sucker back in the oven for 10 minutes. Then nom!

Na na na na na na na na BATGIRLS!

2011-03-12T20:46:00.000-06:00

For all of y'alls that didn't get to see us ladies of Performance Level 3 improv class perform today, you can ~~watch us~~ listen to us perform right here. We did an improv form called "The Bat" where all the lights are turned off and we just use our voices. Hippy dippy, no? We like it.

A secret story about secrets

2011-03-07T14:23:00.000-06:00

This post has to be kind of a secret, with false names for people and places. Forgive me for being a little vague, but trust that it's for my own protection-- as well as yours! But shh, reader, let's not get dramatic.

I recently went to a country that is next to the one I'm currently living in, but separated from it by a range of mountains known as the Malps. In the interest of saving money, I attempted to find free lodging for the Dude and myself through a website known as Settee Gliding. I was unlucky in doing so for our first city, Foam, and our last city, Lunch Meat, but successful for the cities known as Glorenze and Pirenna.

I had more than a bit of an inkling that our Settee Gliding host in Glorenze, known as Giuseppe, was going to be kind of a character. In the weeks and days leading up to our departure, he emailed me nonstop with meticulous advice in regards to train travel. (Later in our stay he delighted in telling me how I had overpaid for every other voyage of our trip since I had not requested his advice on those as well.) He also made it clear that breakfast was to be at 7:40 on weekdays and we would need to be out of his abode by precisely 8:23.

He picked us up from the train station on our first night and his first words were, "Quesyun: you dreenk leetle, normal, or mahtch wine?"

We arrived at Giuseppe's apartment and greeted his three other Settee Gliders, who were in the midst of preparing that night's meal. One of Giuseppe's rules is that each of his guests prepare a meal from their native land on one of the nights of their stay. The next night it was our turn, and I had decided to prepare Ma P-P's Chicken Cornbread. Giuseppe took us to the grocery store for provisions, where he used his grocery cart as a battering ram against unsuspecting bambina.

I told him we needed lettuce for an accompanying salad I planned to prepare. He strode away and returned shortly, thrusting a bag of iceberg into my face. Actually, I told him, I usually prefer the fancier mixed greens for this salad. "You say you want lettuce! Thees ees lettuce!" he barked.

The next hurdle was sour cream, which doesn't seem to exist in Europe. Maybe we could use crème fraîche, I postulated. When he claimed ignorance of the product, I decided yogurt would also do, and grabbed a pack of what appeared to be plain yogurt.

"How long you been in Europe?" Giuseppe asked. Since September, I told him. "And you dowan know our yogurt is sweet?!? Look, sugar!" he exclaimed, pointing to the ingredients label. As my Italian vocabulary is pretty much limited to buongiorno, ciao, grazie, prego, uno, due, and principessa, I am woefully ignorant of such alimentary words as the one used for sugar.

We got back to his place and he left us in the kitchen to fend for ourselves. I had to fetch him to find out how to turn his oven on, since I wasn't familiar with its controls. Before doing so, he started removing all the racks. "I can tell you dowan much use oven," he said. I do, actually, I said. "Then why you look at me so strange?" Because I have no idea what you're doing, I said. Turns out "less accidents happen" when you put the racks in at the same time as whatever you're cooking.

During the meal, one of the other Settee Gliders was talking to our host about the prodigious number of guests he has housed, and asked who among them had been the worst. This commenced a two-hour soliloquy during which he told us in painstaking detail about his worst offenders and all their evils. One of them got on the wrong bus trying to get to the train station near his place and was inaccurately told by her bus driver that she would be there soon, meaning that Giuseppe was forced to wait at the station for more than an hour. When she finally arrived, he told her to do the dishes he would have done had he been home and not waiting for her.

This person had left a "neutral" rating on his Settee Gliders profile, and in telling us this Giuseppe said that he expected all of us to leave him "positive" ratings. I did so (for I'm a wuss).

But let it be known in this secret space that Giuseppe of Glorenze is a niggling, nattering ninny!

Carry on My Wayward Bad Romance

2011-02-27T18:00:00.005-06:00

So MPR throws an employee cabaret every year, sort of like a talent show, at the Fitzgerald theater. This year, I was convinced (with minimal prodding) to be a backup dancer for the finale act. I'm in the red tutu. Than is next to me. The band largely consists of sound engineers. Check it!

Manda shows amazing way to wrap a scarf.

2011-02-27T13:50:00.002-06:00

This is going to change your life, people!

Trampoline Park!

2011-02-18T16:37:00.010-06:00

You guys. Stop it. Just listen. Just stop and listen for a sec. I WENT TO A TRAMPOLINE PARK LAST NIGHT.

It was my friend Troy's real birthday last night, so we celebrated by jumping on trampolines at an indoor trampoline park called Skyzone! Picture this. It's a big building with pretty much nothing but gigantic trampolines on the floors and walls. For reals.

This is what it looks like!

So Skyzone is in Plymouth, which is lame. But it was the most fun I have had jumping up and down in my entire life. Plus TB Reed, Troy and Taj are pro jumpers and they did flips in the air. FLIPS! We jumped so high. And the secret thing is you don't realize how hard you are working your body until 10 minutes goes by and then all of the sudden you are gasping for breath and dying of exhaustion.

Then we saw my favorite local band The Robinson Caruso Organization, which is a 10-piece R&B/Soul force of nature, capable of producing gale-force winds and devastating bouts of dancing. We danced, my dear friends. Oh how we danced.

Robinson Caruso Organization

And I just wanted to say those two things. Ok bye!

Birthday shakeface!

2011-02-16T10:35:00.002-06:00

It happened. Troy and I threw the birthday party of our wildest dreams. There was cake, there was roller skating, there was dancing, there was karaoke............and there was shakeface.

"Anna! Stop it! What is shakeface?!" you ask. Fantastic question. It's when people shake their faces as hard as they possibly can while someone takes a flash photo of them. Note - I have very attractive friends. This fact is not evidenced by the following photos.

Troy Zimmerman

Andrew Foreman

Alyson Wise

Josh Kuehn

Adam Paolo

James Rone

Erin Sheppard, vampiress

Taj Ruler

Than Tibbetts

Tim Hellendrung

Alli Koch

Manda Larson

Jen Scott

Tom Reed AND Troy Zimmerman. PHOTO BOMB!

Thanks to TB Reed for his mad photo/wrangling/explaining skills, and for being birthday mother to Anna and Troy.

Transformation.

2011-02-11T11:50:00.003-06:00

15-year old TB Reed was...something...but thank GOD I met him at 27.

Fringe 2011 here we come!

2011-02-08T17:31:00.000-06:00

Soooooooo last night the cast of Zombie High School got into the 2011 Fringe Festival! That means we'll be coming at you with a new show this summer. Will it be Zombie College? Robot Salon? Poop your Pants the musical? Only time will tell.

Watch Berko nervously anticipate the start of last night's lottery.

Sneak peek

2011-02-08T05:25:00.001-06:00

I could not POSSIBLY be prouder of my brother.

2011-02-03T11:11:00.002-06:00

A special message.

2011-02-02T22:34:00.003-06:00

Click play!

Hello, Iowa!

2011-02-01T11:07:00.001-06:00

Last week I took the bf and bff to Iowa to visit my sissie and brother-in-law and their babe. She quickly bonded with Steph, adorably sometimes referring to her as "Anna", and she remained skeptical of Tom but had a heart-melting 5 minutes cuddling with him in a tent at the library. Look!

Mae is enthralled with Steph's "Loud! Quiet." book.

Please don't judge Tom's ginger soul patch. It's for a play!

On Sunday morning my sissie made blueberry pancakes. Mae proceeded to eat them whilst smearing them all over her face and the table and anyone that touched her. Observe!


That cute ball of blueberry can keep it on her face as long as she wants.

Also, to entertain us, my brother-in-law taught us how to draw! Or rather, gave us some paints, put on Pandora, and let us do our thing. Here is us painting and some of the more memorable gems of the day.


We paint!

Anna's Flower Power.


Tom's Dancing Cactus

Tom's Farting Pac Man

Steph's Thumbs Climbing a Path to Nowhere

Anna's Bulbous Elmo

Steph's Candy Corn Tree


Steph's Anthropomorphic Thumbs

Ok have a nice week bye!

Happy almost my birthday month!

2011-01-25T15:57:00.002-06:00

In honor of my birthday being a mere 16 days away, I made you a playlist birthed from 6 months worth of Shazammed songs from my iphone. "What does that mean?" a non-iphone owning individual might ask. Well. Shazam is an app that you turn on when you want to identify a song you're listening to. So each of these songs were so amazing, curious, or sentimental to me that I risked my life, likely driving, to look them up as fast as I could so I would never forget them.

I present to you, my Shazam playlist. You will enjoy. That's a threat.

Sorry I've Abandoned You, TP

2011-01-24T11:31:00.003-06:00

Bonjour, mes pirates.

I got a little too carried away with my new blog-venture, and as a result I've neglected my dear readers on this side of the Internet. Mea culpa.

To make up for it I just posted the crème de la crème of what I was writing while I was away, and I promise in the future I will double-post.

A la prochaîne,

Neenuh

Morocco Part 2: The Hammam

2011-01-24T11:31:00.002-06:00

The thing I was most excited to do in Morocco was to visit the hammams, or bath houses. I was pumped for the cultural stuff too, of course, but the prospect of spending time in a spa-like setting, getting all renaxed and shiz, really appealed to me.

There are different kinds of hammams you can go to, depending on how pampered you want to get and how much you want to spend. We went to one where we just paid 30 dirham (the equivalent of 3E) so we could take a hot shower. There were no frills, no extras, just a room with a showerhead and a bucket. As I understand it, there are also ones where you strip down and sit in a shvitz for awhile, soaping and exfoliating yourself while trying really hard to forget how uncomfortably Minnesotan you feel about being in a room full of nakey people.

But we decided to go for the full-bore, 100% luxury experience at a fancy modern hammam for a whopping 100 dh, plus 30 dh for the exfoliating glove (about 13E total).

Having never done this before, I was full of trepidation. Were we supposed to be naked? Were we supposed to wear swimsuits? Would they be offended by my circa-2007 teal-and-red flowered bikini? After a brief conference in the dressing room, Emily and I decided to go with both halves of our swimsuits, with our towels clutched tightly around us. The Moroccan woman in charge of us indicated we should bring our soap and shampoo, as well as the tokens indicating we had paid for fanciness.

We descended to a marble room that I like to imagine resembled the old Roman bath houses. There were showers in one corner, a steam room on the opposite side of the room with a jacuzzi adjacent to it, and four raised marble tables in between, where women in black tank tops and skorts were exfoliating their bodacious clients--all of whom were topless. Got it. I hung my towel on a hook and nervously plucked off my bikini top, mentally assuring myself that no one was staring at me and everyone has a body and it's OK to be half-naked--really!--it is.

Our Moroccan lady beckoned us into the steam room and handed each of us a gob of gooey, caramel-y savon noir (black soap) that kind of reminded me of Gak, miming that we should rub it onto our skin. She then left us to our own devices. This was our first time around hot water in two days, after a night spent in Charles de Gaulle and a day of dusty touristing, so I was eager as could be to de-stinkify. My handful of savon noir took a surprisingly long time to run through, so I got really, extra, super clean.

After we'd soaped and rinsed to our heart's content we didn't quite know what we were supposed to do, so we did some awkward stretching and lounging on the tiled seats. "See?" I told myself. "You're a champ at being half-naked! Ain't no thang! Nobody's staring at you! Oh wait. Everyone's totally staring at you. Better cross your arms over your chest and act real casual. Good."

The lady finally came to fetch us, and pointed that we should get our tokens and exfoliating gloves and go to one of the raised marble tables in the middle of the room, where more black-clad women were waiting for us. I smiled meekly at the one assigned to me and handed her my token, which she promptly stuffed inside her skort.

After hosing me off with a shower head, she took to me with that black, sandpaper-y glove, and exfoliated the crap out of me as if my skin were a scourge on humanity that the King of Morocco himself had ordered her to remove with whatever force necessary. Great gobs of grayish dead skin cells came wilting off me as she violently rubbed me EV-ER-Y-WHERE. Parts you wouldn't think someone other than your partner would see, much less touch: oh, she went there. Sensitive parts you'd think she'd go a little easy on: ha! nope. At one point she flipped me onto my stomach and yanked my swimsuit bottom up so she could get at my cheeks, giving me the worst wedgie of my life as I stiffled a yelp.

My skin tingled all over when she finished, and I gave thanks to God that I didn't suffer from eczema or any other ouchy skin condition. She hosed me off again, and then squirted half my precious bottle of Aveda rosemary mint body wash onto me as she massaged me. "Ahhhhhhh," I thought. "This is nice. I could just lay here for--" She abruptly yanked on one of my legs, trying to flip me over. I was slip-sliding all over the soapy stone table, trying desperately not to fall and crack my head open, as she pushed and prodded me into different positions.

When that part was over, I stumbled over to the shower where I was blessedly allowed to wash my hair. The first Moroccan lady cut my shower a bit short, and ushered me over to the bubbling jacuzzi. I didn't mind; I could go for a nice relaxing sit in a hot-- holy mother of nards the water was freezing! I suppose the point was to close our newly cleansed pores, but come on! A little warning!

Our final stop at this Sadist Spa was the Chambre de Relaxation, which was actually quite nice. We lay there for awhile on lovely leather recliners, meditating on what we had just been through and making plans to come back.

The French Word for Pony is Poney

2011-01-24T11:26:00.000-06:00

I've had incredible strokes of luck since I've been on this side of the world. Like when the plane that was supposed to take me out of Morocco broke down and we ended up being trapped in the airport for the entirety of one day and part of the next, I made best friends with a guy named Brian.* Because of the massive delay he wasn't going to make his connecting flight to Delhi via Riyadh until three days later. So I invited him to stay with me and my little brother in Paris, and we ended up having the very best time in all the history of all the world.

Bonus: having a third wheel meant that Brother Sam and I could take a series of excellent jumping pictures in front of all of Paris' monuments. Like so:

This weekend was supposed to be terrible. For the first time in months, I was going to be stranded all by my lonesome in my cell in Digoin. Due to said trips to Morocco and Paris, I was too poor to take a weekend trip (I have 50E to my name until I get paid next week... eek). And my regular Saone-et-Loire homegirl Missy had plans to be in Paris for a Patti Smith concert. So I was looking at an entire weekend of horrible, poverty-induced loneliness in my 7 ft x 9 ft cage with nothing to do but laundry.

But! Lady Luck intervened and Missy decided to stick around S+L to save money, and she proposed a staycation in her exotic hometown of Charolles, pop: 3,500. We planned to watch episode after episode of How I Met Your Mother and play Backsies Backsies (a game I invented where you rub my back and I rub yours... maybe) and not much else.

But! Lady Luck intervened once more and Missy's Austrian roommate Sigrid invited us to go along with her to visit PONIES!

Let me say that again. POOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!

Sigrid's 5-year-old Leoni has been here a few times already to go riding. This time she got a pony-horse named Vagabond (pronounced va-ga-BOHN). He was brown and shaggy and so cute and small and perfect and Mom can I please have him PLEASE???

I couldn't ride Vagabond because I would probably make him dead, but nothing on this earth could stop me from jumping in front of this--France's most glorious monument to little girls' dreams everywhere.

This one's for you, Brian.*

*Brian's real name is Eric. But since he looks more like a Brian it's just too confusing to call him Eric.

Pillsbury Croissants and Their Impact on My Life

2011-01-24T11:25:00.001-06:00

There were two staples at our dinner table when I was growing up: Dole Caesar salad in a bag and Pillsbury croissants in a tube. There are six people in my family and eight croissants in each tube. The only way I was going to get a second delicious, flaky croissant was to wolf down my dinner like a ravenous child-beast and pray that my three siblings were slightly less savage/grabby than I.

As a result, I grew habituated to stuffing food down my gullet at lightening speed.

Then I moved to France, and I was forced to eat in a way completely unnatural to me-- i.e. with my fork in my left hand, a knife in my right, and both hands on the table at all times. Every time I get too comfortable and revert to my preferred table manners (fork in my right hand, left hand in my lap), I need remind myself that everyone thinks I'm creepy when one hand is mysteriously below-decks.

