Got Tips?

Many of you have offered to provide me with your tips on the Best of Paris for which I am grateful - but why should I be the only one who gets to hear them? So, I'm inviting everyone to post their favorite tip, place, whatever for Paris - how every many you want! - so that I can use them on this trip but they can be shared by everyone else as well. Comment away! If there is something that you think I must absolutely do, try, eat, find, let me know!
image: wallyg
Now, of course, more details just to make everyone jealous. We'll be staying in an apartment in the 5th Arrondisment which is known primarily for the Latin Quarter, the Sorbonne, the Pantheon and the Jardin des Plants (Garden of Plants). It is in the center of the city, but on the west bank of the Seine.

So far our plan is not to have much of a plan. We are definitely going to get to Versailles - particularly since we watched Marie Antoinette which was filmed there and I have read part of the Antonia Fraser biography of her. Sweetie also wants to go to Reims to see the cathedral. Apparently, Reims was also the site of the surrender of Germany at the end of World War II and they have the room where it took place exactly as it was all those years ago.

Other than these two excursions outside of Paris, we plan to just wander where we may. We have been once before, but that was in 2000 and in the winter. We both agree that sometimes the best parts of a trip are when you just stumble on to the good stuff. We'll do this in the vicinity of the big touristy places like the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, etc., but we'll also get to know the Latin Quarter.

My father is flying in the day before we leave to take care of the beasties while we're gone. He loves his grandkitties so this will not be a hardship. We are certainly looking forward to a much needed break and are incredibly thankful that we get to it in such an amazing place!

Say What?

Since Sweetie and I met on the Internet, language has always been important. We are constantly making each other laugh in part because we both have such twisted senses of humor. Here are some examples.

Friday Afternoon at Lunch

We tried out a new burger joint near Maison d'X that has been open for some while but we hadn't tried. From the street, it appears to be a large warehouse, but in the back is a huge porch and further out is a field for the kiddies to run around. Friday afternoon there were quite a few people and quite a few kids playing kickball, etc.

I watched the kids for a while and turned to Sweetie with this observation: "It's like a dog park for kids! They are off the leash and just get to run around until they get tired!"

Saturday afternoon

I finally spent my gift card from Nordstrom's on stuff for Paris. I needed a good pair of shoes for walking but not my natty tennis shoes. I'm going for the more Euro look so that I don't look like a complete American McDonald's-eating-Bud-swilling tourist. I found some great Pumas that I managed to get for 10% off since they were the display models and had some marks on them.

I show them to the man and he says, "The look very froggy." As in French. I guess I accomplished what I had set out to do.

Who knows what either of will say next. It's not even Sunday yet.

The Password of Power

Mr. X has an addiction. Well, I should re-phrase that. He used to have an addiction, now he is just a casual user. Part of the reason he is a casual user is because I am his supplier now. He can't partake unless I allow him to. In a transaction that takes less than 30 seconds, he can get a fix.
image: Jean-François Chénier
Lest you should call me a pusher, I should point out that I only enable him when he requests it. So, maybe I'm just an enabler. My method? Password protection. Yes ladies and gents, I have the password to the parental controls on his World of Warcraft account. He can't play unless I say so.

His brother was his first pusher. He gave him the software for Christmas in 2004. Shortly thereafter, my man was hooked. He played pretty much when he got home from work until bedtime and on the weekends. By early 2007, he was averaging 25 hours a week on top of work. I was beginning to seriously resent the game and the fact that he was constantly playing. When we went on vacation in 2007, where there would be no internet access, he decided that this was the right time to give it up. He went cold turkey and it was so nice to have him back again.

He talked about getting back into it and I would remind him that he had quit for a reason. Eventually, though, he - with my blessing - got back into the game. But, this time we made a compromise. He would play 11 hours per week but I got the parental control password. It is locked until I get in there and change it. And, if he doesn't get out on time, it kicks him out.

So far, it's been a good system. He gets to play, I get some me-time, but we also get to spend lots of time together. And, I think he is happier being able to play again because now he uses his time much more wisely and gets more out of the time that he does spend.

And, I'm happy that I have the password. It is also one that he would never, ever guess (not that he's tried ... yet).

Full Circle

In honor of Earth Day, I have a funny story. We'll go back to Mrs. X's callow youth when she attended her first (and last) outdoor Earth Day concert. I don't remember much about the concert itself. I went with my best friend and her boyfriend. It was at a well-known ampitheatre several miles away from home and had an indoor and outdoor section. We being cheap high school students got tickets for the lawn.

