New Blogging Territory

Word Artisan has relocated. Literally and figuratively. Geophysically and webally.
http://parisiem.onsugar.com
See you there.

Vomit

You know what the blogosphere needs more of? Feline vomit.
So, I'll do my part by offering some of mine. I have extra, you see.
PLENTY TO SPARE.
That's because my two furry black and white angels, Moxie and Mimi, see fit to purge their bellies of unpleasant cargo at least three times a week onto my carpet. Generally, they perform this female feline ritual during the wee hours of the morning. It is not uncommon for me to wake up to the sound of "HACK. HACK. PUKE." This game is played much like Duck Duck Goose, if the goose at the end was half hairball/half digested tuna.

Now, I must admit that Mimi has struggled with bulimia for some time - since her early adolescence, in fact. I have told her repeatedly that her figure is perfect and you can't trust what you see in magazines - they totally photoshop Pepe le Pew's girlfriend - and I tell her she is beautiful - prettier than Pussy Galore - but I still find her binging on salmon at breakfast and then running into the bedroom and throwing up on the carpet. Adding insult to injury, organic cat salmon costs as much as organic people salmon. Thanks, Mimi. I'll just clean up the bile and small fortune you threw up on the carpet. And, no, Mimi, covering it up with my clean laundry won't help. Plus, during the hot months, Moxie adds her nausea to the mix.

However, as summer and my cats' digestive problems wear on, I find myself increasingly unwilling to undertake said clean-up. In my humble defense, when I moved into my loft, the carpet was already nasty. In fact, the first thing I noticed when I looked at my apartment the first time was the smell. I walked in the door and was hit by a wall of moldy old smoke-grime smell. The thinning brown-grey rag that covered the entire flat was apparently (twenty years ago) white and blue striped carpet. At the time, I stood in the entry way of the apartment and held my nose and asked my future landlady, "So, it will be cleaned before I move in, right?" And she said, "Oh, it's been cleaned." I knew then that there wasn't much more damage my two cats could do to it.

Thus, I have a few small patches of cat vomit collecting on my floor. I keep meaning to clean them, but pressing tasks like baking pumpkin custard keep getting in the way. This post will hopefully disgrace me into performing my pet guardian responsibilities.
The culprits:








The vomit:









The pumpkin custard:

the taste of summer

I despise being hot.

I dislike that sticky, sweaty, I-can-never-get-clean feeling that permeates un-air-conditioned summers. Unless I'm lying on a beach somewhere, with an ocean or a swimming pool within spitting distance, I have no desire for sunshine and heat. I can get my vitamin D from a glass of milk. Generally, Paris is a pleasant city for this temperament. Its months of rainy, gray, 'bluh' weather are familiar and soothing to a former Chicagoan. However, soon enough, the clouds burn off, and I must cope with the sunny season. My defense mechanisms have been noted on this blog before, and I am now adding another: my new boyfriend, Grom.

I had thought that I had found my cold treat of choice this summer - my homemade iced coffee. Which morphed into homemade iced green tea a couple weeks ago. Alas, I got bored, and I got hot, and I left my house. And, wandering through the tourist armpit that is St. Germain, I ran into Grom. He was unassuming, clean-cut, approachable, Italian. I'm usually a little leery of Italians in France. They strike me as out of place - in-your-face, overbearing, flaunting their goods, and then leaving you feeling ill and spent. But Grom was smooth and delicately sweet. He felt divine in my mouth - a clean, soothing coolness with a little bit of texture. He satisfied my yearning and left me wanting more. A lot more. In fact, now we make out several times a week. I've heard he's amazing in gelato, but I'm a good girl. I stop at granita. Lucky for me, Grom's almond granita is better than any gelato I've had, and Grom is only offering it until September. He isn't in it for the long-term. But that's fine because I was planning on breaking up with him as soon as the weather turns, anyways.




Grom
81 rue de Seine
Paris 75006

Chuckle

I cannot take credit for this brilliance.