It's really hard for me to push chunks of food onto the back of my fork and then get said fork to my mouth without spilling things everywhere. Like couscous. Can I please get a pass on couscous so I can eat it the creepy American way, where my right hand shovels it into my mouth? Please?

Anyway, now I eat a lot more slowly.

The end.

This is the way I am sounding when I am speaking the French, of that I am sure

2011-01-24T11:24:00.002-06:00

Of more and more time I speak to myself in my head in the voice that is that of English translated very bad. For it takes much years before one to stop the direct translation from one language in another one and starting to speak the one new extra fluent, and I am so much surrounded by people who speak like this I no more remember the way correct.

I have fear that when the man to which I am marry arriving here the next month, I have the impression he not know what is my meaning. "Why are you so perhaps?" he to demand of me.

Someone propose me to march along the river, and in my head I says, "I am in accordance." Someone propose me to eat of the croissant and in my head I am saying, "That walks." Someone propose of me to march along the river after the eating of the croissant and I am thinking, "I have very much tired for to do that." Then I bed myself.

Moreover they kiss in the elevator

2011-01-24T11:23:00.001-06:00

One of my fellow English teachers (not at my school) gave me the awesome task of helping him grade his students' descriptions of the scene in Baz Luhrmann's "Romeo + Juliet" where the two meet each other for the first time. I give to you two of my favorites, in all their unedited glory:

The story begin in a bal who is creating of Juliet's father, or there have Romeo and herself. But Juliet's family don't know that Romeo is there with friend who is Mercutio. When Romeo and Juliet are meeting, they are fall in love but Juliet don't know Romeo is a Montaigu and Romeo don't know Juliet is a Capulet. But their love is stonger and when Romeo is discoverded he decided to leave the ball. But when Romeo is ready to go he decided to join Juliet in her house.

He wants to see Juliet discreetly but he drops a statue that bring out the monitoring of the pool luckily, he don't see Romeo and he goes. When Juliet comes out he follows and speacks of love and her name with him. When they are kissing Juliet is call by his nurse and she gets out of the pool and she says good night to Romeo.

This was hands down the best I read:

At the biginning. Capulets organise a party and Romeo and Mercutio come on. Mercutio is singing and Romeo comes in the bathroom, and though the aquarium he see Juliet, during an amor song. He is dressing in a knight warrior, and Juliet in a angel fairy. In the party there are a Devil, a Mousqueteer, a Skeleton, a Roman emperor and a Cleopatra. After that, Juliet dances with an astronaut. Then Juliet's cousin see the young Mantague and wants do him go out, but his godfather no allowd it.

Whereas Romeo tell with Juliet and try to kiss her. Moreover they kiss in the elevator. But after she learn Romeo is a Montague and Romeo go out. Then, he leaves in his friends' car but he goes back to Juliet's place and spies on her. She speak about Romeo's name and she asks he to change is name. Finally he shows itself and they fall in the swimming pool. Juliet is innocent, loving but careful whereas Romeo is loud, brave, irrational and passionate with she. They talk about love, the moon and mariage, they plan to get married soon. At the end, Juliet keeps coming back and they say goodnight a thousand time.

The most adorable two hours of my week

2011-01-24T11:22:00.004-06:00

I ran into one of the English teachers from the local middle school at the cantine a few weeks ago, and he requested that I come into some of his classes of sixièmes (10- and 11-year-olds) to talk about about what life was like for their compatriots across the pond.

After enlisting the help of fabulous Texas middle school teacher Aberdeen, who was also in my French classes of yore at the U of M, I compiled answers to the teacher's list of questions: How long is the school day? Do the students wear uniforms? What kinds of clubs are available? What food do they have in the cafeteria? Etc. (Thanks Aberdeen! Now everyone go read her blog.)

I got to the classroom a bit early, and the students were crowding around the door, waiting for their teacher. They. Were. Adorable. Some of them seemed barely 3 feet high, and they just had the cutest little French faces. Once they discovered that I was The American talking to them that day they encircled me and chirped, "'Ello! Good afternoon! 'Ow ah yoo!"

When the teacher came he unlocked the door and they filed in, each repeating, "Good afternoon!" before going to their desk. They all stood politely beside their chairs until they were told to sit down. They started the class by practicing their questions. The teacher would prompt them in French, telling them to ask me things like whether I had any brothers or sisters. Those who knew the sentence structure would point their index finger in the air and moan, "Mister! Mister!" when they wanted to be called upon. Some of the questions I was asked included:

Do yoo lahk flowers? Do yoo lahk Michael Jackson?* What ees your address mail? Haff yoo got a boyfriend? Do yoo spek Portuguese? Do yoo spek...attend...c'est quoi le mot...Chinese? What ees your telephone numbah? Do yoo beleef in Fazzer Christmas? Do yoo lahk leesen zuh blues? What your muzzer do for job? Do yoo lahk your fiancé? Do yoo sink Barack Obama ees good president? Do yoo haff an animal pet? 'Ow old ah yoo?

For the latter I told them 25, and they whispered among themselves trying to decide what that translated to in French (numbers in another language are always so hard). One of them announced, "Elle a trente-sept ans! (She's 37 years old!)"

After my interrogation was over, I told them about life in America. They were envious that students there get out of school at around 2:30 or 3:00--here they have school until 6:00--but astonished that Americans have to go to school all day on Wednesdays. Elementary students here have Wednesdays off, and everyone else only goes to school till noon. They were similarly incensed that the kids only had about a half hour for lunch. Here they get two hours.

The Duluth Public Schools lunch menu was another source of envy. Several clutched their chests and smacked their lips when I told them their friends overseas enjoyed chicken nuggets for lunch last Friday. They also thought Rotini Hotdish sounded divine, which means I did not explain it correctly. Turkey hot dogs, however, did not sound as appetizing to them. They were impressed at the number of sports available for students, and that if you're a member of a high school team you practice your sport every day after school. Jaws literally dropped.

I offered to teach them the "We've got spirit, s-p-i-r-i-t spirit" cheer, which is always a big hit. They were amazed at the complicated clapping that accompanies it, and when I finished I got a deafening round of applause. When the bell rung the teacher told them all to thank me, and I got a chorus of adorable gratitude.

One student, who still hasn't mastered his "th" sound, beamed and yelled, "F**k yoo!"

*Fun fact: The school has a Michael Jackson club.

How to make a French person laugh

2011-01-24T11:22:00.002-06:00

When asked why you decided to come to France, tell them, "J'ai voulu beaucoup des aventures avant de me marier." Literal translation: "I wanted to have many adventures before getting married." What it really means: "I wanted to be very promiscuous before getting married."

Ask for une trompette (trumpet) when what you want is une trombone (paperclip).

During a conversation about Thanksgiving, tell your French friend how hard it is to be far from your amants (lovers) instead of your bien-aimés (loved ones).

Give your height in kilometers.

When politely motioning someone to go in front of you, tell them "Va t'en!" (get the frick out) instead of "Allez-y!" (go ahead).

Lounge Podcast Take 1!

2011-01-10T13:21:00.004-06:00

Take a listen. You won't regret it.

New Years Rezzies.

2011-01-10T13:20:00.003-06:00

1. Wake up at the same time every workday.
    Back story: I'm notoriously awful at getting up in the morning. And you know how it is, snoozing can be a slippery slope. Before you know it, you have snoozed for an hour! No more, lassies. No more, kindly gents. I'm taking control of my morning, like a snake takes control of its prey. One snooze per day, 9 minutes before when I wake up, which will be 8:30 every day no matter what. Minus weekends.

2. Eat breakfast every day.
    Back story: I've never done this before! My tum isn't normally too happy when I get up, so my first meal of the day is usually lunch. No more. Breakfast is good for the body. Plus it cures cancer. And gives you long, luxurious hair. And bionic limbs. So...I'm on board.

3. Stop eating after 10 pm.
    Exemptions and back story: Did this last night for the first time. It was ROUGH. Apparently that's how Oprah lost all of her weight back in the day, but I'm amending it to 10 pm instead of 9 pm since I don't go to bed until about 2 am every night. I will allow myself two exemptions. 1. If I haven't eaten dinner before 10 pm then obviously, the rule goes out the door. 2. I get one bite of whatever Tom is eating in front of me because, c'mon.

4. Go to the Y every single day.
    Exemptions and back story: Unless I'm out of town or extremely ill, I will go to the gym every day. I'm one of those people that has to go every day, or it turns into zero days. Did you know I joined the 100 mile club at the Y? Well, I did. That means I will swim a mile every day unless I need a chlorine break because my skin is falling off or my hair is officially green. Then when I reach 100, I get a t-shirt indicating so. Jealous?

5. Throw myself and Troy the best birthday party known to man.
    There's not much I can say here except that it is our Godly duty to show everyone a good time as we ring in our 26th and 28th years of life. It's like we were born to throw this party. Don't believe me? Observe pump up video #1, more to come as we inch closer to that fateful date. http://www.facebook.com/v/486804139716

Ok! Now you know all of my secrets. And it's on paper, signed in my blood, which I just smeared across the computer screen.

Love,
Anna

7 parties. 1 fateful night.

2011-01-03T12:48:00.003-06:00

Here's a top 10 list of things to know if you're going to 7 parties in one night.

1. Plan for parking. Especially if it's a snow emergency. And freezing outside. Because if you aren't patient and aren't willing to park at least 6 blocks away, you're probably going to miss the 8th party (sorry Bleric!).

2. Group your parties by location. Start with the farthest away, then work your way in so you can get to your eventual goal of being on foot only.

3. Someone needs to be sober sister. Consider the people traveling with you in your group. If one of them drunk-slept an entire day and night when you were camping, including when he was tubing down a river, perhaps it's his turn to be sober sister for the first half of your parties.

4. Bundle. The frick. Up. It's cold outside! We're talking scarf over your face, booze in a backpack, don your warmest and least attractive boots, and learn from me ladies. Double up the leggings next time, ok?

5. Spend a good chunk of time at the party with the best food. (You know who you are, party #3. Your spicy chicken bbq dip, your pickles and cream cheese appetizers, your caramel puff corn, your white chocolate dipped oreos, for God sakes!! I'm bringing you a medal, you hear?)

6. If you're going to be a-holes and not stay at parties for very long, at least bring a gift. Our choice beverage was a variety of delicious sparkling juices, because every party has its token kids and/or alcoholics, right? Respect.

7. If you are the non-sober person of the group, I highly suggest no more than 1 drink per party, unless one party was a dud and you needed to double up (obviously). I found that 7ish drinks over 8ish hours was a pretty perfect combination of non-sloppy yet energetic, hilarious, and adorable. According to me.

8. Don't leave your sweater at party #2. That means leaving parties 3 through 7 you'll have to endure the cold inside part of your sleeves rubbing up against your bare arms. Bare arms! C'mon Anna.

9. Make mental notes of hilarious things people say and do so you can recount them the next day via text. Especially when someone whispers cryptic pieces of advice into your ear as he/she gracefully stumbles out of the party (*cough HANNAH, *cough BEST PART OF THE NIGHT).

10. Take pictures with all of the hosts of your parties, so blog readers can believe everything you actually accomplished that night.


My partner in crime.

Party #1, hosted by Dave and Kristin

Party #2, 1920's themed, hosted by the lovely Keira Gatta

Party #3 and winner of best food ever, hosted by Alyson Wise

Party #4, circus themed, by the homemade tutu-ed Ani Loizzo

Party #5, where the ball dropped, hosted by Bokensha x2 and Jessi!

Party #6, hosted by Allison, Marlowe, and my cuddle buddy Professor!

Party #7, hosted (until 4:30 am!) by Lauren and Bobby

And please, let's all have a moment of silence for our fallen party. I'm sorry Bleric.

...................silence...........................

The end. Happy New Year!

T'will be epic.

2011-01-03T11:37:00.001-06:00

Denny Hecker and the Snowdays

2010-12-14T13:18:00.002-06:00

How do you like my new band name? It's a working title, people. We've had one rehearsal which was primarily in order to come up with a band name and to eat spaghetti. More to come on this.

As you know, the sky gods crapped an enormous amount of white stuff on us this weekend. I've been sequestered in my tiny apartment for four days, with three short breaks to go to a movie, go to the Y, and go to the bar (priorities). Normally I would love to hole up in my apartment for this many days in a row, but for a couple of things. First, the last time I was in my apartment this many days in a row was when I had swine flu. Second, being in your apartment for this long really makes you realize how badly you need to clean. Third, my windows are 100% frosted over. As in, there is not even a tiny peephole to the outside world. I tried with all of my might to make myself a peephole yesterday, using my hands, a spatula as a scraper, and a warm washcloth. I had about 15 minutes of blissful clarity in the small hole that I made, then it immediately frosted over. Check it:

To beat the Sunday snowy sads, Troy, Pop and I went to Black Swan which if you haven't seen you have to stop whatever you're doing and go this instant. On the way, Troy just couldn't resist a good snow fall. If you know what I mean...

In other fun news, taking Christmas photos with TB Reed is an adventure. After I think the 4,000th photo we got a good one but it was extremely blurry.

In other news, check out how icy and death-y the back of my house is.

I haven't moved my car in 7 days because I'm nervous of taking it out of its parking spot and I don't even want to deal with the amount of snow on top. Neither of these photos are my car, but they are neighbors' cars and it gets the point across.

In other other news, this is a fellow I trained in San Francisco last week. He and his girlfriend made this jacket, and I want one STAT.

In one more bit of news, I want to tell you that last night I walked home from water aerobics class (yep!) and my hair immediately turned into frozen sticks of ice. Check it:

Until this daggonned snow goes away, I have resigned not to leave the house unless I look like this. Note: TWO scarves. Headphones. Hat. Hair tucked all the way into said hat.

K bye.

Strasbourg: Capital de Noel

2010-12-06T08:12:00.001-06:00

I spent much of my life resenting Christmas. As one of three Jewish kids at my grade level in the entire city, I had a yearly obligation to bring my menorah in and explain dreidel and respond to questions about the "Jewish Christmas," which got really old, really fast. In protest I would merely mouth the words of Christmas carols at school holiday concerts, and snottily retort, "And a Happy Hannukah to YOU!" when I was wished a Merry Christmas.

Thankfully, I eventually got over it and realized that people were not trying to rub my other-ness in my face when they genuinely wanted to know why I didn't have a Christmas tree. This year, I decided to fully embrace the holiday by going with my cousin to Strasbourg, the self-proclaimed Christmas Capital of the World, for their famed Christmas markets.

Our six-hour train ride there was the perfect way to get into the spirit. A light snow was falling as we wound our way through the Alsatian countryside, passing picturesque hilltops and frozen lakes. Our Couch Surfing host picked us up at the train station, and after a snack of St. Nicholas pastries and hot cocoa we left to freeze our tuchuses off at the Christmas Markets.

We got there right at dusk, and were delighted by the fairy lights covering the old city. We wandered around the merchants selling pretzels, choucroute (sauerkraut, lardons, and spaetzle), lots and lots of vin chaud (mulled wine) and every kind of Christmas present you could want. Ornaments. Little Alsatian houses and figurines to accompany them. Beer steins. Tablecloths. Ceramic molds for making kugelhopf. And the gift for the man who has everything: a CD from the local Peruvian pan flautist.

There were about a half-dozen pods of wooden huts grouped together in various parts of the city. The streets connecting them were all decked out with lights, ornaments, and stuffed animals. Despite the frigid cold, the decorations made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

After a few hours our feet had turned to blocks of ice, so we headed back to our host's abode to thaw out. But we were right back in the thick of the action the next morning, wearing three pairs of socks and two pairs of leggings under our jeans and boots.

We scoured an outdoor antique market, where I found a lovely vintage something-something for my dear m'ma. We also visited the Alsatian Museum (which I'd highly recommend) and the Historical Museum (meh...skip it). We tried to make it to the Cathedral in time to watch the astronomical clock do its thing, but it turns out you need tickets and by the time we got there it was sold out.

I guess that means I'll have to go back, which is quite alright with me. This place is charms-a-minute, and melted my cold Grinchy heart.

I just cannot even stand it.

2010-11-30T23:32:00.000-06:00

Look who I got to hang out with all weekend! Five days of bliss, people. Pure bliss. She's 16 months old, and in her smiley/I love you phase...unless you wake her up from a nap in which case she, like me, becomes a vicious dragon lady.

Password = cutie pants
(in order to protect the little miss from complete randos of course).

Cutest baby on the planet, people. from satellitewalls on Vimeo.

