tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38234616430623818442023-11-16T02:37:00.893-08:00Fashion Me FrenchThe humor, the fashion, the pop culture, and the real life adventures of a twenty-two year old girl living in France.Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-9601805608859812092012-10-04T16:42:00.001-07:002012-10-04T16:42:31.183-07:00Why in dear god's name does France love yogurt so much?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m52rwqNJk21rq67bfo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m52rwqNJk21rq67bfo1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Saw this picture and was immediately, STRONGLY reminded of France. </div>
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There is never enough yogurt in a French supermarket. Got five extra aisles? Yogurt! All of them. "Pourquoi pas?" the french would say. Then they'd follow that up with "Let's not refrigerate our milk or our eggs, either. And while we're at it, let's make bacon a ridiculously expensive luxury item."</div>
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France, I really need more bacon and less yogurt from you. Please try to adapt to my needs. </div>
Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-5076779324360577712011-08-03T06:00:00.000-07:002011-08-03T09:12:47.525-07:00Baxter is the Cutest Puppy in the World: A Study in 13 iPhone Photos<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfpSMC2zSs3usVG-xjPfM_SFELJGci27iRHHP953YdKy0LIpwuipH5kqALBU8A-JQVuoN_oEXaccsx3TOVbL_vCF-j43uQiBmLbu94keA6szI76cJaN0usjv3qHCZtjovZgwlKLxe6H14/s1600/264217_10150240912901105_589606104_7647433_3327891_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfpSMC2zSs3usVG-xjPfM_SFELJGci27iRHHP953YdKy0LIpwuipH5kqALBU8A-JQVuoN_oEXaccsx3TOVbL_vCF-j43uQiBmLbu94keA6szI76cJaN0usjv3qHCZtjovZgwlKLxe6H14/s400/264217_10150240912901105_589606104_7647433_3327891_n.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baxter</td></tr>
</tbody></table> Baxter does an amazingly large number of cute things for such a small puppy. His cute antics include (but are not limited to):<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuF_4KKUD1U5ZTg7guL1UtBkDlTCbbAdqGa31DBURRDMX1313s5hD4lahFcCdk7_JJLFJhdWBWnwFCN0uCJVq8_N4o4tA1Ey7_c0Spnlp__z0GFNPb2Aygp0KhKs9p5OqtjNI0E3Qh7wo/s1600/225501_10100251413008147_3628904_52799379_3110841_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuF_4KKUD1U5ZTg7guL1UtBkDlTCbbAdqGa31DBURRDMX1313s5hD4lahFcCdk7_JJLFJhdWBWnwFCN0uCJVq8_N4o4tA1Ey7_c0Spnlp__z0GFNPb2Aygp0KhKs9p5OqtjNI0E3Qh7wo/s400/225501_10100251413008147_3628904_52799379_3110841_n.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><br />
<ul><li style="text-align: justify;">Lying with his back legs out</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Snoring huge snores</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Burping huge burps and then looking at you as if to say "....What was that?"</li>
</ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqwqL3ifvNzk9sh8FrbMIUKcVgUR5YcNb7mIuqz4zeqYVLeUHQr9fW8YstlNXujdTmT0kiv3BKQXgNaaAcU2aCg74N8x77y1a3HY_OCnzjAMOVr4uAGezTbzSnmROVHrCK3vv6-toFss/s1600/241032_10150209027036105_589606104_7368863_6483212_o-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqwqL3ifvNzk9sh8FrbMIUKcVgUR5YcNb7mIuqz4zeqYVLeUHQr9fW8YstlNXujdTmT0kiv3BKQXgNaaAcU2aCg74N8x77y1a3HY_OCnzjAMOVr4uAGezTbzSnmROVHrCK3vv6-toFss/s400/241032_10150209027036105_589606104_7368863_6483212_o-1.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDzdmn9X8FpHvwQlMFMQNvupoy-NUYagA4t4zHnzhkmaCrpZdhf8q6Keb7f8eOqc7ehheW-P-nxrzyf5ES26Mzjevn88g9paf6s4rX-faVtRfJXhiGQp-GqI7qV0ffc-XMOrx2TzRslc/s1600/255029_10150219506251105_589606104_7471995_3862960_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDzdmn9X8FpHvwQlMFMQNvupoy-NUYagA4t4zHnzhkmaCrpZdhf8q6Keb7f8eOqc7ehheW-P-nxrzyf5ES26Mzjevn88g9paf6s4rX-faVtRfJXhiGQp-GqI7qV0ffc-XMOrx2TzRslc/s400/255029_10150219506251105_589606104_7471995_3862960_n.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4OulaOluOLANkF_V8A77sbadnWqHPqSsZawBVlPtsKwv96LqEckn8GlbpJ9IINlXHhY1M0X5xPB4DdQDvK5WKXR8L2KXHLN2EqE2226e3Kwgx9yTbZMpWElxRo2be-8Knzrd1Lgis2o/s1600/photo-3+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb4OulaOluOLANkF_V8A77sbadnWqHPqSsZawBVlPtsKwv96LqEckn8GlbpJ9IINlXHhY1M0X5xPB4DdQDvK5WKXR8L2KXHLN2EqE2226e3Kwgx9yTbZMpWElxRo2be-8Knzrd1Lgis2o/s400/photo-3+%25282%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">Sleeping in ridiculous positions, for instance twisting half his body around, stretching all the way out, bending his body at a 90 degree angle, or curling up ridiculously tiny on top of himself in a tucked away corner</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Flinging himself like a flying squirrel into our pool, spread eagle in the air, and belly-flopping with a splash</li>
<li style="text-align: justify;">Skidding and slipping when he makes sharp turns running on the stone floor. Boyfriend has taken to tripping Baxter on purpose as often as possible because it's so freakin' cute.</li>
</ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzOQrOPgAcoarupFGpBQQHUlHXs-IQXJhQDfbrL5K8flHTc8hdxML0u5YTHI5g7YLKYD3UWcUriVF3J2GIAh_Fi9kpMKdCkr4GESTdPYYpW4BE4h9TB8E8PDrLQFdz67JWe6H3b9O2_U/s1600/250371_10100261107869567_3628904_52949740_4456404_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSzOQrOPgAcoarupFGpBQQHUlHXs-IQXJhQDfbrL5K8flHTc8hdxML0u5YTHI5g7YLKYD3UWcUriVF3J2GIAh_Fi9kpMKdCkr4GESTdPYYpW4BE4h9TB8E8PDrLQFdz67JWe6H3b9O2_U/s400/250371_10100261107869567_3628904_52949740_4456404_n.jpg" width="297" /></a></div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">Jumping in the toy basket, jumping out of the toy basket, then jumping in the toy basket again and rolling around in all his toys. Then jumping out. </li>
</ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw_RYHheEgSD2lCnOUj_EvCqnD2eqQT1GW4SGftqFHtKoGTtglLeDTbRkB9GZAgie7W_YGOzVaVAWk0H_Dw6Lw_MTWfSjQqbzyKdc8wcCr-OBLifvT_6SiQMtDAj5C_zvR8CQ2NvaiyGI/s1600/249359_10150209035021105_589606104_7368987_7735270_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw_RYHheEgSD2lCnOUj_EvCqnD2eqQT1GW4SGftqFHtKoGTtglLeDTbRkB9GZAgie7W_YGOzVaVAWk0H_Dw6Lw_MTWfSjQqbzyKdc8wcCr-OBLifvT_6SiQMtDAj5C_zvR8CQ2NvaiyGI/s400/249359_10150209035021105_589606104_7368987_7735270_n.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">Rolling around and wiggling like a maniac crazy dog when he's in your arms because he's so excited to see everyone and everything that's going on around him. </li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Cj29OaHEYBSNgpqLiwoVQD2K3FGCdVVW-O3hqFjrNOl7q20nWY72sbddIfx4CVjWTgWm2TUK7v7lRdl1OKwk_2qFiEydnG2tgFfzlt8GOOfXsnSKCJKZn7qKDpAUDvHoDH14wfJj_rQ/s1600/251175_10100274442127607_3628904_53205840_6510242_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Cj29OaHEYBSNgpqLiwoVQD2K3FGCdVVW-O3hqFjrNOl7q20nWY72sbddIfx4CVjWTgWm2TUK7v7lRdl1OKwk_2qFiEydnG2tgFfzlt8GOOfXsnSKCJKZn7qKDpAUDvHoDH14wfJj_rQ/s400/251175_10100274442127607_3628904_53205840_6510242_n.