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Goodbye California, Bonjour Paris!

Bonjour ma copines! Happy New Year! 2015 might just be our lucky year. I am currently soaring over California somewhere in between a soap enveloped French woman to my left and the drink cart to my right...did I mention they handout free wine and champagne? Looks like Luke Bryan had the right idea when he sang" Getting drunk on a plane. “Why not? The airline I am flying, “Air France" may be the only airline that serves duck pate instead of pretzels. As I reflect on this year leading up to this moment I realize I wouldn't change a thing. Not my marriage, not the divorce, not even the time I barfed and pissed myself in a taxi, not the heartbreaks, or the time I accidentally ate bird shit thinking it was an m&m. If you want the low down on my marriage and divorce here it is...if you don't give a fuck that’s cool too. I’m going to tell you anyways. I’ll make it fast. I got married to the Mr. after three months of dating. Crazy as it sounds I liked it. I loved that our s…
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Too Late to Turn Back Now

After stumbling off the plane due to no sleep and possibly high from inhaling excessive perfume for the past 11 hours, I could be found loitering around the baggage claim at the Charles De Gaulle Airport. 8PM local time, 4:00AM and far past my bedtime, Pacific Standard Time.
I paid no mind to a French man’s intentional stare as I sensed that he was in his mid forties and could smell his potent after shave from two baggage claims away. I peered slyly from my peripherals to see that I had been correct in my brief analysis. He wore a navy Ralph Lauren Suit that hugged his frail thin frame. If his pants were hemmed an inch shorter, they would have danced a dangerous line between slacks and classified capris pants. He wore a camel leather golf cap which covered the top of his head. Though the hat sifted with each turn giving away all mystery of the baldness that lied beneath. Despite the wiry thin hair covering the sides and back of his neck. The stranger’s eyes matched the ice cold blue h…

Mini Van is the new G-Wagon

Today I am taking inventory of the French regularities I have observed thus far:
Pastries, bread, fruit, cookies, and/or cake (aka dessert) is served after each meal and doubles as breakfast. I have literally consumed some form of mystery tartlet, pastry, or cookie at each meal. How the family stays so petite? I will never know.

If you order coffee you are getting espresso.  If you order "coffee de Americain" you are getting spit, in your espresso. As I voluntarily lost myself in the small town of Ruel Malmaison (both emotionally and geographically)...I took notice that everyone drives either an audi or smart-van (imagine if a big ass rapist van and smart car made a baby). It is rare to see any other type of car in between. 

Do not judge a book by its cover or a man by his smart van. Just because smart vans tend to be tarnished or dented, rusty, cold, dirty usually faded to a coffee stained teeth color.
The average driver tends to be an elderly man that steps out in a Burberry sca…

Beware of Robot Gophers

It is only 8:41am and already I have found myself in a pickle. It was my first day on the job dropping the kids off at school and I've already f#%^ed up. Take note: the school is so close to home that we can walk there. However, the average morning temperature in our town is below freezing. So I am clearly expected to drive them.  I am known for being terrible at directions. In fact in high school, the last day of senior year I had to ask my best friend, Melissa, where the library was in order to return books. To this day she gives me shit about it.  So, you could see why I was surprised in myself when I found the children's elementary school almost effortlessly this morning. I had found it by memory and had only been there once.  As I pulled into the parking lot and walked the kids to class, I walked with a proud momma swagger. (I will deny I ever wrote that last line). I felt what I imagine Kanye West feels when he looks in the mirror and realizes he is Kanye West. After walking …

Selfie-ish Bastard

Above are some quick pictures I snapped wandering around trying to re- locate where I locked my bike. This is not even a third of the town center. This is just the small sliver I explored today.
I hopped on my bike in my "go-to outfit." You know the one outfit you can always can count on when all else fails. When your hair looks like shit, when a pimple the size of your eyeball devours your face (by devour I am talking about when your face to pimple ratio is more pimple than face), you see that the cookies you ate yesterday made themselves comfortable on your ass, this is the outfit that saves the day. It matches, it's classic, you feel confident in it, and fits just right. You might wear it six days in a week but as long as you hang out with six different groups of people...f%#k you strut that monkey suit. 
Feeling like Clark Kent himself I put comfort on the side lines when it came to my shoes.



Now let's just take a minute to laugh at the fact that I took this selfie …

Excuse my French

Bonjour mon petite chou's (my little cabbages)!
I am sure you have heard about the terrorist attacks in Paris right now. I won't talk too much about it because:
A. I can't see who reads my blog.  B. I'm scared shitless to say the wrong thing if point A is an accurate concern. C. All of the above
As I write today's post, Hozier is softly serenading me through my speakers. I'm currently spooning three pillows safely barricaded in a fluffy white fortress of comforter while sipping a piping hot espresso concoction that is mystery even to me.  You see each morning I attempt to make myself an espresso shot using a fancy machine that resembles RTD2 (from the movie, Star Wars) I don't know how to use....or pronounce it. The directions are in French. So naturally Instead of translating (ain't nobody got time for that), I resort back to my American ways by wasting no time...or I'm just a lazy ass, but I'll chose to blame America like every other country. …

Temporarily in a Comma

Happy Friday ma Chéries!
Today marks the one-week anniversary of my arrival, here in the new hood. I had planned on popping some champagne to assist my morning array of pastries, but as you know things rarely go according to plan (Which possibly explains why I am an infamously shitty planner). To my surprise and secret delight, we were fresh out of brioche bread, cookies, biscuits, or any tiny treat resembling cake that was passed off as breakfast. (Eating dessert first thing in the morning for seven days straight, sounds cool. Until day 5. Then all of that sugar makes you feel nauseous, lethargic, and just plain fat). So instead of mimosas I stayed in, eating mass amounts of yogurt while watching BBC news. All. Day. With the combination of three-day terrorist attacks, jet lag, and espresso; I had been awake for what felt like this entire week. According to the bags under my eyes and current pimple to face ratio (I break out when I am stressed) I needed today as a day of rest.  Therefore…