Francegiving 2010: The Turkey's Revenge

2010-11-22T07:39:00.000-06:00

Last week I asked my students if they knew what was happening in America this Thursday. Blank stares. It's a big holiday, I hinted. Nothing. It's a big holiday that happens in America but not France, I said. Eyes glazed over. "It's Thanksgiving!" I stage-whispered. A light bulb went on over some students' heads, who turned to explain it to their still-confused comrades. "C'est Noel pour les américaines," they said. "Tout le monde reçoit des cadeaux." (It's Christmas for Americans. Everyone gets presents.) Where they are getting this idea, I do not know.

My favorite muggle Missy and I decided it was high time to show the Frenchies what Thanksgiving was really about. We planned a grand feast, and invited all our Burgundian BFFs: Suzanne and Christian; Baptiste, Bonus Jonas, and their parents; and Thomas, an English teacher at Missy's school.

Decorating tools at our disposal: seven sheets of construction paper, one black gel ink pen, and a pair of children's left-handed scissors. All things considered, I think the turkey turned out pretty well, despite his unfortunate feet and lack of gobble.

Missy arrived on Saturday so we could start plotting the next day's feast. After getting the necessary preparations out of the way (a viewing of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, natch), we set out in the drizzle for LeClerc, a supermarket 30 minutes away, on foot. We spent more than an hour finding and considering the most succulent ingredients known to Digoin. Whole turkeys wouldn't be available until December for Christmas, so we had to make do with turkey legs. It was just as well, really, since the size of my oven is better suited for elves than human beings.

By the time we had finished amassing all our other ingredients (50 kilos' worth, give or take a few grams), it had begun to rain in earnest, and the prospect of lugging all our loot back to the lycée was thoroughly unappetizing. We resorted to accosting patrons leaving the building, pleading with them to take pity on our feeble selves and ferry us home. One kindly gentleman at last relented. I've said it before and I'll say it again: God bless Diggy and all her lovely, non-serial killer, ride-giving inhabitants.

Our table may have had mismatching plates and a rather ridiculous clementine pyramid as centerpiece, but at least it had what was really important: wine.

We got up early yesterday to gather a few remaining items (such as scissors and construction paper for decorations), and then set to work cooking. We had to get a bit creative, as my kitchen here isn't home to the luxurious gadgets I'm used to in the States. In lieu of a masher, we overboiled the potatoes and used a pair of forks to get our mashed potatoes nice and creamy. Since we didn't possess a roasting pan or even a baking dish, we had to divide our turkey legs among three metal pans and constantly rotate them through the two oven racks to ensure even cooking. We didn't have tongs to flip the turkey, so we made do with half a plastic salad tosser and a slotted spoon-type instrument. We didn't have a beautiful cornucopia for a centerpiece, so we made a tower of clementines.

Our guests started to arrive at the all-American dinner time of 6 p.m., and since I don't have a sitting room they were forced to congregate awkwardly in my entrance hall as Missy and I made the finishing touches. They brought me not one, not two, but three bottles of champagne, some homemade crème de cassis, a bottle of Burgundy, and luscious chocolates. Nom.

This little elf oven is where all the magic happened.

With the call of "A table!" we ushered our friends into the dining room, and urged them to serve themselves, American-style. There wasn't a whole lot of room on the tiny plates for anything but the massive turkey leg, meaning we had quite a bit of leftovers. Over the delicious pear cake that Thomas brought, we went around the room and said what we were thankful for. My French was at a dastardly level all evening due to my nerves (mainly fear that the turkey was undercooked and I was going to kill everyone with salmonella), and I was feeling a bit emotional after the Burgundy and the champagne, but I managed to make it through my thanks for my family, friends, the health of the same, having such wonderful faces around my table, and the opportunity to be in La Belle France. A bit more heartfelt than last year's thanks for indoor plumbing and the fact that I'm a vertebrate.

Suzanne was thankful for Facebook, which had brought us together. Bonus Jonas was thankful for his intelligence. Baptiste was shy and said his thanks in English so half the table wouldn't understand: "I am thankful to be feasting my first Thanksgiving, and I hope to feast Thanksgiving next year in the United States."

Missy et moi, Francegiving hôtesses extraordinaires

And with that, Father Thanksgiving swooped through the water heater and showered us all with maize and French's onion topping.

PS: My Thanksgiving care package from the 'rents was held up at customs and thus is arriving today, a wee bit late for my feast. If anyone has any ideas of what, besides sauce, I can make with a gigantic bag of cranberries I'm all ears.

What I did on my Toussaint vacation

2010-11-10T10:10:00.000-06:00

I had worked a full two days by myself, so clearly it was time for a vacation. Thankfully Mother France provided. Last week I got back from my week-long sojourn around the Southwest of France during our All Saints' vacation. Since getting back to work last Wednesday, I worked six whole days. Whew! Too much! Time for a break! Good thing tomorrow is Armistice Day and I can spend its entirety in bed if I so choose. I would remind you that even my full work weeks are only 12 hours long, but that would be cruel.

So how did I occupy myself whilst heffalumping and woozling around this great country, you ask? It's all documented on Francey Pants, with synopses of each post below:

I got sick and was very cold in Arles, but my travel buddy Kelly managed to find a very interesting advertisement from 1916 featuring colon cleansing WWI soldiers that helped me laugh all the misery away. I discovered speculoos, but wasn't able to taste it due to my cold. This led to a frantic search for the gingersnap paste once I regained my health.

On Tuesday I discovered just how many places there are to go in Arles, and had one of the best meals of my life with bull stew and foie gras salad. I got pummeled in Scrabble on the way to Dijon, where Kelly and I witnessed one of the most magical happenings of all time.

Day three brought my mandatory medical visit so the French government could be sure I wasn't a dirty American with lots of germs and TB. I got really attractive ID photos for my appointment, and tried to give my height in kilometers. That night we arrived in Grenoble, where hosts extraordinaire Gus and Line were waiting with a delicious meal.

The next day in Grenoble had me jumping for joy, for the weather was amazing and the views magnifique. I found some of my robo-brethren at the Musée Dauphinois. I ran into some terrible frustrations attempting to get the ingredients for a bountiful feast for Gus and Line to thank them for being so cool, but all was well in the end.

Days five and six weren't quite as fun, with Lyon being a big ol jerk to us in nice restaurants, fast food joints, and movie theaters. Twas time to go home.

Ireland: Land of wind and cows.

2010-11-09T23:23:00.001-06:00

I spent the last week with two high school friends in Ireland. We started in Dublin, then headed south to Kinsale, then west to Limerick. It was beautiful. Here are pics.

Halloween picture tour!

2010-10-31T23:02:00.002-05:00

I'm heading to Ireland tomorrow (hai-tee-tai-tee-tai!) so I thought I would leave you for a few weeks with a visual record of some fun Halloween festivities.

First and foremost, I present to you the greatest tri-person costume of all time. Hocus Pocus!

Note the Sarah Jessica Parker mop/swiffer:

Here is the amazing Hocus Pocus magical book that Taj recreated out of putty and makeup!

Steph played the role of Bette Midler, and her teeth are only about half the length of her character's, so we worked on her facial expressions throughout the night. Here's a cool shot of her hair, followed by the look we were trying for, followed by a horrible, terrifying iphone shot where she has NO NOSE AND ONLY ONE TOOTH!!!

Now a US Weekly-style "Who wore it better?"

And now, as a special Halloween present for you, the cutest lil' bee you've ever seen. Eeeeee! It's my niece!

Ukulele Fun

2010-10-26T12:11:00.001-05:00

I got the best text message I have ever received earlier this week:

PS a ukulele will arrive at your house on Wednesday.

I am now a proud co-owner of "Ukie", the world's cutest and most Hawaiian ukulele.

I've never played a guitar before in my life. I have no idea how to strum, or play chords, or even hold it. But beef and I downloaded a few chord finder and tuner apps and chose two songs to start with.

Here is my extremely professional and heartfelt version of Hey Jude, dedicated to my sissy:

Here is Tom's haunting rendition of Somewhere Over the Rainbow:

Plane Karma.

2010-10-25T10:50:00.000-05:00

I fly a lot for work. And let me just say that I get easily annoyed whilst doing so.

For example, I flew from Philadelphia to Minneapolis last week and I had to race for my life to get to the gate because of a previous flight that took it's sweet, precious time taking off. Once I finally got to my seat, I took a breather, read a few pages of a book, then when I was allowed to use electronics I started watching Dexter on my phone.

Before I go on, you need to know that I love Dexter. It's the only thing that keeps me sane on airplanes. The moment when I get to flip it on is like ultimate relaxation for me. But Dexter can be...pretty gory. And kind of sexual. So watching it on my phone is the perfect solution for me because the phone is small enough that I can use my hands to block the screen during Dex's brutal murders. Unless, that is, the person next to me is STARING AT MY SCREEN.

That's exactly what happened to me last week. The woman next to me, though she couldn't hear a thing, watched my screen for hours. If I moved it slightly, she would adjust her posture. When I tried to block the screen with my balls of yarn, she would sit higher. I thought about saying something, especially since her watching meant I had to extra-screen the show for violence, but then I thought about something: Plane Karma. I am a firm believer that you have to be a really good passenger and airport patron, otherwise bad things will happen to you.

For example, a man took my window seat on the first flight, and he knew it. I could tell by the guilty look he gave me when I arrived at my seat. Not only did he take the liberty of boarding himself before he was called to ensure that he took my seat, but he didn't even mention it when I got there. I thought about saying something, because I chose that seat specifically and printed my boarding pass a day early to make sure I had that seat, but then I thought again. I fly all the time, I always get window seats, maybe this man NEEDED this seat. Maybe he would die without it. Or maybe he was just a jerk. Either way, I knew that if I gave him this one, it would get returned to me somehow. And me making that Philadelphia flight by about 10 seconds, I really think, was the result of this benevolence.

So back to the Dexter-stealing lady next to me. I thought about saying something to her, but I said to myself, "You know what Anna? You love Dexter. And you're always telling people that they need to watch this show. So even though you're annoyed right now, just think of it this way. Maybe she's so compelled by the show that she'll be a watcher of Dexter from now on. And wouldn't you want that?" So I let her watch for a couple of hours, then when it was time to turn our electronics off, I shook off my annoyance and asked her if she's ever seen Dexter before. It turns out, she hadn't. But she said this: "So, the plot is that there's a guy who kills only bad people, right?" And my mouth...dropped. How could she have gotten that just from the visuals of a couple episodes? "Yes, that's right!" I said. We talked about Dexter for a few more minutes, then the conversation switched topics.

"Hey...do you read?" she asked me. "Yes, I do read. Why?" I asked. Then she took a book out of her bag and said "I'd like to give you this". I looked at the novel she was holding and told her that it's ok, she didn't have to give me the book she was reading. She could just tell me what it was and I'd go check it out myself. "No, no," she said, "I wrote it. And I'd like you to have it." Turns out, this woman is a famous author that has been interviewed on MY public radio station. Exactly one year ago, she probably walked right by my desk! She autographed the book for me saying, "It was so nice to meet you, Anna". She told me that she had just been waiting, flight after flight, to talk to a nice person on a plane that she could give her book to. I'm very thankful I shook off my rage and spoke to this woman, because we ended up talking for a while and I might even babysit her kids.

Here's the moral of the story. Be nice on planes a) because of Plane Karma and b) because you might be sitting next to your new BFF.

Lycée Camille Claudel, Home to the Purple and Blue Cows

2010-10-22T08:38:00.000-05:00

I finally started teaching yesterday after several weeks of introducing myself and observing. My first class was with the "Euro" seniors-- a designation for advanced students like AP or IB-- and I prepared a lesson for them about the use of attack ads in American elections. I showed them McCain's "celebrity" ad on Obama, and used an Obama ad where he compared McCain to Bush. I asked them to think about how they used images and music to manipulate the viewers. I did the same with Tarryl Clark/Michele Bachmann ads, and asked them which they found most convincing and why.

It was pretty successful, forcing the students to think critically. I was brimming with confidence going into my next class, with seniors who have specialized in English. I brought them a video the Duluth tourist office made about the city, thinking the kids would be excited to see where I come from. I'm in a really tiny room with nowhere to put my laptop, so I had to awkwardly hold it aloft so they could see. If you've never seen "Fresh Duluth," it's about 30 minutes worth of Lake Superior porn, cut with interviews with locals. Many of them zoned out, so I kept pausing it to say, "Pauline, what just happened?" "Euh... eye don' kno'." "Is that because you weren't paying attention?" "....yis." It was somewhat of a disaster.

Today I had two groups of sophomores, and I prepared a lesson for them about school spirit. The kids here go to school from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., and they don't have any extra-curriculars. No sports teams. No music ensembles. No assemblies. No mascot. No school colors. I brought in my Duluth East High School yearbook and tried to explain these foreign concepts.

Next I taught them some cheers from my high school. They really got into the clapping and stomping as they chanted:

"Oo rocks zuh 'ouse?
Zuh grey'ounds rock zuh 'ouse
And when zuh grey'ounds rock zuh 'ouse
Zey rock eet all zuh way down."

Another favorite:

"One! We ar' zuh grey'ounds!
Two! A leetle beet loudahr!
Sree! Ay steel can't 'ear yoo!
Foh! Moh! Moh! Moh!"

As an activity I had them choose a mascot and school colors for their own high school, Lycée Camille Claudel. The mascot had to share an attribute with the students. I told them we were the greyhounds because greyhounds are fast and always win the race, just like East High School athletes. I used escargots as an example, since it's a specialty of the region. But it's not a particularly fierce or fast animal, so they probably wouldn't want to choose it, I said.

"Les gazelles!" someone suggested. That was eventually shot down because they didn't think their classmates were elegant enough to qualify. "Les grenouilles (frogs)!" said another. Not too much enthusiasm for that one either.

"Les vaches!" said a girl who had been really into the cheers. "Cows?" I asked. "Why would you want to be the cows?" "Becooz, euh, zuh coos, zey talk a lot. And zuh studahnts, zey talk mooch az well. So we are zuh coos." Everyone nodded in agreement. And your colors? I asked. Blue and violet was the consensus. Why? "Becooz zey ah' well wiz each ozzer."

I asked the students to use their 10-day Toussaint vacation to create their own cheer for Camille Claudel. I can't wait to see what zey cohm oop wiz.

The plan

2010-10-13T02:46:00.000-05:00

Bonjour Truth Pirates!

It turns out I have a lot, beaucoup, to say about France. And I've been restraining myself from broadcasting on this blog every little thing that happens to me. TP was born as a collaboration between my wife Anna and me, and I don't want it to become too Neenuh-heavy and lopsided and lame.

So, much like Anna has Separate Stack as a repository of all her written genius, I have opened Francey Pants for business. This is where you'll be able to find my day-to-day musings about my life abroad, along with anything else that flits into my head and makes itself comfortable. I'll be double-posting the coolest things I write to Truth Pirates, but I'm going to try to keep it to a twice-a-week max.

OK? OK!

Paris in 25 Hours

2010-10-11T02:32:00.001-05:00

When I first found out I was headed to France, I had a large number of folks promise me a visit. I figured most of them were just saying that and never intended to hop the pond, but this weekend I got to play tour guide to my first round of promise-keepers! Ted and Danielle are on their first European excursion, and had about a week in Jolly Old England before they took the Eurostar over to Paris on Saturday morning. Their train got in at 11:30 a.m. after a slight delay, and they were due to leave Sunday afternoon at 1:00 p.m. That means I had only 25 hours and change to show them the most magnificent city in the world. Ready? Allez-y!

12:30-13:00: After heaving our luggage up and down multiple sets of stairs in the metro, finding our hotel, and checking into our hotel, we took a a stroll down the Boulevard St. Germain des Pres. We stopped for some savory crepes on the way, and then poked around in the quarter's eponymous church for a look-see.

13:00-13:30: Our next stop was obvious: macarons at Ladurée, with an éclair for Ted. We brought our treats down to the banks of the Seine, where we nibbled them as we waited for our riverboat cruise.

13:30-14:30: We paddled in our Batobus toward the Ile de la Cité and the Ile Saint Louis, made a loop around them, and continued west until we stopped at the Eiffel Tower.