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burrowing-Baxter is kind of like the yeti. Photographic proof is inconclusive and more reliable footage is yet to be found.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">Burrowing under large piles of pillows until only his butt or one of his ears is sticking out from under the pile. If you're sitting on the couch, he'll often burrow under the pillows next to you, squirm in between your back and the back of the couch, and magically pop up on your other side.</li>
</ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE1xGZZOxboGmuJWcUyUMK3BVGQr7gQ2lc3d6pGmTVxjmfs-4CdN9OYJvxbLv7x7JnnQgeI_uq_kJFGxzNkLPiFg-J0uTnTsFXh301UF2VAw-CbvLhThGLwKSiZPmakSWLAoYfJOQba7g/s1600/IMG00096-20110626-1001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE1xGZZOxboGmuJWcUyUMK3BVGQr7gQ2lc3d6pGmTVxjmfs-4CdN9OYJvxbLv7x7JnnQgeI_uq_kJFGxzNkLPiFg-J0uTnTsFXh301UF2VAw-CbvLhThGLwKSiZPmakSWLAoYfJOQba7g/s400/IMG00096-20110626-1001.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFDzBCg8JZzCqMdbG02Voj2Rlm1yf8CTMUIifdvuSGr1VwDYzV_zde734So88iJQ2QL36Ovwg2BfCMwvOhpc9ZjyFUPT_-rL3yxHRD_qch9jvz2QiMwuC8dPdTlvet6IE0UnYt7S5UOk/s1600/photo+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoFDzBCg8JZzCqMdbG02Voj2Rlm1yf8CTMUIifdvuSGr1VwDYzV_zde734So88iJQ2QL36Ovwg2BfCMwvOhpc9ZjyFUPT_-rL3yxHRD_qch9jvz2QiMwuC8dPdTlvet6IE0UnYt7S5UOk/s400/photo+%25281%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCU_o43-byKAn6pmXZeMtnqMmyGWN6_tz32k51PMv0yfZ7cyssQEleI9qGQKu-RdkczQNZsbZ_zzd0XSDRmJNZO9TQAUea2OiMVEMxVgGtC7hriy2dRDQigGN7ZUfU91MdocPFQb_EC9U/s1600/photo-2+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCU_o43-byKAn6pmXZeMtnqMmyGWN6_tz32k51PMv0yfZ7cyssQEleI9qGQKu-RdkczQNZsbZ_zzd0XSDRmJNZO9TQAUea2OiMVEMxVgGtC7hriy2dRDQigGN7ZUfU91MdocPFQb_EC9U/s400/photo-2+%25281%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxJfgd3CNK43Dcqpn8sMJ_jcscb1Olbdsc9m99FYFeb_PZBOkA45KZpLx-6ogOxLSwUxYhl4FrO4zhyphenhyphenUuBHBRRFF_bU2NG-cClsFgvsoq2jtNGKnWNt4i4HEdlmVboTwFdUXqCAEfWPw/s1600/photo-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxJfgd3CNK43Dcqpn8sMJ_jcscb1Olbdsc9m99FYFeb_PZBOkA45KZpLx-6ogOxLSwUxYhl4FrO4zhyphenhyphenUuBHBRRFF_bU2NG-cClsFgvsoq2jtNGKnWNt4i4HEdlmVboTwFdUXqCAEfWPw/s400/photo-3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;">Invading the personal space of our other dog. Other Dog will be sleeping and Baxter will sometimes literally go lie on top of his face. He looooves to be close to Other Dog. Other Dog likes him well enough but looks at me mournfully and sighs when Baxter starts crowding him.</li>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2MvlDYVf1IknfSl8c5ZrFpsKAWuMnu_IT7EjVE7jSG06N5rJbiuTafV4cEwIsmIJXdL8gheKiprMvconHv_TLYHeW1Edij9N2jBZR5UoucZ0YtBoEaGT3cFrwqoT4pTCf9ApFlgstA0U/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2MvlDYVf1IknfSl8c5ZrFpsKAWuMnu_IT7EjVE7jSG06N5rJbiuTafV4cEwIsmIJXdL8gheKiprMvconHv_TLYHeW1Edij9N2jBZR5UoucZ0YtBoEaGT3cFrwqoT4pTCf9ApFlgstA0U/s320/photo.