I once had a friend named Brian*

I once had a friend named Brian*
He confessed he liked cocaine and hookers
And knowing his kind I knew he wasn't lyin'

Just like the time he said oil was the future
And how he couldn't hate public schooling
Because his momma was a special education tutor

He loved his family and his country and his SUV
And defense spending and warmongering
Because you know freedom isn't free

I expected to find him in the bar around ten
And I didn't have to wait long before
Greeting him with 'I thought I smelled gin'

He stared at my cleavage like any other man
But lacking political correctedness
'How big are your tits?' asked the Republican

Nonchalantly pulling out a wad of $100 bills
Eschewing formality or frugality
Always covering the night's alcohol, women, and thrills

Too early the bar was shutting down
Though the crossfire lingered
Both refusing to cede any ground

Stumbling our way down the rainy rues
He suggested we recess at his place
Obstinately ignoring all my social cues

'I thought we were gonna kiss' said the would-be debonair
But all I could think was
You should really cut your hair

Mainly, I liked him because he was an original
*Name changed to protect the campaign
A party-line neocon in a land of liberal

Recipe

Summers in Paris are relatively mild - no highs above mid-80s (fahrenheit) and frequent rain showers. Rationally, such weather should be easy to tolerate. However, several inconveniences combine to make these 80-degree days simply unbearable. Among them: a wholesale lack of air-conditioning in the entire country of France, a top-floor loft which absorbs sun from above and rising heat from below, two fur-clad portable heaters who insist on burrowing into your lap/stomach/head at every moment, the inordinate numbers of Blood-Sucking Godless Monsters (mosquitos) that prowl said 4th-floor quarters late at night. During the day, the above annoyances can be avoided by taking your laptop to Starbucks or the closest movie theater showing the new Harry Potter movie. But when night falls, the forces of evil are unleashed upon your world, and you have nowhere to run. A sole sentry - a determined but feeble rotating fan - stands between you and Mordor. As blotchy red mosquito bites and massive, pulsing spider welts cover your body, you start to slowly lose your mind. Your skin has grown intolerant of the cortisone cream, after multiple applications a day. Either that, or the insect enemy has evolved. Their saliva is stronger than your steroid. As every combat soldier knows, sleep is not possible in the face of this onslaught. But sleep must be had.

So, after exhausting the military handbook, desperation drove me to dust off an old home-made recipe for summertime sleep I concocted in Los Angeles, modified for ingredients readily available in France. The instructions are as follows:

Dormir d'Été á la Français

Ingredients:
- half a loaf of pain aux cereales (whole grain bread)
- 250g frozen broccoli florets

Freeze a half-loaf of sliced whole grain bread. Reserve the other half for eating with chevre and honey the day of purchase. Between midnight and 1am on a hot summer night, remove the frozen half loaf of bread from the freezer. Remove any abrasive aluminum foil. Wrap loaf in paper towels (using as few as possible so as to maximize radiating cold and minimize death of trees). Wearing a fitted T-shirt, place loaf of bread under shirt and situate between breasts. (A half loaf fits snugly for me, but experiment with quarter and full loaves depending on your bust size.) Go to bed. Sleep for 7-8 hours, depending on the time it takes you to get ready for work in the morning. After 7-8 hours, awake from sleep and remove now defrosted bread from chest. Toast bread and spread with salted butter and confiture for a filling and refreshing breakfast.

The following evening, assuming the heat wave lingers, repeat the same procedure with a bag of frozen broccoli florets (or other vegetable of your choice). PLEASE NOTE: the frozen vegetables are water-based, so it is essential to wrap the bag of vegetables in a second ziplock or tightly-sealed plastic bag. Otherwise, you may awake to a broccoli water-soaked bed, which both looks and smells like a piss-soaked bed.

Both versions of this recipe should be accompanied by a rotating fan placed approximately 3 feet (or one meter) from your body, aimed directly at your head, and also a flat sheet draped over your entire body, leaving only a small hole open for breathing purposes.

If instructions are followed as stated above, then sleep is not only possible, but somewhat tasty.

Bon appetit!