14:30-16:00: I had heard warnings for days that Paris, and especially the Eiffel Tower, were due to get terroristed. Thus I was beyond relieved that Ted and Danielle were content to just wander along the base of the tower rather than mounting it. Plus, the lines to get up stretched all the way to Digoin. So we artfully dodged the crap vendors, took a peek up the tower's innards, gazed upon the Champs de Mars, snapped some pics, and then got back in line to take the riverboat up to the Musée D'Orsay.

16:00-17:30: This is apparently the perfect time to go to the Musée D'Orsay, home to works by Van Gogh, Dégas, Seurat, Manet, Monet, Toulouse-Lautrec, Rodin, Renoir, and others. There was no line! Plus, I got in for free when I showed them my visa! Double huzzah. We gazed upon masterpiece after masterpiece until the museum shut its doors for the night.

17:30-19:00: Since we weren't going to mount the Eiffel Tower or the Arc De Triomphe, I wanted to take my buds up to Montmartre to give them a lovely, peaceful panoramic view of the city. We got off at the Abesses métro stop (tip: take the elevator to avoid the billion stairs to the top) and encountered a giant, noisy parade. I at first assumed it was yet another protest against the change of retirement age from 60 to 62, but we soon figured out it was to celebrate the grape harvest. We headed up to Sacré Coeur and encountered a mob of Parisians getting their wine-tasting on. After touring the church we spent a frustrating 20 minutes trying to make our way down one of the side streets so we could get outta there.

19:00-20:30: My Digoin friend Suzanne had recommended a restaurant for us to go to, but we were bone tired after all the stairs and the squishing and the walking uphill and the stairs and the walking downhill, so we just plopped down at the first good-looking restaurant we happened upon. Ted got escargots as a starter, we both had duck with honey sauce as a main course, and he had creme brulée for dessert. Danielle had a greek salad, boeuf bourguignon, and mousse au chocolat. My dessert was a very boozy mojito sorbet. We shared a bottle of Bordeaux.

20:30-21:00: I hatched a plan to take mes amies on a forced march through nighttime Paris so they could see some of the important things we wouldn't have time for on Sunday. Our first stop was the Moulin Rouge, which is on a very lewd streets with sex shops as far as the eye can see. We then took the metro to Opéra, so they could see the magnificent rococo building in real life after seeing the model in the Musée D'Orsay.

21:00-22:00: We walked down the Avenue de l'Opéra to the Louvre, the magnificent, gigantic palace that is now one of the world's most important art museums. We arrived just as the Eiffel Tower began its sparkle motion. Alas, my camera was unable to capture it properly, so instead you can feast your eyes on the glass pyramid entrance to the Louvre.

22:00-23:30: We strolled along the Seine, encountering several groups of youngsters guzzling wine and beer en plein air. It's been awhile since I've been out in Paris on a Saturday night, so I don't know if that was just the usual Bacchanalia or if it was in honor of the harvest festival. We reached Notre Dame, and paused to watch a group of buff French rollerbladers make magic with their limbs along a course of overturned cups. We got a bit lost on our last leg of the trip, but we made it back to the hotel safe and sound, and promptly passed out.

9:00-10:30: After breakfast at the hotel, we set out for Notre Dame. Danielle and Ted toured the cathedral while I waited in line to go up the towers. This was a perfect plan, because by the time they were done exploring the line had stretched all the way to Digoin again. I got in for free by flashing my visa, and we climbed to the very tippy top. The cloudless day afforded magnificent views of the city.

10:30-11:00: We trucked over to Saint Chapelle, home to beautiful stained glass windows. We were properly awestruck, and glad we went.

11:00-12:00: I took a slight detour so I should show the bibliophiles Shakespeare & Co., an English-language bookstore where Hemmingway used to hang out. We got some panini sandwiches at a nearby street stand for lunch, and then hightailed it back to the hotel so we could catch the metro in time for our respective trains.

I'm proud of what we were able to see in such a short amount of time, but holy Jacques is it exhausting. 25 hours in Paris: c'est possible!

This will either make you giggle or puke.

2010-10-07T23:03:00.002-05:00

Ready for a whopping dose of adorable? I give you the top three reasons Tom and Anna are the cutest couple this side of the Mississip'.

1. Bread-staches. A creative use of that middle chunk you get at Erbs and Gerbs.

2. This video.

3. The cutest couple blog (besides TP) known to man.

randomdino.com

Chez moi

2010-10-05T16:34:00.000-05:00

Some of you wanted to see my domicile. Well, voila my cell in all its glory. The door to the bathroom is on the left, my kitchen implements are on the right, and my bed is straight on till morning. Please note the omnipresent blue hue to the walls, which somehow manages to be as depressing as it is bright.

This would be my bathroom, home to the 2-ft-by-2-ft shower where I successfully contorted myself in order to shave my legs using four minutes' worth of hot water. I have since crowned myself the Leg Shaving Queen of France and celebrated with baguette and Nutella.

Welcome to my gigantic kitchen, where I can be often be found spreading goat cheese within a baguette or heating up water for pasta. I'm open to suggestions of what else I can create in this space. That white appliance is a large toaster oven with two hot places on top, and next to it is my dorm-sized mini-fridge.

This is my desk, where all the magique happens. It's also the most decorated corner of my cell. I would love it if you sent me things that I could tack on the walls to make them a bit less blue.

This picture gives you a better idea of the real wall color. That long gray drink of water is my wardrobe. I've yet to make the acquaintance of a French closet, but that just means there are way more Narnia possibilities here.

Everyone at my school keeps asking if I'm "bien-installé" (settled in), and after the purchase of a last few provisions today I feel like I finally am. I was kibbitzing with one of the secretaries this morning, who I told about my upcoming visitor, Loral. She said she would talk to the proviseur (headmaster) to see if I can move to another apartment that has two beds to better facilitate guests. She said she couldn't make any promises, but since there's just such an apartment that's currently empty she would try. So this may not be chez moi for long.

BACON COOKIES!

2010-10-04T11:31:00.000-05:00

I can't believe I forgot to tell you this, but listen. Listen to me right now. One of my good friends is a professional chef. She's talented and creative and when I had swine flu last year she brought me homemade chicken soup, cinnamon applesauce, snickerdoodle cookies, and something else really good that I can't remember what it was (probs because of the swine). Luckily for me, she lives a few blocks down the street, and also luckily for me, a couple weeks ago she muttered the two greatest sentences I have ever heard: "We can't go out for sushi because I have to make bacon chocolate chip cookies. Just come over here."

So I went, and was greeted with sushi, pounds and pounds of cooking bacon wafting into my nose holes and sizzling before my very eyes, and my own chopsticks for which to eat said sushi and snag bits of chocolate chip cookie dough, pre, post, and during the cookie baking process. I am a lucky woman, no?

The creepiest (and best) museum in the world

2010-10-03T02:32:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow all the language assistants in the Burgundy region will be gathering in Dijon for our orientation. Since I had nothing better to do, I decided to come a day early and check out Burgundy's largest city.

My No. 1 priority for tourist-ing was to visit the Mustard Museum, because, well, how cool is it that a mustard museum exists? Except it doesn't exist. At least not anymore. Quelling the desire to get right back on the train back to Digoin, I soldiered on and visited the huge (and free!) Musée des Beaux Arts in the Ducal Palace. After wandering around there for a few hours, I moseyed the streets of Dijon until I happened upon the Musée de la Vie Bourguignonne.

Quick aside: can I just say how awesome it is to go to museums by yourself? You can go at exactly your own speed and you don't have to pretend to be interested in things you aren't interested just so your companion thinks you're brainy. I highly recommend it.

So. Back to the Museum of Burgundian Life. I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't this:

"Bonjour! We are two bare-breasted mannequins with ratty bits of hair stuck to our heads. We like to fight over this one arm between us and use it to slap each other when no one else is around. This is very Burgundian."

What followed was a series of vignettes from Burgundian life-- marriages, trapping babies in odd wooden contraptions...

I went through three such rooms all by my lonesome, giggling to myself and imagining I saw them move. Then I really did see one move! I jumped and yelped, "Oh my God!" Turns out it was a museum docent. I tried to explain to her as I clutched my racing heart, "Oh mon dieu! J'ai pensé que vous étiez un mannequin! C'est tellement affreux! (OMD! I thought you were a mannequin! That's really scary!)"

She descended into giggles. I gave a start when I saw another humanoid docent lurking around the kitchen scene. "Il y a trop de mannequins ici pour avoir des vraies personnes aussi (There are too many mannequins here to have real people as well), " I scolded him.

Next was a series of recreated storefronts. There was a candy shop, a butcher shop, a milliner's, a fur shop, a dry goods shop... and this. A shop of horrors.

Turns out it was supposed to be a hair salon. The lady on the left is getting her hair permed and the lady on the right is getting hers dyed. I think. Either that or they used hair salons as fronts for psychological experiments and/or lobotomies.

She looks awfully serene for having such a contraption attached to her noggin, no?

Completely innapropriate hotel room.

2010-09-30T11:52:00.001-05:00

Hi. I'm in LA. I'm staying in a hotel room with a crazy, nonsensical, overly sensual feature. Here, I'll give you a personal tour.

Why? Why? Why is the shower see-through? What if I were sharing the room with a coworker? And no, there is not a curtain that can cover the glass, and no, it does not fog up enough for it to be non-awkward.

Also, this hotel is famous for its swanky rooftop pool and bar. It's called an "endless" pool because the water is level with the floor, so it looks like it goes all the way off of the roof. Cool, right?

Except...here's the thing. NO ONE SWIMS IN IT! They treat it like a decorative water fountain. I mean it's bath water temperature, would be perfect for a night swim, yet it's completely uncool to even approach the water. This baffles me. That just seems so LA. "There is this perfectly good pool to swim in but NO! We will not swim in it! Are you crazy? We're here to party, and wear high heels, and sit in water bed eggs (as seen in photo)." Dumb LA.

A Real Frenchy Dinner!

2010-09-30T04:03:00.000-05:00

When I first learned I was coming to Digoin, I researched the crap out of it. Given that there are only a handful of Digoinais Internet sites, most of which are a time warp to 1995, that didn't take me very long. In desperation, I then turned to Facebook, and carefully looked over everyone who had "liked" Digoin. I chose a woman who looked nice and asked her for advice on how to best travel from Paris to her fair city. We commenced a correspondence, and when I told her I had arrived she suggested meeting up last night.

I wasn't quite sure what to expect, since Polly Platt told me in her book "French or Foe" that it would take months, years even, for a French person to feel comfortable enough with a stranger to invite them into their sanctum. Maybe we'd go out for some pastis, I hypothesized. Perhaps she just intended on taking me on a tour of the charming countryside.

But non! She took me to her sanctum! She lives up in the hills just outside of Digoin, in a charming stone house with an ancient bread oven outside. She introduced me to her rotund dog, Desi, who looked distinctly human and who, after pleasantries were exchanged, held court in the armchair, sitting on her hind legs with one paw proffered as if she were queen and I was supposed to kiss her ring.

Suzanne went upstairs to grab her laptop so I could show her pictures of my family, and meanwhile her son Fabian came home. Fab just received his Master's in geography (juste comme mon frere!) and was in the process of moving to Macon to study dams. After I went through Facebook and showed her the important peeps in my life, she went through her own files and showed me all the family trips she's taken in the last year.

While we waited for her husband she served me vin de noix, a wine she had made with chestnuts. It was about a 3 on the sweetness scale from one to Manischewitz. Her husband (let's just call him Guy because I forgot his name) then arrived home from a rousing game of boules (the French version of Bocce) with his friends, and we sat down to eat. The first course was avocado halves filled with mayonnaise and an olive and sprinkled with pepper. The mayonnaise here is different from at home-- it's tangier and has more of a yellowish tint. What I ate last night was probably homemade. They then poured me a glass of AOC* Beaujolais, and Suzanne served me chicken, mushrooms and potatoes as a main course.

I attempted to explain to them what my job was in Portland, but it was difficult to do since nothing similar exists in France. Here, the state takes care of most of what nonprofits do in the US. I had a heckuva time trying to explain workplace giving. Plus, I mispronounced culture (cool-TUYR) as couture (coo-TUYR), so they thought I raised money for art and sewing. Bof.

Guy encouraged me to use baguette to sop up all the juices on my plate before the next course. "En Frace, c'est la sauce qui est la plus importante," he explained.

Next Suzanne presented us with a cheese plate. Guy went through each one and explained its origin, what kind of milk it is made with and how strong it was. He told me one was from Gier, and I thought he said giraffe, as if the cheese had been made from giraffe milk. Bof encore. There was a camembert, a roquefort, and five other cheeses whose names I forget. He encouraged me to start with the most mild and end with the strongest. "Mais tout est fort!" Suzanne countered. The last one I tried was so strong it made my eyes water. "Du vin! Du vin!" they exclaimed when they saw my expression.

Finally, dessert. Suzanne had marinated figs in a sauce of cinnamon and ginger, and offered a selection of petits fours to go along with them.

After dinner we retired in front of the fireplace and first watched a scintillating program about windmills, and then the soccer match between Lyon and Tel Aviv. Lyon won. It was about 11:00--or, excuse me--23:00 when I arrived back to my cell, stomach gurgling from all that lactose but heart happy that I had triumphed over Polly Platt.

*AOC= Appellation d'origine controllée, a designation given by the French government to wine, cheese, butter, etc. that comes from a specific geographical region and has met certain standards. Nothing but the mustard created in Dijon that meets the AOC standards may have AOC on its label.

Digoin Digest

2010-09-28T13:24:00.000-05:00

I arrived yesterday in Digoin, the city of 8,500 souls where I will live and work for the next seven months. One of train conductors struck up a conversation with me on my way here from Paris, and when I told him where I was headed he wrinkled his nose and said, "Mais... pourqoui?!? C'est tout petit!" He seemed genuinely concerned that I was going to have a terrible time and hate France, so he gave me his number and said to call him if I was ever in Chalon.

My contact from the school was waiting for me at the station when I departed the train-- it wasn't hard for her to find me since I was the only person who got off. My new conductor friend had inflated my confidence by telling me that I spoke very good French, but all of that evaporated when I started talking with the teacher. I kept answering questions incorrectly (Ex: Her: Was it a long journey? Me: I arrived in France on Saturday.) and stuttering my French conjugations, so she must have thought I was a prize idiot.

She took me to a grocery store so I could buy some provisions: baguette, chevre, Nutella (bien sur) and then took me back to my new home. She opened the door with a flourish and said, "Bienvenue a ton grand appartement!" Gulp. My first thought was: jail cell. It seems much smaller than the single dorm room I had in college, though maybe with the bathroom included it's the same size. The walls are painted a depressing shade of blue, and they seemed to have crammed as much depressing gray furniture in it as possible. A bed, desk, wardrobe and shelves are all squeezed in alongside a mini fridge, cabinet, hot plate and toaster oven. I'm going to wait to take a picture of it until it looks less cell-like.

Rather than wallowing, I took off to try to explore the village in the waning sunlight. I spied a library and a gym filled with beefy French dudes, as well as a lot of closed storefronts. I got a bit lost on the way back and ended up having a very creepy experience by a fog-filled cemetery. An ancient episode of Gossip Girl I happened to have on my computer lulled me to sleep in my Internet-free lodging.

This morning I went out to explore the city and get some much-needed items, such as a towel and a knife with more cutting power than the butter knives in my room. I plastered a huge smile on my face and forced myself to say a cheerful, "Bonjour!" to everyone I passed. Most responded likewise. Some detoured to the other side of the street. I made a detour at the river, which looks like this:

After my stop at a supermarché, I returned home for a shower. I waited for ages for the water to heat up to no avail, so I went to my school's office for help. While I waited in the head secretary's office for a janitor, I made the acquaintance of several teachers coming in and out. One asked me how in the heck I had ended up in Digoin. "Did you fall out of the plane?" he asked me in French.

My plumbing fixed, I met up my contact teacher. She invited me to sit in on her English classes. I thought I was just there to observe, but instead she had me stand at the front of the class and field questions about myself. I made an apparently fatal error when answering the question about what music I like with "Carla Bruni." They all laughed. I redeemed myself by saying I also liked Louise Attaque. Their other questions included, "'Ave you been to Las Vay-gass?" "What ahr your 'obbies?" "Do you love Barack Obama?" "What you think about zee snails?" "What words of French do you know?" "What age do you 'ave?" "Pleeze speak mooch more slowly."