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Other Dog says "Whyyyyyyyyyyyy"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-81739620586550800152011-08-01T06:00:00.000-07:002011-08-01T06:00:12.292-07:00What to Not Read Before Bed<div style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://images.wikia.com/zombie/images/7/76/World_War_Z_book_cover.jpg" width="270" /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I suppose I felt invincible the other night, because for reasons which escape me right now, I thought I would be fine if I did a little reading before bed from a book called <i>World War Z</i>, which is about the zombie apocalypse. I climbed into bed, unaware of the horror which awaited me, curled up with my novel, and picked up where I left off. The problem was, I didn't anticipate how much I would identify with the story...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsOiZ3PXGoYsvPYBrPMjSlyVGAbGYm-2lUAaqsk5bRgS-UL_T_0Z1C3SPnWH8j_YKC8juuy1ez9TBKRFjKIHD5Hu9n0vkbstU8zIowKl4ig2K7Fhn94ZXXT4MUFfpSrnpD2dzeXrFed0/s1600/scarybook1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsOiZ3PXGoYsvPYBrPMjSlyVGAbGYm-2lUAaqsk5bRgS-UL_T_0Z1C3SPnWH8j_YKC8juuy1ez9TBKRFjKIHD5Hu9n0vkbstU8zIowKl4ig2K7Fhn94ZXXT4MUFfpSrnpD2dzeXrFed0/s400/scarybook1.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I can't wait to be lulled to sleep by some masterful story telling!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"> I started to read, <i>"We never thought that the zombies would come to where we lived. We were just in some suburb in the middle of Northern California."</i> Huh, I thought. Weird. I live in a suburb in the middle of California. It continued, <i>"Another thing we never thought about was how there was a forest behind our house, the perfect place for the zombies to mass before they started crawling towards our back yard." </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYADNgjOaHmp08uY-36LB-XSRIs7UnAaC9UTTrizpPNr5fBpdtS3sP8YBNXmyZUrScgrOMYkpN2n2jNdn0-NUkcynzru6d9nkUzd4FNElXMHwiL6PSpEEex_rhUDBJ37uBA9SC2HI5rUs/s1600/scarybook2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYADNgjOaHmp08uY-36LB-XSRIs7UnAaC9UTTrizpPNr5fBpdtS3sP8YBNXmyZUrScgrOMYkpN2n2jNdn0-NUkcynzru6d9nkUzd4FNElXMHwiL6PSpEEex_rhUDBJ37uBA9SC2HI5rUs/s400/scarybook2.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"What are you doing? Turn off your television! Can't you hear them?!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"> "Huh," I thought as I laughed nervously to myself. "There's a forest behind my house too." The next paragraph began,<i> "It never occurred to us how many windows there were on our first floor, effectively eliminating any chance of defense. That is, until the zombies crashed through the sliding glass door and into our living room."</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrlJR-WAqRy_b03DjwNFbOwUa-pQZ81jVdHmHzFOoV8zoeCuXmBhvsoGUJIuq1hZS8j-NAFIWwK4Mj9wO6tYCMDy2DjNitcKxrRhRZPtlQAwhll9A4IP1yarsXCyIkRa1mSatFZ6Uv1E/s1600/scarybook3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrlJR-WAqRy_b03DjwNFbOwUa-pQZ81jVdHmHzFOoV8zoeCuXmBhvsoGUJIuq1hZS8j-NAFIWwK4Mj9wO6tYCMDy2DjNitcKxrRhRZPtlQAwhll9A4IP1yarsXCyIkRa1mSatFZ6Uv1E/s400/scarybook3.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">"FIGHT, DAMN YOU! FIGHT TO SURVIVE!"</td></tr>