As it was Earth Day, it was in April and either it had already rained or it was predicted to rain. Back then, of course, a little rain really wasn't going to make much difference. So, we went to the concert and the only act I remember is Midnight Oil, complete with the crazy lead singer with his bald head.

Being the prepared little Miss X that I was, I grabbed a blanket for us on the way out to the concert. We would need something to sit on, after all. I grabbed the drab olive green blanket and headed out the door. As usually happens, rain mixed with dirt = mud. Most of the mud ended up on the blanket, which was precisely what I had intended.

Miss X arrived home after the concert with said muddy blanket and her mother had herself a F-I-T. Now, if you were to ever meet my mother you would be immediately impressed by how calm and easy going she is. So, when she gets riled about something, she gets pissed off. What I didn't know at the time was that the drab olive green blanket that I had chosen had not been purchased somewhere. Oh no. Mom knitted the blanket after my parents were married but before I graced (or cursed) their lives. It was made out of 100% wool that was hand carried by her friend all the way from Ireland just for her. It was also enormous and extremely intricate. She obviously worked very hard on it. So, of course she'd be pissed that her callow, thoughtless daughter would take it to an Earth Day concert and get it thoroughly, disgustingly muddy. I would be.

In the end, all was forgiven because she was able to wash the blanket and it came out perfectly. At the time, I didn't realize how stupid I had been to take that particular blanket or how lucky I was that it was salvageable.

Fast forward about 18 years. I got an e-mail from my mother a few weeks ago asking me if I remembered the green blanket. Of course, I replied. That was the one I took to the Earth Day concert and got all muddy. My mother replied, that's the one. She asked if I was interested in becoming the new owner of the blanket or else.... she was going to sell it on ebay. Now I found this so incredibly ironic. The blanket that brought me this close to corporeal punishment, that I was castigated for getting dirty was now going to be sold on eBay?!

I mentioned this to her and she then got riled all over again with the memory of what I had done. Several discussions on the phone with both my mom and my dad ensued each giving their memory of the particular incident (neither one painted me in a particularly sympathetic light). In the end, though, she was forced to admit that, yes, it was rather ironic that the blanket in question was now going to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Well, I decided that given its history, particularly with me, I decided that I would give it a new home. It's now sitting on the futon here in my office, where it will probably be adopted by a furry animal and turn from green to grey. At least it won't be getting muddy again.
image: TalkingTree

$4 and a Plastic Pink Flamingo

I knew this day would come. I knew that eventually it would be my turn at the table of humiliation. I knew one day, I would get the Pink Flamingo of Shame. That day was yesterday.
Behold, my drunken master.
Last night, I headed down the street to my neighbor's house with $3 in my pocket and the promise of some good finger food and decent wine. All of the neighborhood ladies were there as usual and soon the talk turned to how awful the new grocery store is up the street, and other heady topics of conversation.

Then we got down to the gambling. The game? bunco. The stakes? $3 per person. Typically, we play 12 rounds and then divvy up the winnings afterwards. It's so easy to win money, too. You can win if you have the most number of wins, the most number of buncos (which is when you roll three sixes at once), if you have an even number of wins or losses - and you can even win money if you have the most losses ($4 in fact!). But, if you have the most losses, you get a little something extra. You get my plastic friend here.

Yep, I had a whopping 11 losses last night. Blame the cheap wine, blame the lack of concentration, but mostly just blame luck, since it is literally the role of the dice. So, for the rest of the month, and into next month, Pinkey here will be in front of my house, declaring to all who know that I was the biggest loser at Bunco. Here he is again trying to sneak out of the front bushes:

Oh, the humanity.

Spring Shearing

Spring usually brings lots of changes. The butterflies emerge from their cocoons, it's lambing season (I can say that I have seen lambing season in Tasmania and there is nothing cuter than baby lambs hopping arouund - I can't eat lamb now, I just see those little guys), leaves emerge on the trees, and flowers bloom after winter's hiberation. But, something else, something ... curious happens:

I get the urge to chop all of my hair off.

image: Dunstan Orchard
Every year for the past few years, I have had this urge. It usually strikes in February or so, but it's a little late this year, no doubt due to the rather exciting February I had. So, now I'm feeling it and it gets worse everyday - bangs in my eyes, neck hair itching, it drives me batty. And, once I've made the decision, I have to stop myself from grabbing scissors and just going to town. (Don't worry - I'm too vain to consider actually doing that. I have an appointment with an excellent stylist on Saturday).