I was told my job would consist of helping small groups of these students prepare for their oral examination at the end of the year, where they must discuss "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and another surprise text.

Since I was surviving on the pain au chocolat and few gulps of orange juice I'd had that morning, by 18:00 I decided to come into town for a proper meal. I'm sitting at Entre Mer et Montagne, which thankfully has wifi, and waiting for it to be 20:00 so I can get dinner. The building I'm in is on the left side of the street in the picture below.

Thus begins the most awkward (and hopefully most rewarding) period of my life...

Milking cows, trapped kitties, bucking broncos, and dangerously cute kids.

2010-09-27T14:50:00.001-05:00

What I learned at a pumpkin patch in Iowa:

1. How to milk a cow! I'm pretty much a straight professional now. If you ever want any fresh water, straight from the cow's teet, let me know.

2. How to ride a horse.

3. I saw these kittens at the pumpkin patch and immediately wanted to adopt them, but was afraid they might be carrying bird flu or Parkinson's or herpes:

4. I have the cutest niece on the whole entire Earth.

Pastry Porn

2010-09-26T10:46:00.001-05:00

My No. 1 goal for my weekend in Paris was to hit up Ladurée, an amazing pastry shop introduced to me by my good friend Sarumph on my last trip here. This is where I fell irrevocably in love with French macarons, a fancy meringue cookie sandwich with ganache in between. If you're coming to The Wedding, you have Ladurée to thank for the fact that we will have macarons in lieu of a cake.

They have the prettiest pastel window displays.

After considering the Saint-Honoré Rose-Framboise so I could see what "raspberry stew" was like, I instead went with the Divin.

Almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

St. Nick and Mrs. Clause each got the macarons. The flavors represented above are chocolate, pistachio, coconut, lemon and coffee.

OMD this was good.

If you come to Paris I will take you here toute de suite.

Three of my meals thus far have had a Nutella course

2010-09-26T04:50:00.000-05:00

I'm trying to stay up as late as I can to limit my jet lag to one day, so I thought I'd update my favorite ninnymuggins on my adventures thus far.

After my travails trying to make my flight in San Francisco this summer, I was determined to make it to the airport with plenty of time to spare yesterday (my goodness; was it only yesterday? feels like many moons ago). Thankfully The Dude was able to wrangle a gate pass, so I didn't have to spend that extra 2.5 hours staring moodily into the distance and missing him. Instead, my fellow passengers were treated to a gross display of human emotion as I boarded the plane and we were forced to part. What can I say. Four months is a long time without your beloved.

I wedged my way into my window seat next to a fleshy Englishman intent on invading my personal space. He promptly dozed off, leaning ever-closer to my shoulder, when he would awake with a snort and correct his posture. This continued for all six hours of our flight into Reykjavik, as I made several failed attempts to find a comfortable position that would allow me to doze. We made it into Keflavik Airport at 6:30 a.m. Icelandic time, 1:30 a.m. Minneapolis time.

(At this point jet lag claimed me. It is now Sunday morning for moi, the middle of the night for toi.)

I stumbled around the airport bleary of eye and definitely not bushy of tail. I got a croissant that was 250 krona. I thought it was kind of a lot of money for a croissant but I handed over my card anyway.

My next flight was much more comfortable and pleasant. I enjoyed looking at the quaint English hamlets from above and imagining that they populated by Middle Ages peasants as illustrated in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

The plan was to meet my high school buddy Nick (henceforth known as St. Nick) at the RER station at Terminal One of Charles de Gaulle Airport. Which was great, except it doesn't exist. I took the airport shuttle to the next terminal, where I approached an official-looking man in a red vest to ask, with a huge smile plastered on my face, "Euh... excusez-moi, monsieur, mais ou est la station RER?" (I worked really hard on pronouncing that AIR-euh-AIR in my sleep-deprived state.) His response was something like, "Garble garble nonsense ferme garble garble bus nonsense. Tu comprends?"

I tried again. "La station AIR-euh-AIR. C'est ou?" Big, big smile. That tipped him off that I was a dumb American, and he told me, "The train ees close. You mus' take zee bus to next station. Go by there. OK?" No, I told him. Not OK. I was supposed to meet my friend by the train station and now I don't know where to go and I think I need to call him and I need a phone is there a phone I can use? At this point a Helpful European decided to take me on as his cause and he led me to a pay phone. He told me I could use my credit card to make a call. I thanked him profusely for all his help. Which was great, except my credit card wouldn't work. I awkwardly wielded my two suitcases into a shop with bizarrely small doors and bought a phone card. I awkwardly wielded my two suitcases out, went back to the phones and, as I called St. Nick's wife Mrs. Clause, I saw a tall lanky dude loping toward me. St. Nick! Merry Christmas!

Thank Rudolph for St. Nick, for I have no idea how I would have lugged my two gigantic suitcases up and down the dozens of flights of stairs on the way back to his abode. Elevators, Paris! Get on it! Mrs. Clause was waiting for us in their adorable French apartment with the yellow cupboards and blue and yellow dishes and view of Parisian rooftops. She made us delicious baguette sandwiches and, more importantly, proffered a giant vat of Nutella for dessert.

Once I could make my legs move again, we headed out for the Centre Pompidou, home to the world's best modern art. I'd gone there maybe five times before but never made it inside. The first gallery we went into had a gigantic painting of two faces. That's odd, I thought. That one's mouth looks like... and that one's eyes look like... oh. And there was a fiber sculpture in the room that looked like a weird canoe, except... oh. And there was a video of blood coming out of... oh.

Moving on...

I saw more nakedness in that museum than I have in my whole life. There were videos of butts clenching and unclenching. There were videos of naked ladies hula hooping with barbed wire on the beach. There was a massive sculpture of bloody gloves.

Once I get my teacher's card that gets me into national museums for free I'm totally going back.

The rest of the evening was a blur of skinny, booty, scarfy, chic, skinny, OMD eat a crepe Frenchies; me trying to make OMD (oh mon dieu) happen; Nutella; and crashing.

A Decade's Dream Down the Drain

2010-09-23T08:49:00.010-05:00

Seven years, eight months, and 27 days. That's how far I got in my goal for a Puke-Free Decade. So tantalizingly close.

It all started on Boxing Day 2002: my 17 and 1/2 birthday. I was working my high school job selling tickets at the Duluth Omnimax Theatre when I started feeling odd. I was desperate to go home, but I had promised my big brother that I would comp tickets for him and his friends to see Shackleton's Antarctic Adventure at our 8:00 show. Shortly before he arrived, I upchucked. They came walking through the door joking and demanding a behind-the-scenes tour. "I can't," I groaned. "Jake, please take me home. I might die soon."

He refused, dedicated to learning about Shackleton's frigid plight. Then I upchucked again about 10 minutes into the show. I dragged myself up the stairs to find him at the top of the theater so I could stage whisper, "Jake. I'm begging you. I really need to go home. Please, for the love of Shackleton, take me home." Finally, he acquiesced.

I celebrated a much happier half-birthday the next year, and realized that it had been a whole year since I had puked. Then it was two, and then three years, despite my introduction to college drinking in general and UV Blue in particular. In '06 I had a Four More Years party, wherein my brother's friends tried to make me take shots and ruin my streak.

But nothing could ruin my streak. I apparently had a stomach of steel. Sure, there were times when I went one past my three-drink-per-night quota when I felt awfully dizzy and nauseated, but I refused to give in. Once I hit the five-year mark I set myself on a new goal: The Puke-Free Decade.

It seemed so easy, so attainable... until I jolted awake at 1:26 last night with terrible pains in my tummy. I rolled over, trying to find a more comfortable position. This wasn't just a normal stomachache, though. I felt an urge my body hadn't experienced in the entire life of the average second grader. "Am I really going to vom?!?" I thought to myself as I raced to the porcelain telephone. "I'm really going to vom! Noooooooooooo!"

I won't describe what happened next, other than to say it wasn't pretty. I trudged back to bed and wept salty tears of disgust and defeat. I mentally cursed everything I'd eaten that day, especially the sausage rolls appetizer I'd wolfed down at Brit's Pub last evening. I won't say they're full of poison, but I'm pretty sure they're full of poison.

Now I feel worthless. My Puke-Free Decade was the one thing I had going for me, the one thing that made me special and interesting. I have no reason to celebrate my half-birthday anymore. The streak was the perfect reason to throw myself a party. Celebrating your half-birthday for its own sake is just weird.

Sigh. I guess I'm seven hours in to my new streak...

Is this not just a delicious, delicious sound?

2010-09-22T15:58:00.004-05:00

This is my week of concerts. Sunday - Dirty Projectors. Monday - Rogue Wave. Tonight - Arcade Fire. Dirty Projectors were just, well I'll just use a word my friend Troy coined to describe them. They were "eargasmic". And Rogue Wave, though I've had the pleasure of seeing them twice before, was just, well they were a barrel of amazing. They have so many great songs, but every time, no matter what, I just end up being such a sucker for "Lake Michigan". I mean with a two minute drum intro, who can resist?

Please enjoy my iphone's crappy take on said drum intro. Though you can't see much, you can hear everything, and oh the sound my friends. Oh the sound!

Ok I'm going to start mentally preparing myself for Arcade Fire. Can you believe it? I love this city. And by this city I mean Minneapolis/St. Paul. I don't discriminate.

Update!! Arcade Fire was so good my eyeballs fell out of my head then I had to clean them and put them back in. I waited the WHOLE CONCERT for this song and by gum, it came. The finale of the finale. I start uncontrollably dancing in the end so...sorry for the shakiness. Kind of. Ok no I'm not sorry.

Fun with Finnegans!

2010-09-15T13:40:00.001-05:00

Last night the Brave New Workshop kicked off the newest student performance season and to celebrate, they had a party afterward. When Steph (my lover from another mother) got wind of free Finnegans, I blinked and she was at the bar.

She runs for two reasons, she says. Beer, and the bus. That, combined with her "no you didn't" face, is why I love her.

Weeks of 10,000 Checklists

2010-09-14T11:03:00.000-05:00

It's been nearly three weeks since we landed back in The Land of 10,000,000,000 Mosquitoes and so much has happened. We've reunited with family. We've reconnected with beloved friends. We've eaten alligator at the MN State Fair. We've welcomed the Jewish New Year. We've planned the crap out of our wedding. And we've started readying ourselves for the four-month separation when we'll be on different sides of the Atlantic.

I can't help but feel so grateful and full of love for everyone we have in our lives.

OK. Enough mush. Let me break it down for you so you can get caught up:

FRANCE UPDATE

I never told you about my visa experience, did I? After the agony of waiting until the very last minute for my paperwork to arrive so I could go on my planned trip to San Fran, it arrived the very next week and I was thus able to keep the 6 a.m. flight to Oakland I had booked. To make a long story short, I had set my alarm for 4:40 p.m. instead of a.m., and made it to the airport mere minutes too late to get on my flight. Woe! But then I sweet-talked an airline agent into getting me on the very next flight to San Francisco and all was well in the world again. Weeee! The next morning my cousins and I arrived in the city with an hour to spare before my appt. We spent that time browsing the racks at Zara, where time apparently stands still. Oh wait. No. My watch stopped. Woe! But I made it on time and all my paperwork was in order and they sent my passport to my rents' house the next week with a beautiful visa in its pages. Weeee! Emotional roller coaster: over.
I received an email from my school saying they would provide me with free housing in the school itself! Aside from the fact that I've always wanted to sleep in a school (nerd alert!), this is awesome for several reasons, namely: I don't have to bring a gazillion dollars to cover my deposit and first two month's rent before I get paid. My contact said they even provide all my linens and dishes and EVERYTHING!
I get in to France on a Saturday and I won't be able to get into the school till Monday. Which means: weekend in Paris! And my fabulous friends Nick and Kelly are willing to house me in their apartment! Double score!
Exclamation point!

WEDDING UPDATE

My FMIL (future mother-in-law) and I went shopping for the materials to assemble the brooch bouquets. My ma is hosting a fete des bouquets next Sunday chez PP in Duluth. Let me know if you'd like to join in on the fun.
I went bridesmaid dress shopping with my 'maids at Flutter in Uptown on Saturday. Each one has a completely different dress-- silhouette, designer, and color. They're going to look so hot that if I was a bridezilla I'd make them wear bags over their heads. But I'm not so it never even entered my mind... er... yeah. They were kind enough to join me afterward for my hair consultation, some OMG SHOEZ shopping, and my makeup consultation thereafter. They are champs of the highest order.
Not only did the ladies find dresses, but the FMIL did too! Actually, she found four, and I don't envy her having to choose between them because they're all hot to trot.
So now all I have left to do is the save the dates and the invitations and the wedding website and the menu selection and the music and the I need to go vom now.

Chameleon Man

2010-09-08T14:27:00.003-05:00

I've done a lot of traveling this summer, mostly for work. As the months went by I became intimate with the likes of San Francisco, Seattle, Austin, Atlanta, Charlotte, and up and down WI and MN. But never, not once, have I come across a lizard impression quite this accurate.

I'm so proud.

These girls are pretty hot, but they're all butterfaces*

2010-09-03T11:25:00.000-05:00

My favorite part of the Minnesota State Fair always has been and will be the Princess Kay of the Milky Way revolving, refrigerated chamber of butter heads. It's some sort of beauty pageant for women related to dairy farmers. Though there can be only one Princess Kay, everyone's a winner because all the finalists get their heads carved out of a giant block of butter.

I like imagining this year's Thanksgiving dinner at these ladies' homes, where the turkey is not the piece de resistance. No, the most joyous moment of the meal is when Princess Kay's parents march in, holding their daughter's head immortalized in delicious Minnesota butter. They triumphantly plant her upon a pedestal in the middle of the table as Great Aunt Myrtle weeps and Grandpa Gilbert's chest puffs out with pride. At first people are hesitant to mar this masterpiece, but they soon get over their squeamishness as they smear a bit of her ear on their roll, the bridge of her nose on their corn. Cousin Jimmy will use a lock of her tresses to smother on his mashed potatoes, and make the inevitable joke about there being hair in his butter as everyone rolls their eyes.

*Joke courtesy of Chris Lund.

The subject of my bouquet has been brooched

2010-08-29T10:35:00.000-05:00

You may remember my fleeting idea to carry a button bouquet in lieu of real flowers at my upcoming nups. My groom dissuaded me from that notion because it was "tacky," but no one has the power to divorce me from my more recent obsession: a bouquet made entirely of brooches. Sparkly, divine, hypoallergenic brooches, as seen here.

My mom and her crew of crafty buddies have taken this idea and run with it. Generous ladies from my temple and her office have procured baubles from estate and garage sales all over town. My future mother-in-law has also gotten in on the fun with her sisters-in-law, amassing some real finds. We recently decided that my bridesmaids will also be sporting some major broochiness, so we need all the help we can get.

Here's what we've gathered thus far:

And now a selection against a black backdrop for extra fanciness:

It's really a rather neat idea. I'll be able to keep this thing as a keepsake forever, and it has mementos in it from all the important women in my life.

More taxidermied meese than you could shake a dead marmot at

2010-08-28T14:11:00.001-05:00

I've been a bit off the grid lately, as I prepared to leave Portland and go eastward, ho! to Minnesota. The past weeks have been a blur of saying tearful goodbyes, gorging myself on as much Lovely's Fifty Fifty ice cream as my gut could contain, and discovering long-lost gloves. My ma flew in last Saturday and got right to work stuffing our woefully underpacked apartment into cardboard boxes, despite my frequent attempts to distract her with a cone of Lovely's salted caramel, which was, after all, only a twirl, leap, and a sashay away....

We somehow got everything packed and cleaned by Monday morning. After giving Fatty Fat Cat a final hiss we hit the road.

We spent an uneventful night in Missoula, and had a lovely breakfast that morning at Food For Thought. That was followed by a truly terrible meal at a Cracker Barrel somewhere in eastern Montana, and by nightfall we had almost reached our destination of Belfield, ND. On Sunday I had researched hotels in Dickinson, ND, our traditional post-second-leg-of-the-journey resting place, but they were all full. I looked at our options for Belfield, the next town over, and was delighted to see a vacancy at the family-owned Cowboy Inn. I immediately called and an 11-year-old-sounding lass took my reservation for Tuesday night.