Supercalifragilisticexpeditemythesis

Once upon a time, I had an interesting life. I tossed aside my glamorous L.A. existence and packed it to Paris. I brunched in the mornings, philosophized in the afternoons, and rocked out in the evenings. I plotted revenge against the Baguette Nazi, accompanied my friends to get blood tests for STDs, and avoided anglo bars like the swine flu. I learned how to cure hangovers with Tums, where I could pee in public on the Champs de Mars, which Israeli made the best falafel. I was young, witty, and fabulous.

Then I decided to write a thesis.

Since then, my life, and my blog, have become a wasteland of drudgery, escapism, and guilt. I despise Microsoft word. The Internet has become my mortal enemy. I'm even beginning to resent Barack Obama. (I love you, Barack.) Last week I took the drastic step of cutting myself off from Internet. I have been phasing it back in, but in measured doses. Only for essential activities like thesis-related research, my weekly dose of dooce.com, and craig's list fantasy apartment searches. Finally, I have taken my most drastic measure yet to break myself from the life-sucking claws of Internet: I have banned myself from the Huffington Post. No more, Arianna. No more speed-reading the quick-view news over my morning coffee. No more What did Michelle wear at G8? No more "accidentally" reading the entertainment section before the media and politics sections.
I quit you.

I'm experiencing the normal withdrawal symptoms - despair, anxiety, cautious glee at my newfound freedom, mild twitching. But thesis looks clearer in the light of day than it has in weeks. Ideas are coalescing into paragraphs. Aristotle and George Lakoff are not causing me gastric reflux. And when I lay down at night, I keep writing in my head, in my sleep. Hopefully, this sleep writing will materialize into awake writing, and these paragraphs will materialize into finished chapters. I need my life back. I need my blog to be more interesting than my grandmother's grocery list.

Blogger on Loan

This title does not refer to my status as a grad student.

I am writing to inform my loyal readers (reader) that I will be temporarily employed (working for free) at another blog for the month of May: http://www.socialworkout.com/community.

This is a website devoting to providing lazy, unstructured, undisciplined, would-be exercise buffs with a daily dose of accountability. I am a proud subscriber.
For the month of May, I have signed up for the May Challenge, which involves working out 26 days in May and blogging about it. There are prizes to be won, but, of course, I am doing it only for the prize of increased cardiovascular efficiency. I am not sure if there is a way to link to my posts alone, but perhaps if you search for my username (invadecanada), you will find me. I will endeavor to post several of the days here as well. Below is the first.

Bon jogging!

France (Hearts) Holidays

May 1 - May Day is not a holiday in my provenance, Les États-Unis (USA). And even on the American equivalent - Labor Day, many stores and facilities are still open. But for the French, May Day marks the beginning of a glorious month of official holidays, bridge weekends (got Thursday off? one must take Friday too - 2 days in Brittany is just not enough), and general reluctance to show up at work. This is not to be confused with the month of August, in which every person with a drop of French blood are genetically compelled to shut everything down and vacate Paris and head for the closest country home.

So, due to my American-citizen status, I neglected to consider the likely possibility that my gym would be closed on May Day, as I packed my gym bag, complete with a change of clothes and towels for shower. My gym is about a mile walk from my home, and I realized my mistake about 20 feet outside my apartment. I turned the corner of my street and greeted a silent, empty square. If Paris had tumbleweed, it would have been rolling down the boulevard des Invalides. I knew what awaited me at the gym, but I was skeptically hopeful that if any branch of Club Med gym was open, this one would be. I kept walking. At any rate, it was a beautiful, calm day, and my gym bag was packed and heavy, so at least the walk would be a nice warm-up for a run if the gym turned out to be closed.

It was closed.

A 2-mile walk later, I ran out my front door towards my usual route, the north side of the Seine. At the esplanade in front of Invalides I figured out where all the people in Paris were: every meter of grass was covered with sunbathers, lovers, or soccer players (the latter being my favorite to watch). It was not only May Day, it was the first truly warm, summer-y day of the year. Running on the sidewalks over Pont Alexandre III and past the Eiffel Tower meant running a tourist gauntlet. At more than one spot, I had to just stop jogging and walk behind the fanny packs and (I kid you not) swine flu masks. By the time I got home, I was hot, sweaty, and misanthropic. I can't wait 'til Bastille Day.