For some reason today, though, I asked myself for the very first time, "why do I get this urge every spring?" I began my journey of hair self-discovery by asking my parents why I always had short hair when I was a kid. I figured maybe if I knew the answer to that question, I could get to what I was certain was a deep psychological need for short hair.

My father chimed in first with his theory that it was because that was what all of the kids had at the time. I'm pretty certain this isn't the case - except for the boys with the "8 Is Enough" haircut and I know even back then that I wouldn't want to look like the boys on purpose. And, I have enough memories of elementary school to remember that most of the girls had long hair.

My mom thought that it was probably a practicality thing, to give them one less thing to deal with. Getting interested in the topic, she also rolled out the subconcious theory. Maybe she was really just trying to spare me the horrors that she had as a young kid growing up with long hair. What horrors? It seems that one day my grandmother got so tired of dealing with this long hair that she took my mother to a barber and had him cut of her pigtail braids - while they were still braided. Or, there was the time that her cousins decided they wanted to "style" her hair and she endured some pretty painful hours while they brushed and brushed.

I shared with them why I was asking the question and my dad gave what was the most boring, but also the most likely reason: it's about to get hot and I want something that is cool and breathes well. Typical that the answer to my deep-seated question would be so damn practical. Personally, I think he's right but not entirely. I think it's mostly sheer (or maybe "shear?") boredom. There are so many constants in my life now - Sweetie, the kitties, our house, my job. And, I don't want to change any of these. But, that doesn't leave a whole lot that I can change around, rearrange, and just plain shake up for variety's sake. I'm pretty much left with two outlets: my hair and my clothes. I did clothes a few weeks ago. Now it's the hair's turn.

In any case, I will probably be going for the pixie cut which I've tried before, but for whatever reason, it didn't work. My current hairdresser has a knack for cutting my hair so maybe she can pull it off. I have learned that the key for me is the piecey bangs.

One of these days, though, I still may just shave it all off.

Left to My Own Devices

Sweetie's job entails a certain amount of travel, although it's been relatively quiet on that front for the past few months. Today, though, he left today for a three-day trip and once again, I am a travel widow. But, I'll share a secret between you, me and the Internet: I like having the house to myself. I can clean and things don't get moved around unless I move them. I can hog the sheets and there is peace in the house after 5pm, the time he would normally get home. I do miss him when he's gone, but I also enjoy the solitude.

His leaving for a trip, however, reminded me of a funny story about one time when he came home from a 5-day trip (Monday through Friday). It was Friday night, in the winter, cold and he didn't get home until about 7:30pm. He was super tired and literally dragging himself home.

"Why yes, Mr. Bean, you can have your way with me."
At the precise moment he came home, I was watching a movie with one of my favorite actors, Sean Bean. Now, I am a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to the delectable Mr. Bean. In fact, I have told Sweetie on many occasions that if given the chance, I would gladly marry said Mr. Bean - despite the fact that he's almost 50, already had three ex-wives and I'm married. Unfortunately, I was beaten to the altar earlier this year by a little hussy who is two years younger than I am. But, a girl can dream.

So, the movie really wasn't that good - but I got it because it was one of the few in which he wasn't cast as the total bad guy and it looked like innocent eye candy. Although, it was made back in the 90's, during what I like to call his Emaciated Period. He has since filled out nicely. Anywho, he was playing a guy who taught photography to adults and (surprise, surprise) got into an adulterous affair with one of his students. He took her on a trip to Paris where they of course did what most people do on adulterous trips to Paris. And, concindentally, what Sweetie and I plan on doing on our non-adulterous trip to Paris.

But wouldn't you know it, Sweetie walked through the door just as the delectable Mr. Bean's very naked behind was on the screen. No, it was not during The Moment - our adulterer was sleeping on his stomach and she (the student) was taking pictures of him as he slept - but it was very obvious that it was a man's behind and soon became clear which man. Without thinking (obviously), I paused the DVD so that I wouldn't lose my place and wouldn't you know, it paused right on the gorgeous behind of Mr. Bean. This is the image that greeted Sweetie as he walked through the door. What a wife I am.

Sweetie thought it was hysterical, no doubt in part because of the look of asbolute horror on my face that the one time I freezed the DVD, it would be on this particular image. He has since told this story to many of our friends, thus not only embarrasing me to high heaven but also revealing my inner most secret desire to see said behind in person.