Bleary-eyed and stumbling, we made it to the inn's main office minutes before their 9:00 closing time. We produced our surname and confirmation number to the proprietress, who found no record of our reservation for that night in her computer. We had been booked for Thursday night instead. And now they had no vacancies. "Zounds!" we exclaimed at each other, along with a few other choice words. We dragged ourselves to the only other prospect within miles, the Trapper's Inn.

An entire menagerie of taxidermied animals was pinned upon the lobby's walls. A bobcat sneered at us from behind the front desk. Rows of buck busts stared down upon us in betwixt a trio of gigantic moose. The back section of the gift shop was cordoned off to make room for a lifelike scene of beaver, grouse, and yet another deer.

These creatures were not for sale, but there was some particularly beautiful antler art that was. The piece below was an especial favorite of mine:

Thankfully our room did not include a single critter-- not even bedbugs, which my dear m'ma was quite concerned about. We took our breakfast in the inn's restaurant, which was populated by stuffed pheasant, grouse, and even a swan. Old iron traps were artfully strung along the wall like a garland. I asked our waitress where all this poor fauna came from, and she told me the entire lot had been shot and killed by the inn's owners and their family members.

We certainly weren't in Portland anymore...

Seattle is for scooters.

2010-08-21T13:31:00.002-05:00

I'm in Seattle at a conference for work, and I decided to bring my beef along because he's super fun and we've both never been to Seattle. We've done lots of cool things so far, like hang around Pike Place Market, see TheaterSports, eat delicious food, hang out in our sweet hotel room, etc. But nothing - NOTHING - tops the moment that I walked out of the conference yesterday, peered around looking for Tom, and then saw him at the bottom of a huge set of stairs, standing next to a scooter, holding two helmets.

Let me just tell you that scooters...are...incredible. The wind in your face! The ease of use! Gliding in and out of lanes! Feeling every bump! We drove up the coast to Ballard and around the downtown area and it was pure perfection except for ONE thing. Some of the hills in Seattle are San Francisco-steep and two times, I kid you not, I had to get off the scooter for Tom to be able to get the scooter up the hill. No worries though. You can't get angry on a scooter! I mean c'mon.

We took a break from our glee-fest to take a short video for your pure enjoyment. I encourage you to picture yourself on the scooter with us, having the time of your life. Try not to move too much though because we might tip over, ok?

So proud of us! One show left.

2010-08-11T17:21:00.001-05:00

Zombie High School!

Just so the troops don't feel neglected.

2010-08-04T18:20:00.003-05:00

Hi!

My life this month has been working 8 hours a day, rehearsing approximately 7-11 on weeknights and for dozens of hours on the weekends (ZHS opens Saturday!), and playing with my new iphone until I fall asleep.

So, in picture form that is this:

this:
and this:

Which leads me to my next point. HOW GREAT IS ANGRY BIRDS? Anyone? Who's with me?

Pirate mama will be back in 2 weeks, shhhhh, don't worry.

Digoin: The Tiny French Town Where Dreams Come True

2010-08-01T18:52:00.000-05:00

On Monday morning, I finally got the call I've been waiting for since hatching this crazy plan to move to France.

"It came! It came!" my dear p'pa sang to me. "Your contract is here!" I asked him what city was listed on the forms. "Dijon!" he cried.

Oh, jubilation! It was my secret wish to end up in this city of 150,000 dear French souls. I would be a mere 1.5 hour train ride from Paris. I would make legions of amies at the Université de Bourgogne. Restaurants, cafés, and yarn stores would abound. I asked Pa to email me the address of the school listed on the form so I could start researching the crap out of it.

Oh, woe. The lycée was actually in Digoin, not Dijon. Digoin, population 8,500. Digoin, which barely even has a Wikipedia page.

But then I did a bit more research using French Wikipedia, and discovered that this fair city is known for having a cool-looking bridge with a canal running through it, a ceramic factory, and an old church, and for really, really loving escargots. In 2007 they broke the record for snail consumption by hoovering 100,800 of the slimy little guys. The more I learn about it the more I've come to like the idea of living in this charming hamlet.


Photo from projetbabel.org

My main concern for the past week was how to get there. The first site I used told me it would take me more than 13 hours and five connections to get from airport to Digoin. The thought of lugging all my possessions with me from bus to train to train to train to bus after a seven-hour flight was far less than appealing. I also tried looking on the national railway website and it came up with errors every time I punched in Digoin as my destination. (I realize now that I was using the fields for getting real time arrival/departure information, which is why it didn't work. Whoops.)

I was getting a little freaked about the whole situation and the idea of being so inaccessible from Paris, so I got my creep on and started searching Facebook for Digoinais who looked nice and might give me tips. I sent a message to a kind-looking dame and didn't really expect a response. But! She not only wrote back and was super helpful, but it turns out she used to teach English at my future place of employment! And! She wants me to hang out with the adults she teaches English to now! In no time at all I suspect she'll ask to be my honorary French grandma and she'll teach me the secret art of making escargots de bourgogne.

She also confirmed something I've been wishing for on every detached eyelash: my school will in all likelihood provide me with free housing in their dormitory. That's many hundreds of euros saved that I can now spend gallivanting across the continent.

It feels so good to know there will be at least one friendly face waiting for me when I arrive in less than two months. If I'm really lucky, she'll be a knitter juste comme moi. I'll save my next five eyelashes to ensure that comes to pass.

Afternoon Delight

2010-07-27T10:42:00.010-05:00

I got a new iphone! Here's an adorable picture of me trying to "download apps" on my first day. One of my favorite apps is called Dragon Dictation. As a person who has spent hundreds of tedious, eyeball-bleeding hours transcribing audio interviews, I appreciate the app's ability to convert my speech into text, and then allow me to email, text, facebook, or tweet the message to a person of my pleasing.

Here's the thing though. Dragon Dictation isn't exactly...accurate. Especially when you sing to it, which of course you would. You're familiar with the 1976 lovable hit "Afternoon Delight" by the Starlight Vocal Band, yes? Or maybe Will Ferrel's a cappella version in Anchorman? Well I serenaded Grape (my iphone) last night and I will provide you with the original lyrics, and then the app's version of what I sang.

Original lyrics:

Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight

gonna grab some afternoon delight

My motto's always been when it's right it's right

Why wait until the middle of a cold dark night

When everything's a little clearer in the light of day

And you know the night is always gonna be there anyway

Dragon Dictation's version of what I sang:

Can you send them baby killers old phone tag

planning grants the master noon be mad

I started doing family that sad it's sad

When I went and seen the man has a cool tag match

Where everything is A-OK in a matter of JE

Thanks Grape! I love you.

Indoors Girl meets Nature, doesn't die

2010-07-26T09:09:00.003-05:00

I've never been ashamed of the fact that I'm an indoors kind of a girl. I like reading, knitting, and watching movies. I don't like getting dirty, being wet, or mosquitoes. So even though I live in what feels like the Camping Capital of the Universe, I never feel the urge to join in. You go carry all your provisions on your back and risk getting mauled by a bear and tempt malaria and squat to pee and sit around in your own filth for days. I'm going to make a strawberry meringue cake and watch a pithy French film.

But due to the whole not getting my contract situation last week (see previous post; update below), the gent had all sorts of time off and wanted to use it taking a trip to Crater Lake. A camping trip. Since Friday was our Negative One Anniversary, I decided, sigh, to be a good almost-wife and go with him.

Our friends Lrin and Erane were kind enough to lend us their tent and sleeping bags, and the gent purchased our provisions: marshmallows, chocolate, graham crackers, trail mix, bananas, beef jerky, peanut butter, jelly, and bread. I brought three changes of clothes, four pairs of socks, five books, and my neck support pillow.

We managed to snag the very last campsite-- there was a wuss family who left because they couldn't deal with the skeeters-- and we set to work building a fire so I could have what I came there for: an embarrassment of roasted marshmallows.

Some might say this didn't really count as camping, because our car was about 10 feet from our tent, and there were flush toilets a two-minute walk away. But I slept on the ground, dammit. I got really dirty foraging for wood and waited a whole half-hour before running to the bathroom to wash my hands. And when I woke up, I didn't shower. No sir. I splashed some water on my face and called it clean... eventhoughIknewIhadbugsprayinmyhairanditwasdrivingmecrazyandIfeltlikeIhadcreepycrawliesalloverme.

But it was all worth it, because I got to see stuff like this:

Contract update: Still nothing. I swallowed my fear of speaking French over the telephone and called there during my early morning/ their late afternoon. I'm pretty sure she said that everyone who could help me was on vacay for the rest of time so I was SOL. I do keep having dreams that I'll be placed in Auxerre, so there's that.

The Story of How Ice Cream Made Everything Much More Better

2010-07-21T23:52:00.001-05:00

I had a terrible day. A rotten, no good, horrible, all-wrong day. Let me whine to you about it for a little while. You'll like it.

A couple of months ago, upon the advice of the smarties running my program in France, I made an appointment to talk to the folks at the French Consulate in San Francisco for this Friday. The way the process works is that the school where I'll be teaching is supposed to send me an official contract (arrêté in Frenchy) saying that I'm legit to be in Franceland for an extended period of time. The contract will also finally make me privy to such apparently insignificant facts as what city I'm going to be in and how long I'm going to be there. You know, stupid stuff.

I need the contract before I can get my visa, and I need to go in person to SF to get said visa. So back in May I made that all-important appointment for this Friday, thinking I was giving myself legions of buffer time. That Guy I Live With took Thursday thru Sunday off so we could drive down there and make it a real adventure. It was all so perfectly planned. Except: I have received exactly bubkiss from France.

Thus I couldn't keep my Friday appointment. Thus I had to make a new appointment for the last week I'm in Portlandia. Thus I had to buy a plane ticket that will take me to the Mecca of Awesome (Oakland). Thus I was very upset and may or may not have shed numerous tears in my office-cave.

In an effort to cheer me up, my buddies Do and Janielle insisted that I join them for lunch. I had a lovely time with my lovely friends until it was time to pay. I rooted through my Nina Toten Bag and could not seem to find my wallet in betwixt various other flotsam. I figured it had to be in the vicinity of my desk, because I had just used my card to buy a ticket to the Mecca of Awesome. We got back to the office and it was exactly nowhere. My already fragile nerves got so bo-jangly that I was pretty sure I was going to simultaneously vomit everywhere and scream in a pitch only alpacas can hear. I retraced my steps with Janielle, all the while thinking about all the irreplaceable things i had in my wallet, like my high school library card, and trying so so hard not to cry.

We made it to the restaurant where we had just dined and the proprietor proffered my wallet the moment we entered the premises.

"Bless you!" I exclaimed. "Seriously. Bless you! Bless you! I mean it. Bless you!" (I don't know. It seemed like the most appropriate response.)

I forced another friend to join me for happy hour so she could tell me happy things that would distract from Woe Day. Afterward, we went to Lovely's Fifty Fifty, which has the most superior ice cream in my neighborhood. It's much nobler than that at another new scoop shop I shall not name, whose caramel salted chocolate ice cream was so saltily inedible I feel the need to defame it at every opportunity. But at Lovely's I had a dish of their coffee toffee ice cream with candied almonds and hazelnuts.

And that made my day much more better. The end.

Postscript: I was relating the day's woes whilst cuddling with That Guy and the right shoulder strap on my prettiest, pinkest summer dress snapped. Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow will be a better day. Amen.

Monsieur Fatty Fat Cat

2010-07-19T14:46:00.000-05:00

This cat has been stalking our apartment for a good month now. He's enormously fat and whiny and wobbly. His favorite things include: sitting outside our windows/doors and meowing incessantly, scratching at our front door at all hours of the night until we open it and hiss at him, and lounging on the concrete walkway directly in front of our home. He's so fat that his stomach almost brushes the ground when he waddles from window to window to torture us. We thought he might be pregnant, but a Cat-pert took a closer gander and saw that he'd been fixed.

He's obviously never looked at my Facebook profile, because if he had he'd know that one my favorite activities is Insulting Cats Right to Their Faces. And boy, do I.

What did you get on your ZAT's?

2010-07-15T12:13:00.005-05:00

I haven't had much of a life lately, and that's because I have rehearsal five nights a week for three to four hours a night. For what, you say? Great question. My a cappella group wrote a musical. An a cappella musical. About zombies. For the Fringe Festival in August. It's pretty much going to bring the house down.

So here's the sitch. It's called Zombie High School. In the play, the Zombie Apocalypse has come and gone, and now the undead and humans are trying desperately to coexist. A young human student, Maggie Mulligan, decides to brave all obstacles and become an exchange student at a high school for zombies in order to learn more about their culture. However, in the folly of youth, Maggie ends up biting off more than she can chew. RIGHT? Right.

All I can tell you is, I'm Maggie, and you're going to love it. It will literally make you die with joy.

"Zombie High School"
@ Mixed Blood Theater

8/7 5:30 p.m.
8/8 7:00 p.m.
8/9 5:30 p.m.
8/10 10:00 p.m.
8/14 8:30 p.m.

And here is Troy teaching us how to walk like zombies:

Robo wants to wish TP a happy third birthday

2010-07-06T09:38:00.000-05:00

I got lots and lots of cool stuff for my birthday (hello! Travel Scrabble!) but this is definitely one of-- if not the-- coolest. My friend Big D KNIT this. She knit the whole entire thing and stuffed it with love. It was her first time doing fair isle! She's the coolest! She told me its name was Gilgaplex or something, but I shall call him Tyranamas Pyrgmates in honor of this very blog's third birthday.

On our birthdays my mom always likes to tell her spawn their birth stories. (Mine goes a little something like, "They put me in a terribly cold and sterile room and my doctor was MEAN!" Explains a lot, oui?)

TP, here's yours:

Recent graduates Anna and Neenuh had just spent their very first month apart whilst slaving away at their respective West Coast internships. They wanted a way to share their adventures with the world, and they thought with their powers combined they could make it so, so good. While they Gchatted away on that fateful July 5, a blog was born.

Anna: ok I need a new blog name because wonk is apparently close to a famous blogger name

what's a good one? also, we need a blog name

I was thinking, like, "the *something truth"

or something

me: truth pirates

Anna: perf

Throughout our various outposts in California, DC, Minnesota and Oregon, we've kept her alive against (sob!) ALL THE ODDS! And when I venture to Francey in two short months, Tyranamas Pyrgmates will remind me to give TP all my amour on the reg.

Stop leaving me notes, Minneapolis!

2010-07-01T13:13:00.002-05:00

Three notes. I've gotten three passive aggressive notes in the last month from strangers commenting on my behavior. Three finicky messages, referencing three different forms of my transportation. C'mon people!

1. The first note, slipped under my apartment door, on pink stationary:

"STOP slamming your door. Your door slamming is out of control. You are bothering people on MORE THAN ONE FLOOR. PLEASE. STOP."

To be fair, our carpet was just ripped up in the hallway and as soon as you let the hallway door slip from your hands, it slams on its own. When I'm carrying my bike up and down two floors, gently letting the door close behind me has admittedly not been my #1 priority. After I got the note, I started being much more careful about the doors, but the note seemed like a huge overreaction. As it turned out, it was. A week later, Steph and I were leaving my apartment and we got stopped in the hall by a large, husky man that slowly sauntered into the hallway as soon as he heard us out there. He shuffled toward me with a sly look on his face and said "You the door slammer?" as he held out his hand for a shake. I took his hand and said "No". He stared into my face, not letting go of his firm hold on my hand, and told me that his girlfriend lives here and he's a veteran and when doors slam at night he thinks they're gun shots and it has to stop. I told him I really haven't been slamming doors and I'm hardly ever even at my apartment. "I think it's the girl next to you," he said. "I met her and she seemed nice, but...she's not. She's not nice at all." I told him I didn't think any of us are intentionally slamming doors and that he should probably call our landlord and ask for the carpet to be reinstalled. "Anna - just stop. Stop it. Stop right there," he said. "I'm on your side." And then, just to heap on to the level of creep, he says, "I've been watching you out back in the parking lot. Your hair looks really nice when it's up. You should wear it like that more often." Needless to say, I've been zooming in and out of this house like a squirrel in traffic ever since, never stopping to linger outside.

2. The second, a note precisely written out and delicately taped to the handle of my bicycle, which was parked outside a friend's house during our rehearsal:

"What kind of a person would park a bike in front of someone's sidewalk?"