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</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"> "I HAVE LOTS OF WINDOWS DOWNSTAIRS," I thought, breaking out into a faint sweat and eyeing my bedroom door nervously. <i>"As the glass shattered, my husband leaped up and began to struggle with them, and I heard the children screaming in another room. I ran in to rescue them, knowing as I fled that my husband and my dogs were already dead." </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mAV8y6a5VGA-GpTYTZGC1b1AUhpKZgcZ27M-VuWdxAZhvgMGzgs1sXkEquqbXiOb2rRLjK3CGqjylz6qkfe0fhvgQhn-pepb1EmrxWKvAIR95AeGT8mc338ygyLQe_2mdl2c9n3Biew/s1600/scarybook4.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mAV8y6a5VGA-GpTYTZGC1b1AUhpKZgcZ27M-VuWdxAZhvgMGzgs1sXkEquqbXiOb2rRLjK3CGqjylz6qkfe0fhvgQhn-pepb1EmrxWKvAIR95AeGT8mc338ygyLQe_2mdl2c9n3Biew/s400/scarybook4.png" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"> "I HAVE DOGS. I COULD HAVE A HUSBAND. I HAVE A LIVING ROOM. SHIT, SHIT SHIT." I curled tighter and tighter into the fetal position, covers securely tucked around me as I tried to put down the book and take some calming breaths. But the masochist in me needed to know what happened to the children! (Hint: they didn't make it.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"> Three hours later, I was still awake, ears perked for any signs of dead bodies dragging themselves through foliage. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQXJm7UQ5d97kVziEuKOyp8thU9sSVr9IqD0kUShjSvUr0Vkv6KhaCGjZMX_QqdvOwlrawa_pRCGH8k9rwAMF9e7PTBIuptXukhAOP5F1SiiTB2etISihJ00ggEYgG1wSoRbRgnFam11Q/s1600/scarybook5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQXJm7UQ5d97kVziEuKOyp8thU9sSVr9IqD0kUShjSvUr0Vkv6KhaCGjZMX_QqdvOwlrawa_pRCGH8k9rwAMF9e7PTBIuptXukhAOP5F1SiiTB2etISihJ00ggEYgG1wSoRbRgnFam11Q/s400/scarybook5.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I AM NEVER GOING TO SLEEP AGAIN."</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> You should try sleeping sometime while your adrenaline spikes because you can't stop obsessively planning out how you'd hold off the living room so that your puppy can survive. Optimally on a night when you have work the next day. Then, if your boss asks you why you're so sleepy, you can try and think of an excuse to tell her, or at least something that makes you seem less insane than "I was worried the zombies would eat me."</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-91627761783746434252011-07-30T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-30T06:00:07.745-07:00Harem Pants, Je Vous Déteste<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://www.homorazzi.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/09/harem-pants.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Harem pants are dumb, and the silhouette looks awful. There is no simpler way to put it. Best case scenario, you come out looking like Aladdin. My friend Stefany, who has an eye for such things, (by which I mean 1) trends, and 2) people who should be relentlessly mocked) once described harem pants by saying that it looked like they pooped their pants. Ever since then, the idea was stuck in my head. For the rest of my time in France, when I'd see an otherwise-chic girl on the street with a cool attitude, I would see her harem pants and involuntarily envision that her diaper was getting a little too heavy and needed a change. It can really ruin a fashionista's mystique. