Word Artisan has relocated. Literally and figuratively. Geophysically and webally.
http://parisiem.onsugar.com
See you there.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
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:
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:
Monday, August 10, 2009
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
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
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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
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
Monday, July 27, 2009
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!
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!
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