Luckily this time, there are no Sean Bean movies in the house and he'll get home around 5pm on Thursday when I'll still be pecking away at the old laptop. Why give him any more ammunition to embarrass me in front of our friends?

I should also add that I have no serious intention of marrying Sean Bean. I hear that he's got rather backwards ideas about women (and monogamy) and I love Sweetie much more than the chance of getting it on with a guy who did a relatively mediocre job as the gamekeeper in Lady Chatterly. But, we both get a kick out of discussing my infatuation, and he's always up for watching the next Sean Bean biopic that happens to grace the screen.

Animalia

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday about what not to do while you are at work. I work from home, and yesterday the mail brought not one but two boxes from my mom. They are in the process of selling their house so she's constantly finding things that she hasn't seen for a while and asking me if I want them. That's how I now have two silver candlesticks, some dishes and a New Yorker dated on the day I was born.

I was on the phone with the Boss Man discussing an esoteric topic and opening said boxes at the same time. I'm a multi-tasker, what can I say? What I hadn't anticipated was that she would use the dreaded packing peanuts. Of course, it made sense with the delicate plates. But, I also didn't anticipate that one of the kitties, the Bad One, would find these little peanuts irresistable and would start trying to EAT them. So, now, I'm on the phone with the Boss Man, pulling half-masticated soggy packing peanuts out of the greedy little jaws of the Bad One while desperately trying to repack the rest of them before he could use his little Hungry-Hippo head to snatch some more out of the box. Lesson learned.

In case you try to argue what my father does all the time, "But honey, he's hungry!", here's a picture of his fat little behind:

We have now taken to separating him from his brother at feeding time now because he added to his rear end by eating his brother's food after shoving Fluffy out of the way before Fluffy was finished. Despite this new "diet", I swear he's getting fatter. I think he actually has feline pica given his penchant for packing tape, cardboard boxes and paper. Never fear, we keep it all out of his little jaws and he hasn't had any digestive problems so far.

No, I think he gets his extra nutrition from eating scraps out of the sink. I admit it, that Mr. X and I are pretty sloppy housekeepers, but now that we've caught him head first in the sink, we've started moving dishes straight to the dishwasher.
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On the pooch-hunt front (ooh! I rhymed!), I've come to realize that in the process of finding The One, I'm going to need some help. What this means is I'm going to have to go with an adoption agency that takes those extra steps to helping match the right person with the right dog. At your average shelter, you kind of go window shopping, for the lack of a better term, and you try the animal on for size (and vice versa) and then, assuming you pass whatever check they have, you are officially a pet owner!

When we adopted Fluffy and the Bad One as kittens, they let us out of there with two adorable kittens (who were little balls of 8-week old fluff, they were so freakin' adorable) after no more than paying some money and signing a contract. Now that I look back, I realize how trusting they were - that they trusted that we would take good care of these little guys. Which, I am very proud to say, we have. But still.

I also want to be able to be a little more picky about the temperment of the pooch - I don't particularly care about the breed, something medium sized and good natured. But, we really don't want a barker. Working from home means I'm on the phone a lot and I can't have a dog barking in the background. Nyerhe!

Recently, I've been looking at a local Golden Retriever rescue group who pretty much do everything except finger print you. I'm leaning toward this organization because they make the effort to match the dog to the person and vice versa. And, Goldens are such wonderful pooches. We wouldn't want one on the big side - I think about 50lbs is our limit, but we have a beautiful backyard that is already fenced for their frolicking pleasure and the city just opened a new dog park near us (yay!).

We have decided to put off the serious looking until after Paris. It wouldn't be fair to the pooch to get him/her and then leave for 10 days.

Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.

I like to think of myself as a pretty passionate recycler. I'm seriously considering starting a compost pile. I re-use envelopes from junk mail for note paper and use junk mail for paper in my printer (I honestly can't remember the last time I bought paper). I take my old magazines to the library and put them in the free magazine pile so someone else can enjoy them. I even mine the trash when I'm taking it out for items that Sweetie may have thrown in there that are in fact recyclable (his biggest no-no: yogurt containers and cat food cans). We even took all of the crap that the oak trees are currently barfing up on our driveway and used it as mulch for the flower beds (this may turn out to be a bad idea, but I figure it keeps the moisture in the soil, so it can't be that bad, right?) I just hate the idea of adding to a landfill anymore than I have to.