4.5 miles + 2 mile walk

Phrase Book II

Phrases that ought to be used more frequently in everyday conversation:

"rue the day"
As in, "The baguette Nazi will rue the day he sneered at my French."

"what a farce"
As in, "The cheese course - what a farce."

"i am well aware"
As in, "Dear Library, I am well aware that my books are two months overdue. Are you aware that your philosophy section smells like body odor?"

"randy"
As in, "Can you name all the Jackson 5? Tito, Michael, Jermaine, Jackie . . . Randy."

"invade Canada"
As in, "Sixty one years ago, George Marshall announced the plan that would come to bear his name. Much of Europe lay in ruins. The United States faced a powerful and ideological enemy intent on world domination. This menace was magnified by the recently discovered capability to destroy life on an unimaginable scale. The Soviet Union didn't yet have an atomic bomb, but before long it would.

The challenge facing the greatest generation of Americans - the generation that had vanquished fascism on the battlefield - was how to contain this threat while extending freedom's frontiers. Leaders like Truman and Acheson, Kennan and Marshall, knew that there was no single decisive blow that could be struck for freedom. We needed a new overarching strategy to meet the challenges of a new and dangerous world.

Such a strategy would join overwhelming military strength with sound judgment. It would shape events not just through military force, but through the force of our ideas; through economic power, intelligence and diplomacy. It would support strong allies that freely shared our ideals of liberty and democracy; open markets and the rule of law. It would foster new international institutions like the United Nations, Nato, and the World Bank, and focus on every corner of the globe. It was a strategy that saw clearly the world's dangers, while seizing its promise.

As a general, Marshall had spent years helping FDR wage war. But the Marshall Plan - which was just one part of this strategy - helped rebuild not just allies, but also the nation that Marshall had plotted to defeat. In the speech announcing his plan, he concluded not with tough talk or definitive declarations - but rather with questions and a call for perspective. "The whole world of the future," Marshall said, "hangs on a proper judgment." To make that judgment, he asked the American people to examine distant events that directly affected their security and prosperity. He closed by asking: "What is needed? What can best be done? What must be done?"

What is needed? What can best be done? What must be done?

Today's dangers are different, though no less grave. The power to destroy life on a catastrophic scale now risks falling into the hands of terrorists. The future of our security - and our planet - is held hostage to our dependence on foreign oil and gas. From the cave-spotted mountains of northwest Pakistan, to the centrifuges spinning beneath Iranian soil, we know that the American people cannot be protected by oceans or the sheer might of our military alone.

The attacks of September 11 brought this new reality into a terrible and ominous focus. On that bright and beautiful day, the world of peace and prosperity that was the legacy of our Cold War victory seemed to suddenly vanish under rubble, and twisted steel, and clouds of smoke.

But the depth of this tragedy also drew out the decency and determination of our nation. At blood banks and vigils; in schools and in the United States Congress, Americans were united - more united, even, than we were at the dawn of the Cold War. The world, too, was united against the perpetrators of this evil act, as old allies, new friends, and even long-time adversaries stood by our side. It was time - once again - for America's might and moral suasion to be harnessed; it was time to once again shape a new security strategy for an ever-changing world.

Imagine, for a moment, what we could have done in those days, and months, and years after 9/11.

We could have deployed the full force of American power to hunt down and destroy Osama bin Laden, al-Qaida, the Taliban, and all of the terrorists responsible for 9/11, while supporting real security in Afghanistan.

We could have secured loose nuclear materials around the world, and updated a 20th century non-proliferation framework to meet the challenges of the 21st.

We could have invested hundreds of billions of dollars in alternative sources of energy to grow our economy, save our planet, and end the tyranny of oil.

We could have strengthened old alliances, formed new partnerships, and renewed international institutions to advance peace and prosperity.

We could have called on a new generation to step into the strong currents of history, and to serve their country as troops and teachers, Peace Corps volunteers and police officers.

