Tag Archives: Paris

We’re Back! (PS: there is no “we.”)

3 Sep

blog image jim gaffigan

Following our busiest summer EVER (what with the book tour to Paris and all- more about that later), FA&S is pleased to announce that we’re BACK!  With even more of the sarcasm you’ve come to expect (and love).  Mostly love.

Here’s a quick run-down of what to look forward to this fall.  (Note: due to time constraints such as feeding The Boy, conversing with Spouse, disagreeing with Spouse and ultimately no longer talking to Spouse, FA&S is simply TOO BUSY FOR FULL WORDS AND SENTENCES just now.)  And yet, somehow, we have plenty of time to type in ALL CAPS.  Go figure.  Until then…F.U.

“You leave me little notes on my pillow. I told you a hundred-and-sixty-eight times I can’t .. stand .. little notes on my pillow! ‘We are all out of Corn Flakes.” -F.U.  It took me three hours to figure out that ‘F.U.’ was Felix Unger!” ~ Neil Simon’s “The Odd Couple.”

See, we don’t always abbreviate, only sumtmz.  (PS: there is no “we.”)

FYI, here’s how our summer went (also, there is no “our”):

ALB to CDG.

UTI– best place to get a UTI?  Paris, France.  30 minutes and $3 later, antibiotic drugs delivered to my apartment;  I felt like Jim Morrison without the bloat.  Ego, yes.  Bloat?  Non.

POS– as rust eats away at the tailgate of my little red car, we head south on the

GSP to

NYC

and

LBI while listening to

NPR and, of course, the sounds of The Boy whining and Spouse yelling while stepping on an imaginary brake pedal that doesn’t exist.  Why anyone would need to brake while driving on a highway is beyond me.  With so many lanes to choose from, just glide over to one that you like better.

IRS– just when I thought summer vacation was paid for, a FY2012 adjustment shows up.  (Ended up at DQ for Blizzard Therapy.)

KGB– killer ground bees.  I didn’t die but my arm swelled up like Kathleen Turner’s head on steroids.  Not a good look for her, a horrible feeling for ME.

M.E.– because that’s who was attacked by the bees and that’s who is entitled to high drama (and eggplant parm) until the swelling goes down.

W-E-D- as in “til death do us part.”  As in, the average life span of a pioneer was 40 years.  “Death” was lurking around every corner in the 1700’s.  From bad squirrel meat to well, good squirrel meat, “death” was a just part of your first marriage.  Well anyone can honor a commitment like that.  (Side note: “W-E-D” begins with a “W” and contains three letters.  As does “WHY?”  Just an observation.  You’re welcome.)

WTF– which, until recently, I thought meant “with the fries.”  I now understand why friends would often text “?” to my answers.  Like when Harry texted: “ordered burger medium-rare and it’s burnt, wtf?”  And I replied: “enjoy the f- especially steaming hot with a little vinegar and cracked pepper.”  Or when Lucy wrote:  “wtf!  At Costco and they sold out of toilet paper!”  To which I replied: “I hope they’re warm.”

Oh, and about that book tour of Paris.  Well, in June, I did visit the City of Lights where I was, again, treated to the sounds of The Boy whining and Spouse yelling (plus bread, wine and cheese.  And wine.)  Also, I read a book on the flight over.  Hence the book/tour.

The book was Jim Gaffigan’s “Dad is Fat” but I think it still counts.  Also, I figure that the only way I will ever have a book/tour of my own is by linking words like “book” and “tour” and “me” into sentences and then releasing that energy into the universe.

And I’m pretty sure that I have the “ME” part down.

Plus, I’m certain that Mr. Gaffigan appreciates the plug.

Until L8R.

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Halloween Costume Idea #1

1 Aug

blog image prince

With Halloween just 93 days away, the time to start your costume is now.  Once September rolls around and the kids are back in school five glorious, albeit too short, days a week, you’ll be so busy with organizing and cleaning and vodka and such that before you know it, Sugar Day will be here and those 3-5 pounds aren’t just going to gain themselves.  They require a costume.

For the moment, I am considering the following:

1.  Dress in all purple.

2.  When someone asks if you’re an eggplant, first, congratulate them for not assuming that you are a grape or raisin or Prince circa 1982; so cliché.

3.  Next, inform them that, technically, if you were to go trick or treating as an eggplant, you would, instead, dress as an aubergine as you are still feeling the effects of your summer vacation in Paris.  (Basically the difference between an eggplant costume and an aubergine costume is a scarf.  And you thought I was going to say ” beret” right?  Americans; so cliché.)

