When Hollie is not around
Being the overworked and under-slept little maniac that I am, my social life is suffering these days. Which hurts my spirit, because I have some gorgeous amazing lovely friends that I miss to bits (and we live in the same city! Ridiculous!).
At the moment the closest I get to actually spending time with them is thinking about random quirks of theirs or adorable things they do as I go about my day – sad, I know.
Case in point today: because I can be lazy and cheap I was not inclined to dye my whole head of hair (which is a process because I’ve got a lot of hair, remember?) so I decided to pluck out the offenders showing some white (how dare!) instead. Except I don’t know what I did wrong (spot, yank with tweezers – what could be easier?) but the top of my head really hurts now. Which made me think of Hollie’s crazy talent at pulling my grey hairs whenever I asked (isn’t she lovely? I don’t know anyone else apart from my sister who is willing to do it). Not only does she not use tweezers, it doesn’t hurt when she does it. There you have it. I miss Hollie for many reasons, and today sorely in more ways than one (get it? Ha!). If you’re reading this, love you to bits darling!
(Image from here)
Side effects
Being a French expatriate has done the following things to me:
*Cemented my inner stubborn and indignant on particular issues (familiarity, health care, Southern Hemisphere seasons to name a few)
*Made me pine for the map of France when watching the weather forecast
*Introduced me to Conan O’Brien, David Letterman, and other Christian favourites that I can now share with him (also introduced me to Oprah – whose existence I was not aware of before then – and just to clear things up, not a Christian favourite)
*Made me feel like I discover treasure every time I hear French spoken, or rediscover an expression I have not used in a while
*Made me realise direct translations from French, as well as gestures, are not always understood
*Made me develop a love for all these kitschy stereotypical things – like that pop-up accordéon postcard and anything in the shape of the Eiffel tower
About that last point: I am actually very restrained and never buy the kitschy things I lust after. It may have something to do with the slight inner shame I feel about it…
The history of surgery
I am grateful for modern medicine. In my family we’ve needed surgery on occasion – for some of us life or death, and for others a bit less serious. I belong to the less serious – even though the 15cm + scar on my right knee looks fairly bad ass (in my moments of self-pity I feel like my right leg is disfigured; in moments of grrrrr I’m proud it looks kind of mean).
The other night despite my best judgement I decided I needed to feel more grateful. So I turned to ‘The History of Surgery’ on BBC Knowledge. Now knee surgery is messy and quite gross. But it was my own grossness so I dealt*.
‘The History of Surgery’ showed me things only a surgeon normally sees. Along with narration on how tricky it is to sew some human bits together.
I’m grateful – I really am. But I don’t need to see inside another person’s body to feel even more so. All I achieved was the old ‘my dinner might be coming back up’ trick as well as a narrowly averted punch in the face when I threw my hands in front of my eyes to hide behind them and I miscalculated a bit.
Even the most talented of surgeons could not help me with my clumsy. But I’m still grateful.
*My sister and mother also deserve mass acknowledgement for how they dealt with the grossness. Big time.
(Image from here – Sophie, ma chérie, don’t click!)
Best use of 10 francs I can think of
So those nonsensical crazy Dadaists had interesting stationery to their name.
And looky: 10 francs would buy you a ‘Dada consultation’! Not quire sure what that would entail, but it must have been a very interesting use of 10 francs.
Which by the way would have been more of a little fortune back in the day than it sounds. I bet it was worth every centime.
And just because I’m wearing my off-white ones on my little feet, I couldn’t resist the letterhead from the Converse Rubber Shoes Co.
There are many many more where that came from. You have to admit, beats the hell out of email.
Letterheady via Reddit.
Supply vs. licking
Last night I informed Christian we were out of poultry toothpaste. I inform the poor man of a lot of things, most of probable little interest to him or likely to add anything to his life. I didn’t stop there: I declared I had no intention of buying more.
Christian: ‘Why?’
Me: ‘Because when I brush Mira’s teeth without toothpaste it works a lot better.’
Christian: ‘Oh really? She interferes that much licking like a little fool?’
Me: ‘Yes’.
He understood. Mira though, that’s another story.
(Image from here).
He likes the uneven ones better
Ten years ago I called him in Melbourne from France. 9 years ago we were in Vienna and got drunk at breakfast (damn hotel’s fault for giving us champagne!). 6 years ago we were in Amsterdam in the freezing winter and to look nice I wore a skirt – and subsequently got burn marks from the cold on my knees (still wearing stockings! What gives Holland?). All the others in between: Melbourne.
Every single birthday of Christian’s has felt like a present for me, and a privilege that I get to spend it with him. Today is no different… Happy birthday to my darling!
By the way, he really does prefer his age to end with an uneven number.
PS: I just realised we’ve never spent his birthday in France! Crazy! Next year Chris?
(Image from here – who knew there is a ’33′ Flickr group!)
What I’m sniffing today and why
I don’t eat sugar: I swore it off around my 18th birthday and I’ve pretty much stuck to that principle since. To be clear, refined sugar (in anything) – fruit and I, we’re all good. I know: why, right? Many reasons. That’s all you’re getting from me in terms of an explanation right before dinnertime.
But with all this in mind, in my pantry I still have a teeny packet of vanilla sugar. I have it for one reason only: my grandmother kept a huge jar of it and the smell of vanilla sugar is woven into many of my memories of her. Today I took the little packet out and sniffed it at length, repeatedly: it’s her birthday (she would have been 96). I miss her just that little bit less when I smell vanilla sugar (I said I didn’t eat sugar, I didn’t say I don’t like the smell!).
(Photo and how-to for making vanilla sugar from the amazing-looking Baking Bites).
Is something wrong with me?
If given the choice between a bowl of (vegan) ice-cream and a bowl of grated carrots (with flax meal on top!), I will take the carrots.
Yes, really. So I ask again: is something wrong? Because I feel totally normal.
(Image is from here).
Hard to digest
I hail from a line of lightweights when it comes to digestion (having inherited my Maman’s very sensitive stomach), and this image pretty much sums up how I was feeling yesterday.
Except I didn’t take any Alka Seltzer. Or shoot an arrow into a bear’s bum.
(Can’t remember where the image is from… Sorry).
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