And, I do recycling in other ways too. I buy most of my clothes now from a consignment store here in town. As befitting a woman of my station (and snobbery), it is a rather upscale consignment store - they carry St. John, which I personally wouldn't be caught dead in, but I know the value - with Jimmy Choos, Manolo Blahnik and Seven Jeans (but never in my big-ass size). Yesterday's haul was two pairs of pants (one in melon, God help me), one necklace at $10 and one pair of fabulous shoes for $16:


I think these will be my saucy shoes that I will wear whenever I'm feeling muy caliente. Wine Boy likes them already.

But the recycling didn't stop there yesterday! Oh no. Not even close. The local PTA of our extremely large and populous school district held their annual book sale this weekend. 60,000 books were laid out in the giant athletic center gym and you could rub elbows with all sorts of humanity while thumbing through what seemed like thousands of John Grisham novels. Despite the heavy emphasis on the mainstream fiction (I counted at least three copies of The Da Vinci Code and the sale had been open for about two hours already), I was able to find some delectable titles:

I was particularly excited to get The Autobiography of Malcolm X, The Sound and the Fury, and Spy Catcher which is a biography of one of the premier CIA spycatchers during the Cold War. I also found a vintage book from 1946 that is in excellent condition called The Last Hurrah which I had never heard of, but it looked interesting. In the end, I got 11 books (including one for Sweetie) for $7.

Ironically, it was at the same book sale two years earlier that I spotted a copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting and I picked it up for a 50 cent investment. At the time, I had yet to find out that I was dealing with infertility and figured it was only a matter of time before the book would come in handy.

Some time today, it will find its way into the recycle bin as part of the circle of life and a key example of my passion for recycling - because frankly, I don't want a reminder of what I've lost twice now in the house any longer.

Eight Years Ago Today...

April 2, 2000, eight years ago (or 2,922 days - including two leap years - for those who are counting), was a beautiful Sunday. That morning, I got up and out of bed in my one-bedroom apartment. I put on my khaki pants and a light blue shirt. Rather than wear my contacts, I had on my tortoise-shell glasses.

I had some work to do at school - I was in my first year of grad school - and afterwards, I headed in my car downtown to meet a boy. I only knew this boy through the internet - we met two weeks earlier on Match.com. This was before it was de rigeur to post a picture, before you could "wink" at someone and before Dr. Phil invaded with his, bald pate, glaring white teeth and obviously fake tan. It was pretty darn simple back then. You sign up, answer some questions and then it starts spitting out the different members in your general area who remotely match your answers.

This boy was a 94% match to me, but his little narrative on his profile immediately struck me; I had to meet him. I emailed him that first time while I was procrastinating on a school assignment, and later learned that he almost didn't write back. Apparently, he had three bad dates in a row on Match.com and had pretty much given it up. But, the Internet Fairy must have been looking out for us because the email still was delivered. Of course, I knew nothing of this at the time. All I knew was that I was interested and I had stuck my toe in the water.

He did email me back and we embarked on an old-fashioned daily electronic letter-writing courtship. It was he who suggested meeting. Of course, I had been agonizing over whether to bring this up, but luckily, he saved me from having to make a decision. A date was set, physical descriptions were exchanged and promises to wear certain clothing were made.

When I got to the appointed place at the appointed time, I saw him before he saw me. Sure enough, he was wearing the Hawaiian shirt with steamships as he had promised. He was pacing and looking rather grumpy. I walked up to him and introduced myself and there was the smile. I won't say that it was love at first sight, but that smile was wonderful. We started walking to our brunch destination and didn't stop talking. We ended up having an all-day date and the rest, as they say, is history.

That boy is now my husband. My Sweetie. He is my lovely day, my sunshine and my rock. And I look forward to thousands more days together, come rain or shine, hell or high water (we've been through both), or whatever else life throws at us.

Eight years ago today I met the man who I would end up marrying and today, eight years later, I have my graduate degree, we have owned two houses together, we completely renovated one house, we moved to a new city where we knew all of 2 people, we adopted two kittens (who are now 5 year old whiny beasts), we've each had a surgery, and we've endured three years of infertility with two miscarriages, among other highlights.

We have also laughed more than is probably legal, fought very rarely (and fairly), and just been the best spouse to the other. And it all started eight years ago when I ventured into the unknown. I love you, Sweetie.

No Fools Here

I can appreciate an elaborate April Fools prank as much as the next gal, but I'll leave it up to the experts this year. Enjoy this list of the Top 100 April Fools Pranks of All Time.