Saturday, December 27, 2008

Complèxe Napoléon

Looks like Daddy Sarkozy is compensating for something these days.

Check out these photos of him en pointe like a ballerina at the Bastille Opera!



Daddy Sarko: Hey babe, could you scootch down just a little?



Carla: Chéri, don't be such a coq -- I'm already wearing flats!

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Noël from Hell

Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmère’s house we go…

Actually, more like onto the jam-packed Périphérique ring road circling Paris to join the thousands of other Parisians going to their ancestral country homes for the holidays.

On one hand, I love French Christmases – they celebrate with an enourmous five-course gourmet meal on Christmas Eve and sleep it all off on the 25th. On the other hand, it’s always a bit stressful going to the famille-in-law’s house. While any self-respecting American family is vegging out in front of the Star Wars marathon, in France the holidays call for a whole lotta togetherness. Big Cheese’s parents are très old-school and I’m always worried me or my half-American kids are going to bring shame upon La Famille Fromage.

Well, this year it’s pretty much a given – I don’t have a boule de neige’s chance in hell.

The thing is, Big Fry has picked up a whole new vocabulary at his nursery school. Since September, my little angel talks like a pint-sized French trucker. Big Fry’s latest is a non-stop mantra of pipi-caca-pipi-caca. Based on the advice of all the American toddler taming books out there, I do my best to ignore it, hoping that the novelty will wear off sooner rather than later.

But wouldn’t you know that Big Fry decided to show off during the Christmas Eve cocktail hour chez Famille Fromage.

(Sidebar: No matter how long I live here, I will never get over how the French serve the best champagne money can buy with a bowlful of Bugles – you know, the kind sold in high school vending machines. Why not break out the Funyuns, too? Now that’s a real party.)

As Grandmère passed the Bugles, Big Fry sweetly said, “Merci, Madame Caca Moudin.”

“It’s caca boudin, honey,” I corrected him absentmindedly.

Grandmère shot both of us a frosty look that said “I’ll deal with you later”, but was too polite to take it further in front of the extended family.

Note to self
: Don’t correct your child’s French when he’s calling his grandma a sausage poop.
 

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