Friday, March 6, 2009

Frenchy Friday

La Mom ventured outside the 75 zipcode that is Paris proper to visit L’Amie in the ‘burbs last week. Before I get too much flame mail about how I never leave my bubble, let me point out that Parisians hardly ever get out of their own neighborhoods, much less the city itself.

But Parisians don’t know what they’re missing – take this little bakery shop in St. Germain-en-Laye. Petit Gâteau is specialized in – you guessed it – little cakes and miniature quiches.



Tiny cakes, big prices – these Oreo-sized babies are 2.50 € ($ 3.15) a pop! But they're so beautiful, it's hard to resist...




Good (French) things come in small packages!

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Flipping the Bird

Some of you may have noticed that La Mom is a little scatological these days. Chalk up my obsession with merde to a combination of potty training and the ungodly amount of dog doo in my neighborhood. The weak Parisian March sun is out and so, apparently, are the très chic French bulldogs.

I’d finally given a big Gallic shrug to the poop situation and decided to make my peace with it.

That is, until I got attacked from above.

In my own home.

That’s right, La Mom fell victim to a Flying Crap Attack!

Mais oui, if it isn’t enough to do a drunken tiptoe ballet to avoid the crottes every time I set foot on the sidewalk, now I have to duck for cover. Springtime in Paris also brings out the birds. Lots of them. And it seems like they’re on a mission to decorate every car in sight.

But now they’ve gone too far.

Today I had my bedroom windows flung open to circulate a bit of fresh air. As I came back in a few minutes later, I heard a rustling noise in the corner next to my armoire. A sparrow! You know, one of those cute little brown birds you find all over the city.

Bonjour, you poor little birdie,” I crooned, planning on shooing it out the window. He cocked his tiny head, blinked his beady eyes, and swooped into dive-bomb mode. Wait, make that dookie-bomb.

My little feathered friend had chosen my Porthault bedspread as a target. It’s hard to say who was flapping more furiously around the room – me or the bird. To add insult to injury, he crapped all over my sky-blue Gerard Darel suede jacket on his way to join his pigeon buddies gorging on tourists’ baguettes at the Tuileries.

Merde, alors.
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Monday, March 2, 2009

You Know You're in France When...



You know you’re in France when...



• Your mother-in-law tells your 12-month-old to stop eating like a baby.

• Your neighbor tells you she never breastfed because her husband would not share her poitrine with the children.

• Your toddler won’t eat any meat other than duck liver pâté.

• There’s no room for your stroller in the restaurant, but there’s an old couple with a dog eating from a plate at the table next to yours.

• Your maternity ward has a wine list.

• You get bawled out by little old ladies in the street because your kid isn’t wearing a woolen hat in September.

• Your family tells you:

je t’aime,

je t’aime,

je t’aime.

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