We could have secured our homeland--investing in sophisticated new protection for our ports, our trains and our power plants.

We could have rebuilt our roads and bridges, laid down new rail and broadband and electricity systems, and made college affordable for every American to strengthen our ability to compete.

We could have done that.

Instead, we have lost thousands of American lives, spent nearly a trillion dollars, alienated allies and neglected emerging threats - all in the cause of fighting a war for well over five years in a country that had absolutely nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks.

Our men and women in uniform have accomplished every mission we have given them. What's missing in our debate about Iraq - what has been missing since before the war began - is a discussion of the strategic consequences of Iraq and its dominance of our foreign policy. This war distracts us from every threat that we face and so many opportunities we could seize. This war diminishes our security, our standing in the world, our military, our economy, and the resources that we need to confront the challenges of the 21st century. By any measure, our single-minded and open-ended focus on Iraq is not a sound strategy for keeping America safe.

I am running for President of the United States to lead this country in a new direction - to seize this moment's promise. Instead of being distracted from the most pressing threats that we face, I want to overcome them. Instead of pushing the entire burden of our foreign policy on to the brave men and women of our military, I want to use all elements of American power to keep us safe, and prosperous, and free. Instead of alienating ourselves from the world, I want America - once again - to invade Canada."

i'm all warm and fuzzy

My Friend Kathryn is a much better Blogger than me

I am the only person who calls her Kathryn, so I feel safe using her real name in this post, as no one will know who I am speaking of. Kathryn is my oldest friend, in terms of years she has known me (19 years now) (holy bloody hell that's more years than an 18-year-old person)(I grow old . . . I grow old. . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled).

This is vital information because Kathryn has reappeared as a character in the life of this Word Artisan, after a brief sojourn in the morass of the post-college/married/careerified real world. We reconnected over a boy named Griffin, who Kathryn and I both fought for the undying affection of during Christmas holidays. Kathryn won the battle when she flashed him with her left breast. That is not to say that Kathryn has a more spectacular left breast than I - scandale! - but that she was quicker to the draw. These bosom buddies initially found each other again, though, due to the magnificent world of les blogs. In short, I googled her until I found her blog, read through many months of posts, discovered a reference to our invisible mutual friend Pedro the Monkey, and immediately emailed her.

To be sure, if Pedro had not alerted me to Kathryn's still-fabulousness/perpetual relevance in my life, then I may not have taken the electronic mail plunge. But he was there when we needed him most, as he was in the idyllic driveways of Bexhill.
So we are reunited.

And now, I have the dual pleasure and guilt of reading her lovely blog on a biweekly basis, reminding me on a biweekly basis of my blogging negligence. I do not recall my last post. This is my attempt to remedy that dearth. Being of weary mind and mediocre faculty, I will not scribe poetry. Instead, I will scribe a "tag". (Tags are when an online friend requests you to perform a task and then pass it on.) (This has no relation to genital warts.)

25 Things About Me

1. I have ugly mutant Hobbit feet.
2. I am a pork-loving vegetarian.
3. I will make it to Montana.
4. My first and only horse was a Paso Fino and was a good-natured, well-intentioned disaster.
5. I have never smoked a cigarette.
6. I am smarter than most bears.
7. I have never started a forest fire.
8. I respect Smokey the Bear.
9. One of my cats fetches.
10. My other cat retrieves.
11. I am addicted to tea.
12. I finally finished Angle of Repose last week. It only took me 14 months.
13. I like the smell of cedar.
14. I like the smell of permanent markers.
15. I am not a huffer.
16. I like beards. (on men. as opposed to goats, pigs, or reptiles.)
17. I am wearing a large gray scarf and watching a candle burn and being stared down/judged by Moxie at this very moment.
18. Spinach had me at Hello.
19. Tequila and I had an ugly breakup.
20. The reverend at my church has a Virginian drawl.
21. I do not iron.
22. Sledding is one of my happiest childhood memories.
23. I dream of snow.
24. I do not have a favorite movie.
25. I need mountains.

As a result, I believe the saying goes - you are it.