4.  If people on the street believe that you are an eggplant, there’s no reason to let them know that your original intent was to dress as a varicose vein in an attempt to connect your Halloween costume to your life or that the migraine costume you had envisioned ended up looking like a sausage that was beaten with a hammer then hot-glued to a baseball cap.  (Which is kind of what a migraine makes your head feel like.  Now just add The Boy’s drum practice.)

5.  And while the varicose vein costume would help explain my weird body shape, scant muscle tone and surly attitude, the eggplant costume conjures up essences of silky, fragrant Ratatouille and mysterious and spicy Bangan ka Bhurta from exotic lands.

Besides, isn’t the best part of Halloween pretending to be someone you’re not?  A silky, exotic dish for you, and for me it’s dressing as a gainfully employed individual, a halfway decent cook, or someone-who-can-just-be-on-time-once-in-a-while-and-not-make-everyone-else-wait-for-her-damn-it because, according to Spouse and Boy, I am none of these.

Notice that in the above list I did not include coupon warrior, grammar czar, cliché police or Banshee because, on any given day, I can be ALL of these.  At once.  (I’m talking to you Food King cashier who recently told me that my coupons were valid “only on this coming past Tuesday” and that she “could care less” if I screamed like a, well, you know.)

So be the eggplant, the vein, the dried plum even.  Purple is still trending for fall and its slimming effects are noteworthy.  Plus, when paired with navy, it seems fresh and sophisticated.

(Side note: the artist formerly known, then reknown, and now just sort of unknown as Prince, and captain of all things purple (and rainy), is now 55 years old and will become eligible for Social Security in just 7 years.)

Now get out there and get working on your costume before the opportunity to be someone else, someone wonderful, is gone.

Until December.  When we get to overspend, overeat and undersleep while baking cookies, wrapping presents, donning gay apparel and drinking vodka and such for a bunch of ingrates who want, more than anything, for us to go back to being the Reese’s-scarfing, licorice-stealing, vodka-drinking varicose veins who we set out to be.

I hate Christmas.

PS: Only 148 days until then too.

Mon Regime fou Francais (My Crazy French Diet)

18 Jul

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Eat dessert twice a day (space it out if desired).

Follow with: unlimited cream, whole milk, whole eggs, coffee (see “unlimited cream”), bread, cheese, beer, wine and crepes.

Stroll for miles because it’s beautiful and because you can.

Smoke like there’s no cancer (or tomorrow).

Visit the burial sites of Seurat, Chopin, Morrison, Wilde, Molière and others.

Return 4 pounds lighter with the dust of a thousand souls in the cuffs of your pants.

Cost: $1,000 per pound.

(Only €850 per kilo though!)

Repeat as necessary.  And it will become necessary.

Karma and The Golden Globes

16 Jan

blog image golden globe

Re: Karma.  Don’t you love when this happens to you:

Six years ago, Spouse met a Guy on a plane.  The Guy was like any of us- fumbling through life, drinking cheap wine and waiting for a sign.  Well, he was like any English major I’ve ever known, anyway.

Lacking either a plan or money, The Guy moves to Paris, marries a model, has two kids, moves to Australia then returns to the US whereupon his wife opens an Ayurveda smoothie/pet spa and becomes “the” darling of the Los Angeles Ayurveda-celebrity-pet-smoothie-spa set while I’m still trying to complete a bathroom renovation and get my now six years older car to pass inspection.

And it’s not that we don’t appreciate Ayurveda pet smoothie bars in upstate NY, it’s just that we prefer whole milk all the time.

Fast forward to Sunday night when, while channel-surfing, Spouse spots The Guy at The Golden Globe Awards.  The Golden Globes which, I suspect, have little to do with either geography or transition metals but seem to attract a tanned, relaxed, champagne-sipping crowd.

“There’s The Guy!” he yelled.

“That isn’t fair!” I cried.

And by “that,” I meant “life.”

And by “isn’t,” I meant “is not.”

And it’s true: life is not fair.

Never was, never will be- it’s just that being reminded stinks.

But, like good luck, justice and sweatpants, karma also has an ebb and flow.  (Well, maybe not the sweatpants.  There’s no excuse for sweatpants.)

So, occasionally, when all my pontificating and prognosticating, all the contemplations and reflections on living that I have blathered at my kid (ad nauseam- just ask him and hold for the eye roll), the advice, the pep-talks, the verbiage in/verbiage out, the blow-hardness of my very existence, all of it, comes back at me with the force of a statuette to the face and the kid asks: “What?  He looks like a nice guy.”

I remember that karma works.

And I love when good karma happens to me.

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