I'm going to draw a mental picture for you of what was going on here. My friend's house is a duplex that is up on a very small hill, so it has two separate cement walkways that start with a small set of stairs then lead up to each doorway in front of the house. Now, it was later at night so I parked my bike in front of his neighbor's walkway, but didn't think it was a big deal because I knew they had a baby so they probably weren't out late, and anyone could take ONE step to the side to get to the second step. Easy peasy, right? WRONG. Apparently I'm a terrible person. But I mean really. Who leaves a note on a bike? Perplexed, I stood there holding the note for a while, then decided the proper thing to do would be to tape the note back on their first step in order to shame them in the morning when they discovered my bike gone and their anal retentiveness staring them in the face. Shame! Shame on unnecessary note writers!

3. A two-page letter, pages numbered, with a scrap of paper taped to the second page to elongate the message, written in black sharpie and found underneath my windshield wiper. All caps. Location: the one-way street in front of my beef's house.

"Hey! I just wanted to take a minute to thank you for parking here. Seriously, great job. Please park here often. You'd be surprised how many jerkoffs and J-holes park here. No permits, 3 feet from the curb, expired tabs, just a MESS. You, however, are the exception. You keep Fremont going! Thanks! --Fremont Neighborhood Association (FNA) est. 2010"

Well I tell you, my day was MADE. After staring at the note for about five minutes and determining that it wasn't sarcastic, that it was likely from an overly-dorky neighborhood association member who genuinely was thankful that I had a permit and did a good parking job, a calm came over me. It was as if the universe was saying "Hey Anna. Don't even think about those first two notes. This third note is a message for you from Minneapolis, nay, the world, that you are doing a good job here on Earth. From your parking job to your permit-having to frankly being just a great person, I just wanted to say, well, thanks." I drove away with a smile stretched ear to ear thinking that some stranger out there took the time to write me a two-page letter THANKING me for my behavior. I was doing ok.

The next day, with a spring in my step, I remembered that I hadn't told my bf about the note I got in front of his house yet! "Hey - I forgot to tell you what I found on my car the other day!" I said, to which he replied, "Oh, you got my note??"

GREAT.

Conversations from my French class, translated for your entertainment

2010-06-30T15:04:00.000-05:00

I started taking a once-weekly intermediate French class last week in hopes of improving my dastardly speaking skills. It turns out "intermediate" can mean anything from a 15-year-old who just finished her first year of high school French, to her father, who had one year of high-school French 30 years ago, to a guy who lived in Quebec for 10 years, to a charming 20-something who has a BA in the language and is looking to dust off her skills before going to France for a year. Oh, wait. That's me!

For the past two Mondays, I have been paired with a fellow I'll call "Guy" for our designated conversation practice time. I think Guy took a few years of Spanish way back when, and he feels like those language skills were immediately applicable to French. That would at least explain why he pronounces the "s" in "dans" and pronounces the "e" at the end of words like "banane" as "ay" (/buh-NAHN-ay/).

This week we had to devise our own situations where one person is a salesperson and the other is a customer. I did my best to translate literally, for your maximum enjoyment. Our exchange went a little like this:

Guy: Hello, ma'am. What do you desire?
Me: I desire a hat for my dog.
Guy: A what?
Me: A hat for my dog, so he doesn't gain a sunburn.
Guy: Sunburn? What is this?
Me: It is when the sun makes the skin blush.
Guy: Oh. OK. We have a hat on the third floor.
Me: Where is it made? I do not support hats that are not made in France.
Guy: There is a factory in England.
Me: Oh. Can I wash this hat at my house or do I need to bring it to a dry cleaner?
Guy: A dry cleaner? What is this?
Me: The place where the professional men wash clothes.
Guy: Shampoo?
Me: No. It is a store. It is a store where people take the clothes that are delicate and say goodbye to the brown things. They wash it very gently.
Guy: I do not understand.
Me: When you wear a tuxedo, you can not wash the earth off it at your house. You must take it to a dry cleaner.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: Um. I buy it. Thank you. Goodbye.
Guy: Goodbye, ma'am.

Next we were in a restaurant, where I decided to try being funny. I'm not sure why, since I've learned time and again that my humor doesn't translate.

Guy: Hello m'am. Welcome to the restaurant. What would you desire?
Me: I desire a sandwich.
Guy: Which meat do you desire?
Me: I desire a sandwich of pigeons.
Guy: Pigeons? I do not understand.
Me: It is a bird. It is similar to a dove. It is gray. It is a rat that flies.
Guy: Dove? I do not understand.
Me: The dove symbolizes peace. It is white.
Guy: Oh. OK. But pigeon?
Me: It is almost the same word in English. (Enunciating really hard and jutting neck forward) Peed-zjon.
Guy: Oh. Oh! This is bizarre. We do not have pigeons.
Me: I saw some on the street. You could kill them for me.
Guy: In five minutes, I do this.What would you like to drink?
Me: I would like the juice of socks.
Guy: Socks? What is this?
Me: It is the clothing you put on before you put on the shoe.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: (Pointing at other students) Those people are wearing socks. We are not wearing socks.
Guy: (blank stare)
Me: (Pantomiming putting a sock on) One puts it on the feet. It can be made with the hair of a sheep.
Guy: Oh. Oh! This is bizarre.
Me: Yes. I have desires that are bizarre.
Guy: Good appetite!

Please don't get us the Wii

2010-06-26T11:06:00.000-05:00

Like most things having to do with wedding planning, registering for gifts is not as fun as I thought it would be. I imagined myself frolicking through the stores, scanner in hand, delightedly blipping upon anything and everything I never knew I always wanted but couldn't afford.

Instead, we had a two-hour slog through gargantuan floor of home goods at Macy's in the Clackamas Town Center. I guess I kind of forgot I wouldn't be doing it all by myselfsies, with only my own particular whims to satisfy. Our exchanges went a little something like this:

Me: "Standing mixer! Squee! I want a color that will pop. How about apple?"
Him: "I like red better."
Me: "I feel like red will clash with too many things."
Him: "And apple green won't?"
Me: "OK... why don't we just get silver then?"
Him: "I thought you wanted something that would pop. I like the red"
Me: "Thisismydreamapplianceandifyoudon'tletmegetitinthecolorIwantIwillscream."*

The sales guy had the attitude that since we weren't buying any of this stuff for ourselves, we should register for the highest quality (and thus most insanely expensive) stuff they had. I almost let myself be persuaded to get the $599 tri-ply cookware set, but Matt made the excellent point that I wouldn't notice the difference between that and the $279 bonded set. It's weird putting the really expensive stuff on there. I feel like I should put a caveat on them that says, "Um...this is kind of a pipe dream. Feel free to get us the ice cream scoop instead. I swear we're not greedy."

We still can't agree on bedding-- I like bright, fun patterns and he likes...taupe-- but we had a major coup yesterday when we finally agreed on a china pattern we could both stand to stare at for the next 70 years. It's called Noritake Platinum Wave, which sounds in equal parts exotic, luxe, and fun. Our sales dude said it was made of bone china, which you could stand on and it wouldn't break. I should have made him prove it. Next time.

Matt was pretty registered-out by the time we were done, so I created our Target registry online while he took a nap. When he woke up, he snatched my laptop off my lap and registered for his version of the standing mixer: a Wii. I grew up in a video game-free house, and the idea of having one--relatively innocuous though the Wii may be--is slightly vomitous.

*This is a dramatization. What really happened is I registered for the red and then when we got home I snuggled up to him, batted my eyelashes, and asked very sweetly if I could change it to apple online. So that's how it's gonna be...

Skylines of the Pac N-Dubs

2010-06-23T23:58:00.000-05:00

A couple of weekends ago we were treated to a brief reprieve in the unusual soggy sogfest the past three months have been. Matt and I decided to walk downtown from our apartment and we were treated to some lovely views of this fair city from the Broadway Bridge.

The very next day I took the train up to Seattle for my cousin's graduation. It was the most beautiful day in all the woyld, and it just so happens that we had reservations at the top of the Space Needle. The restaurant makes a verrrrrrrrrrry slooooooooooooow revolution (so you don't ralph), and we got to see the whole entire city before it got dark out.

Today was another long-anticipated gift from the heavens. Portland looks a whole lot better when the sun is shining...there's really nothing that compares. It made me a little sad, because we have about two months left here before I blow this popsicle stand, and I don't know if we'll be coming back. At this point it seems most likely that we'd land back in the Minne Apple post-nuptials. While being in closer proximity to many of my favorite people would be great, I'm going to miss it out here so much.

Happy fats.

2010-06-18T17:13:00.002-05:00

Guess what? Everything's going well in your life, you've got great friends, you've got a boyfriend, work is good, living situation is great, the weather's getting warmer, the dinners are lasting longer, the beer is flowing harder, the gym membership is canceled, you're going to family reunions, hanging out at the lake, the new tires on your bike require less effort, you're seeing movies which require candy, the snacks are flowing like the mighty Mississipi...

BOOM. You've got the happy fats. Or more accurately, I've got the happy fats.

Look, I love my boyfriend. And bless him for being a big fan of me whatever size I am (and for being boy enough not to know the difference) but I've gained ELEVEN POUNDS since I started dating him. I think there might be some element of "letting myself go" but honestly I'm just a happy eater. If I'm even a little lonely or depressed I just don't have an appetite. If I'm happy, it's Anna-delicious-food-eating-fun-time. And then there's the social aspect. You're making dinner for each other, you're grilling out for your friends, you're having lady dates to keep up with your gal pals, and the fun times almost always involve some aspect of food. Doesn't sound too bad right?

But seriously. I had to buy new pants. And shorts. And skirts. And that shit gets expensive! To cut down on the sloppy body I started standing at work, so now I'm one of those weird "standers" whose head rises far above the cubical walls confusing passers-by and coworkers. A dude who shares a cube wall with me and doesn't understand the concept of a standing desk kept trying to order McDonalds from me during my first week of standing. But I'm finding all that standing is doing is making me rock back and forth all the time making my feet kill. So.

I'm not too worried about it - AT THIS POINT. I don't think I've reached whale-status yet, and I'm planning on the weight gain plateauing at, well, at 5 pounds ago, and it's summer so I'll keep biking and eating vegetables and crap but I think in the long run, I prefer happy eats to the rockin' body that comes with somber, foodless stretches of inactivity and lonely nights. Although I suppose I could just become a sad eater too. Yeah! Maybe I'll do that.

Naaaaaaaaaaah. Pass the chimichangas!

Neenuh's Rules of Matrimony

2010-06-10T09:23:00.003-05:00

1. No gifts required. If you receive an invitation to our nuptials, it's because we want you there, not because we want to milk your bank account dry. Different rules apply to rich relatives and parental friends, of course, but only until I receive the coveted KitchenAid Standing Mixer. Once that has been checked off the registry everything else is just gravy.

2. Down with the one gift per event rule! If you decide to give me a lovely toilet brush for a bridal shower, consider your gift obligation fulfilled. You most certainly do not need to purchase a matching toilet brush holder for the wedding itself.

3. The bachelorette party will be phallus-free. I do not need to be reminded of male genitalia everywhere I look. I want a tame tea party where we play Truth or Truth and then we're safely tucked in bed by 9:30. Anna, as one of my bridesbitches, I want you to make that happen.

4. Anyone that we made out with in former lives is not invited. Sorry Prince; that means you.

5. Do not mock my creative touches. I'm going to have a brooch bouquet. Deal with it. And if I decide to paint my face like a bunny, it's because that's my power animal. And if my brothers duet on Mary Poppin's "Feed the Birds," it's because that's my favorite song. Get over it. In return, I won't mock the silver spray-painted and glittered animal pelts you had as your centerpieces.

6. Tribe it up. There will be glass breaking, chair dancing, hava nagilah-ing, and mazel tov-ing. L'chaim!

7. Go easy on the open bar. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Every drink you swizzle means one less diaper for my future progeny.

I hate Twitter!

2010-05-25T13:28:00.000-05:00

I got Twitter hacked today. I don't even use it. I tweet something stupid maybe once every other month. No, I don't have an obvious password and no, I don't click on weird links from DM's.

Yet, 132 people that I follow got a direct message from me telling them if they're interested, they can get a gas card from [insert spam link here] followed by - and this is the worst part - "I got mine today and I'm *stoked*!!"

People won't stop talking about it and sending me emails about it, and at work our social media editor is sending out a company-wide email warning people about Twitter spam, using ME as an example.

Allow me to express my frustration and sadness via this puppy.

No, it's not throat pornography.

2010-05-18T17:32:00.004-05:00

I just had my final vocal appointment today (YAY!) and I wanted to share my vocal nodule progress with you for the following reasons:

a.) I'm proud of it.
b.) I promised my doc and vocal therapist that I would blog these pictures.
c.) You think they look gross and that makes me giggle.
d.) Because c'mon, how cool is the inside of a body?

It's been a long journey my peeps! Lots of humming and phrasing and practice and rest and missing choir and missing yelling and missing singing loudly but you can see some progress and I promise you in a couple months it will be even better. Less bumpy. Whiter. Closer to normal.

Weirdify Your Wedding

2010-05-10T09:04:00.000-05:00

Etsy is the eclectic bride's best friend. You can find all sorts of bizarre and random things to make your special day that much more special-er-- and unique. Heaven help you if your wedding is not unique, for then no one will remember it. If no one remembers it, there's no way you're going to get that automatic paper towel dispenser you registered for. That's just the rules.

Following are a few items I found whilst browsing this weekend:

1. Button Bouquet

There are lots of things I like about buttons. Buttons never die. Buttons don't make my eyes itch or my nose run. Post-wedding, I could use the buttons to fasten things. When's the last time you used a dying flower to do ANYTHING except teach you about the process of withering?

2. Tricked-out baby hats

I don't want any bare-headed babies at my wedding. Just like men 50 years their senior, they should be embarrassed by their lack of locks. Thankfully an Etsy vendor has recognized the need and created a whole line of fancy headbands and caps to slap on sleeping but pensive babies at weddings everywhere.

3. A cartoonish cake-topper

I'm not planning on having a wedding cake (I'll take a tower of French macarons, thankyouverymuch/ mercibeaucoup), but if I did have one this is what I would want to top it. The cartoonish vibe of the piece will tell my guests that I'm not quite ready to grow up, while the tortoise bride and grooms will act as a symbolic apology for how long our ceremony was.

4. Flask Favors

What better memento of how drunk you got on our wedding night than a flask that's artfully decorated with a souvenir bottle cap from the libation that re-introduced you to your dinner? These suckers go for $11.99 a pop (the cap adds an extra $4--hey! it was crafted!), so you better treasure it. When I come over in three years I want to see it featured prominently in your curio cabinet.

I love my dentist!

2010-05-07T12:00:00.001-05:00

1. The office is conveniently located in my skyway at work. That way I can run full-speed through the halls when I realize I am extremely late.

2. They send me text reminders like 80 times leading up to my appointment which are essential to me actually ever showing up.

3. The staff sends out quarterly newsletters that detail the intricacies of each employee's personal life, as in who is taking yoga classes, who has children starting to drive, who is taking exotic vacations, etc., and they include photos of their staff picnic. Which is adorbs.

4. My dentist plays pranks on me. For example, I once had a cavity and he sat me down and very gravely explained that the only option to save my mouth was to install a grill over the front of my teeth. "We're going to need you to bling it up," he said. The nurse added that it has to be diamond-studded.

5. They just upgraded to this awesome prize pack after every appointment! For freesies!

Just look at that blushing bride!

2010-05-03T13:26:00.014-05:00

I don't know if you've heard the news, but my fellow lady-pirate is officially betrothed! I think it's your job and mine, dearest pirate readers, to prepare her for her impending nuptials by offering her nothing but the finest choices in wedding wear. Let us take her on a visual tour of the possibilities, shall we?

Welp, I guess I'm gettin' hitched

2010-04-30T09:44:00.000-05:00

It's on Facebook now so it must be true: the boyf will soon become the husb. By soon I mean in approximately 1.2 years, when we have returned from FranceyPants. I'm planning to do a large post that details everything you're burning, needing, or just slightly interested to know. But part of our pre-nup states that I must give the gent prior review of posts that are at least 20% about him, and he doesn't get back from Minne till Sunday.

For now, feast your eyes on this gorgeous wedding look that Anna was kind enough to design for me:

I could only DREAM to look that good on the big day.

My new mac book pro arrived!

2010-04-19T11:39:00.001-05:00

My new Mac Book Pro is officially here! She traveled all the way from Shanghai, that sassy beast. Look at how beautiful she is. I have been waiting for this moment to come since I read on mac rumors that the new Mac Book Pros were released last Tuesday. An update long overdue, mind you. The last time I bought a mac was December of 2004. That's a LONG time ago, and a long life for a mac. Now it's time for one that will actually house all of my music, allow me to stream videos and instant Netflix online, let me video skype with my niece, and - gasp - edit video and audio!

It's going to be REALLY hard to concentrate at work today.

Meet Lounge.

2010-04-14T16:15:00.002-05:00

I'm just going to come out and say this. I'm dating a part-time improvisational lounge singer.

He's Lounge-asaurus Rex. He hosts events, performs at shows, and creeps audiences out far and wide. I first saw him from a distance. I was a shy audience member, dazzled by his chunky, jeweled rings and flaming red collar that stretches for miles. His slicked-back hair and proudly-displayed chest is enough to make any girl blush. His tight pants and female sunglasses elicit some sort of hipster/hippie/night fever combination of terrifying-yet-awesome.

This weekend we were on a 15-hour car trip and he was feeling loungy and I was feeling radio reportery so I whipped out my digital recorder and asked the man, nay, the legend, a few questions. If you're lucky, you might even hear him sing a little ditty for you. But be careful...your ears might bleed from too much sexy.

Listen here .

I'm proud to introduce to you...Lounge-asaurus Rex. The man. The myth. The witty banter machine.

Fuh-rahnce!

2010-04-13T09:18:00.001-05:00

Due to some technical difficulties I haven't been able to smooch you beloved readers for a fortnight, but now I'm back. Hi! Hi. Hi hi hi hi hi hi. Or perhaps I should say... BONJOUR MES AMIES! (Picture me saying it with this face. It's at least 10 times or 30% funnier, depending on whether you use the metric system).

Brief aside: That is what I picture myself looking like had I made my first voyage to France circa 1982 and it was such a defining time for me, full of self-growth and self-realization and self-blossoming into a vraie femme, that I continued to dress like this forevermore to remind myself of those halcyon times. Not unlike a certain French professor with chunked bangs and a coiled bun I used to know...

But I digress. Dudes, I have super-hyper-mega-cool news: I'm moving to France! I've had to keep this a secret from you for so long, but now I can shout it to the world! France! France! Let's dance! Let's prance! Let's...um... eat macarons? Yes!

Almost exactly a year ago the gent casually suggested that we hop the pond for an extended stay. A good friend of mine named Sarumph had recently spent the year teaching English to adorable French school children, and that seemed as good a way to go as any. We decided to keep things very hush-hush just in case it didn't work out.

Matt quietly started taking French classes at the community college (why? because...er...he likes Proust?) and I quietly started reading books about French etiquette and the problems Americans generally encounter when they go to Cheesy Wineland (why? because...er...I like stuff? and things?). I started working on the arduous application in October and finally got it submitted around New Years. This whole time I was just bursting with this news, and I couldn't help myself from spilling the beans to select friends and family (OK...everyone) when I was home for the holidays, always cursing myself afterward because I knew I'd feel like a prize idiot if I didn't end up going.

Shortly after returning home I just had to tell my boss, because giving anything less than eight months' notice is criminal, right?

But the word finally came down on Wednesday that I have been accepted to the glorious Académie de Dijon, which was my first choice due to my great love of mustard. I could end up anywhere in that pink part of the map, from tiny Sens to Dijon proper. I'm hoping for the latter, because it's a mere hour-and-a-half train ride from Gay Pareee. And, like I said, mustard.

I'll find out where I'm going sometime this summer, as well as what age I'll be teaching. Sometimes the school is great about finding a place for their Americans to take shelter, and sometimes they're on their own. It's all very up in the air until I get that letter.

My manfriend and I had a meeting with the Consule Honoraire yesterday to discuss visa options for him to get over there. She suggested that he let me go first so I can get settled and figure out what's what, and then he can join me a month later on a visitor visa. When those three months are up he'll go home again for a month or two, and then come back for the remainder of my stay on another visitor visa.

"I see it all zee time," she said. "Zees will eezhair make you strongair, or he finds anozzer American girl while you are gone, and you find a beeg French hunk and zat's zat. Or maybe he mees you so much when he come he ask you to marry. I jus speak ze troof! I don't know!"

She also suggested that he learn as many Bob Dylan songs as he can before going because les francais ADORE him. She admitted to having translated "'undreds!" of his songs into french when she was a young filly.

Some housekeeping notes: Due the fact that I will probably have something new to blog about every hour, I'm planning to store those insights on a new blog solely dedicated to my time in France so I don't clog up TP with my transliterations and franglais. I'll let you know when it's up and running so you can decide to follow or ignore it at your pleasure.

I'll leave you with a tale of Mirelle, a woman who, like me, possesses "long, slender fingers" and "a certain fondness for poking fun." When I return from France it is my hope to have completely morphed into this modern-day Bardot.

French in Action

I read a mind this week!

2010-04-01T13:25:00.000-05:00

I was in my improv class on Tuesday and something incredible happened.

We were doing a montage of two-person scenes and my character was upset with my friend Drew's character for standing on her lawn. He was playing a sort of weird, perhaps drunk hobo-type guy. We're working on integrating more specific detail into our scenes so, for example, if you're saying something like "Can't you remember what kind of car you have?" we would say "Can't you remember that you have a yellow Thunderbird GT?". We're also working on naming people and sticking to those names throughout a scene.

I needed a name for my character's family land as her anger for his being on her lawn was heightening, so I quickly racked my brains and came out with this: "How dare you defile the Torkilson estate!" Now, I'm not sure where that name came from because I don't think I've ever heard it before, but before I could even think about it it just came out of my mouth, and I referenced the name a few more times in the scene then we continued with the montage.

After our montage, we all sat down to go through notes with our teacher. He mentioned that he liked the specifics of the names in our lawn scene, and Drew tells us that it was a really weird scene for him because when he entered the scene, he had an image of his friend Bobby Torkilson in his head, and was loosely modeling his character after him. While he was playing his character, he kept thinking "Bobby Torkilson. Bobby Torkilson." and then when I blurted out that last name, he was stunned.

WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! How? How? How? How? Why? How?!?! How did that happen!?

Muddy ride into work today.

2010-04-01T11:11:00.001-05:00

Oh so THAT'S why I sound like a man.

2010-03-30T16:04:00.001-05:00

Freddie Mercury. Bette Middler. Rod Stewart. Justin Timberlake. Whitney Houston. Robert Plant. Julie Andrews. Annie Lennox. Madonna. Nathan Lane. Joni Mitchell.

What do all of these awesome people have in common? Herpes.

Just kidding! But at some point in their lives they have all developed a condition called vocal nodules likely due to the strain they put on their vocal chords from their acting and singing careers. Basically, we're taking about a mass of tissue growing in the middle of each of vocal chord, preventing the normal airflow that it takes to create a clear, unobstructed sound.

Thus the person with the vocal nodules is sporting a not-so-sexy hoarse and painful voice that frequently breaks like a pre-pubescent boy and has trouble sustaining long notes or projecting over ambient noise.

Now I'm not a professional singer or actor, but I sure got 'em. I invite you to take a gander at the current state of my vocal chords and then I'll teach you more. These pictures were taken a couple of weeks ago. Say hi to my chords!

When you are not talking, your chords stay open like the second picture. When you talk or sing or clear your throat or hum, the folds flap open and closed like the wings of a hummigbird, and that vibration is how we make noise. The problem with vocal nodules (or nodes, as they are often referred to) is that when you are making noise and your vocal chords are flapping open and closed (at practically a supersonic rate that can only be detected by slow motion scope cameras), those bumps are slamming against each other. That means it's almost impossible for them to heal.

See in the first picture how there are air pockets on top of and below that nodes? That means there is extra air escaping when I talk, which explains why I have a breathy, smoker's man-voice. And since that extra air is escaping when I hold out notes, that's why I run out of breath much faster than those around me when I'm saying a long sentence or trying to sustain a note.

Ok - so why did this happen? Well it's hard to tell. But I know it started months and months ago, if not years. And I know that I'm in two choirs, taking improv classes, and on nine nights out of 10 I'm at concerts, comedy shows, in bars or restaurants, or chatting with friends pretty much up until I go to sleep. Plus (and I know this is all no one's fault but mine) I'm kind of prone to loud-talking, over-talking and yes, yelling at times. Now any one of those things could be enough strain on your voice to give you nodules, but all of them together? That's a big fat recipe for nothin' but nodules.

The game plan: Well, in some awful cases of the infliction, surgery is required. But you can tell from the pictures that mine aren't gigantic, and since I'm only 25 I can try to fix this stuff now before it worsens. After my initial ENT appointment where I got diagnosed, the doctor and vocal therapist prescribed eight weeks of vocal therapy and training, which aims to heal the voice I've got and to reteach me how to speak in a way that is much kinder to my chords.

And let me tell you, it is supremely difficult. Reteaching yourself how to talk feels like, I don't know, like reteaching yourself how to walk if you couldn't feel your legs. I think about every word that comes out of my mouth. In therapy, we start with one letter at a time and learn how to use words that start with that letter in a higher register, with more breath being released, and even holding my head in a different place. Through physical therapy we are literally trying to coax my voice box down to a better place in my neck (how alien is that?).

Anyway. I'm not dying! I'm not even sick. It's just...work. And I quit choir. And I'm trying to stop being such a loudmouth and learn how to be a better listener, not just because it's better for other people but literally if I don't stop using my voice so much, there might not be any voice left for me to use.

Plus, if Miley Cirus can get rid of her vocal nodules, then I really should be able to do the same. Party in the USA, guys, right? Party in the USA.

I have the cutest niece on the whole entire planet.

2010-03-25T16:47:00.001-05:00

Besides the fact that she's teething and wants to shove your fingers into her mouth and then bite them with her alarmingly sharp bottom two teeth and massive jaw strength...

Besides the fact that she is 8 months old and thus experiencing separation anxiety and shies away at anyone's touch and starts screaming when anyone besides her mom or occasionally her dad tries to hold her...

Besides the fact that just this week she reached an age in which she's old enough to know when she's in the car and thus scream and bawl because she hates being in the car seat...

And besides the fact that we were traveling from Berkeley to Yosemite which is 3+ hours (each way) of oftentimes maddening infant cries and bursts of frustration...

I have to ask you, HOW CUTE IS MY NEW NIECE?!?!?!

The Day I Sucked at Food

2010-03-18T01:09:00.000-05:00

Not only is today St. Patrick's Day, it's my dear beloved lover boy's birthday. You know how much I cherish and respect birthdays. Today was all about making it the best day EVAH for him. I skipped my lunch so I could get done with work earlier to get home and start making this the best day. EVAH. We started off with a stop at Pix, of course, for a celebratory birthday beer float with a sparkler in it for him and a cheese plate for me.

Next, we took the bus downtown with plans to get some yummy dinner in advance of the Hitchcock play we'd gotten tickets for. We ended up at a nice brewpub a few blocks from the playhouse. I'm trying to be all healthy and shiz, so I decided to go with the porcini-crusted rock fish despite its hefty price tag. I was expecting a nice fish fillet with a big side of healthy roasted fennel. Instead, what came back was a monochrome pile of butter-soaked, salty potatoes and a tiny piece of fish.

All my eye caught on the menu was the "roasted fennel" and "porcini mushroom." I totally missed the "potato gratin" and "pale ale butter." That was my bad.

But what happened later in the night was just plain terrible. After the play we followed the sound of a bagpipe to find what we hoped would be a lively Irish pub where he could have a nightcap and I could find something to fill my tummy and make up for the mediocre fish dish. I was pleased to see that Blitz served breakfast all day and settled on a nice, healthy bowl of granola with "fresh fruit" and "seasonal berries," advertised like so:

The bartender was initially confused when I asked her for "granola and water," thinking it was an exotic mixed drink, but eventually we got things straightened out... or so I thought. Imagine my surprise when the waitress brought this to my table:

That would be a broken-up Nature Valley granola bar with a tiny pitcher of half-and-half and a side of tater tots. TATER TOTS. Your eyes do not deceive you. When I asked the bartender why it didn't come with fresh fruit, she told me I had to order that extra. So what's included on the menu is "extra," but tater tots are granola's natural companion? TATER TOTS? These weren't even good tots. They were the kind that left that film of ick in your mouth.

Tater tots. I swear to leprechauns.

Two off the Portland Bucket List

2010-03-08T11:43:00.001-06:00

In a many-splendored town like Portland, there are more quirky and wonderful things to do than could ever be done. I started making a list of things to accomplish when I first moved here, from the outlandish (getting married at Voodoo Doughnuts) to the things I will throw a hissy fit if I don't accomplish in the next six months (if I don't go berry picking on the Fruit Loop by my birthday there will be hell to pay).

This glorious, sunny, bird-chirping, flower-blooming weekend gifted me with two things I can cross off my list.

The first something was the Beer Float at that pastry shop I can't quit, Pix Patisserie. From the first time I laid eyes on it on the menu I was intrigued. It just makes sense. If a root beer float can work, why not beer? Though the thought of Lance Armstrong's disapproving gaze kept me from ordering one, it didn't stop me from making a buddy get one and then letting me have sips.

World, I have tasted a beer float, and it was good. There's something about chocolate stout and mocha ice cream that just works.

The second item now crossed off my list is the Kennedy School Soaking Pool. There are these brilliant folks here named the McMenamins who took a number of dilapidated buildings like power stations, danky brewpubs, and schools and renovated them into movie theaters, restaurants, and hotels.

The Kennedy School, conveniently located near me, is most intriguing to me because it was always my dream in life to have a sleepover at my elementary school. I just loved school that much. Though I doubt we'll ever rent a hotel room here--our real rooms being so close and all-- the next best thing was to hang out in the outdoor, heated, saltwater soaking pool under the stars.

Tinkle Pirate

2010-03-03T09:14:00.001-06:00

Alternative title: H20mgI'veneverhadtopeethismuchinmylife

One of the things I like about tracking my calories on Livestrong.com is that it has an incredible incentive for drinking enough water during the day. With every 8 ounces your glass fills up a bit more, and then--get this, guys--your virtual water cup will spillith over and it's as if Lance Armstrong himself is wishing you a hearty "Congratulations!" It feels like what I imagine winning a bronze medal in short track speed skating relay would: frenzied, euphoric, and delirious.

I must have been moderately to severely dehydrated for my entire life because ingesting the recommended 64 ounces has sent me to the little girls' room four times more often than usual. I'm starting to wear a track in the carpet at the office separating my desk from the bathroom. Seriously. I've never in my life relieved myself as often as I have in the past three days, and I don't care that that's an overshare.

Working on my fitness... for real this time

2010-03-01T10:54:00.002-06:00

There was about a two week period last June when I got really serious about my health. I joined a real gym (sorry Curves) and started my patented Don't Eat Crap diet. I was working out four times a week and, well, not eating crap. I don't put much stock in the scale (ours will say I'm one weight before I take a shower and after I'm toweled off it will say I've gained 12 pounds), but I definitely trimmed up during that two weeks.

Then my birthday arrived and brought with it my extremely generous aunt and uncle, who treated me to all sorts of culinary delights. My Don't Eat Crap diet became the Why Wouldn't I Eat Crap? I Work Out diet. Lately, what with Valentine's Day and Boeuf and my sister being in town, it morphed into the I'm Going to Eat All the Crap I Want and Not Work Out So There diet.

But no more, dear readers. This time I'm going to make a concerted effort to be disciplined. I created an account on Livestrong.com to track my calories, with the goal of losing one pound per week for the next eight weeks to put me at the weight my drivers license says I am. I started yesterday and thought I was being so good-- two slices of toast for breakfast; a protein shake for a post-workout lunch; a salad with avocado, olive oil and rice vinegar for a snack; an apple turnover for a post-snack snack; and a serving of my orzo with roasted vegetables and feta for dinner.

But by the end of the day I only had 60 calories to spare! And did you know that one tbs of olive oil is 120 calories and 13.5 grams of fat?? I go crazy with olive oil! I liberally splash it on everything with abandon!

Despite that meltdown, I don't intend to become a crazed calorie counter. I'm thinking of this more like a learning experiment to see what change I can effect in myself during the next two months. I've been inspired by the likes of Sarah (whose posts spurred me to join a gym in the first place) to think I can make a big difference by treating myself well.