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Try imagining it! It makes street fashion pictures approximately 85.346% more amusing:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfE0A_rE-GfIvcg9oCk6Eli1sOAzDv91sYRN5w0DnDnuf0cSWFV60-xqKnbnfLIc0QoHqWxc6RJERje7LGs0bhOdGB5N6mp0J6Ih59s0Swz40tOmEBUy0d6xocRR3aFtE2UNl_UNO4A88/s1600/jac-model-paris-fashion-week-2010-4a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfE0A_rE-GfIvcg9oCk6Eli1sOAzDv91sYRN5w0DnDnuf0cSWFV60-xqKnbnfLIc0QoHqWxc6RJERje7LGs0bhOdGB5N6mp0J6Ih59s0Swz40tOmEBUy0d6xocRR3aFtE2UNl_UNO4A88/s400/jac-model-paris-fashion-week-2010-4a.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She knows what she did.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-62877982124731601952011-07-28T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-28T06:00:05.796-07:00My Top 10 Wine-Related Moments in France<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhWk7J1yqcqB5QknuyEl48zksNvBG85AkWvBk2kDVRF8uzcIBp_OaE_AtSbkCOyogrjW6Kb0E60VPtHys3azZ4fU8LIlgx84jBtnIsc0Xc2C02k7MO-wfZ-LmrEn1jIK_8Z5PVhuLaFs/s1600/636x460design_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhWk7J1yqcqB5QknuyEl48zksNvBG85AkWvBk2kDVRF8uzcIBp_OaE_AtSbkCOyogrjW6Kb0E60VPtHys3azZ4fU8LIlgx84jBtnIsc0Xc2C02k7MO-wfZ-LmrEn1jIK_8Z5PVhuLaFs/s320/636x460design_01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A French Army Knife. (Get it? Get it?)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">10) </span></b>Getting enthusiastic and knowledgeable wine recommendations from <a href="http://fashionmefrench.blogspot.com/2011/03/excursions-in-mustard-ville.html">total strangers</a> in the supermarket. On a regular basis.<br />
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</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">9)</span></b> Drinking wine in a metro stop on Saint Patrick's Day with all my friends.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3393/3600387574_01714d8e64.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">8)</span></b> Trivia Tuesdays at The Smoking Dog, one of the best pubs in Vieux Lyon.<br />
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</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">7) </span></b>The <a href="http://fashionmefrench.blogspot.com/2011/01/leave-it-to-french-to-create-mob-over.html">Beaujolais Festival</a> in Lyon.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Xs_mydAG4lsdDq83toeqUnUmdAIjrbhjzG7nzV33a8zLh7mYd8H9BHk-FDIWL2hQEOY7K4R5EeZFXDVNBkQVzkPn-of07jUZuhKPm1vL0dNtDsBSw5X143RznA-MkTJYEWcIm79lu9s/s1600/088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Xs_mydAG4lsdDq83toeqUnUmdAIjrbhjzG7nzV33a8zLh7mYd8H9BHk-FDIWL2hQEOY7K4R5EeZFXDVNBkQVzkPn-of07jUZuhKPm1vL0dNtDsBSw5X143RznA-MkTJYEWcIm79lu9s/s400/088.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Easily-thrown together picnic lunch of brie, baguette, muscat, fois gras, and Maille mustard from Dijon. </td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">6) </span></b>Discovering the complimentary combination of fois gras and muscat, and then sharing it with all my visiting American friends. Highly recommended: fried fois gras with rock salt sprinkled on top. As if it really needed to get more unhealthy for you.<br />
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</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">5) </span></b>Two completely free, massive-scale <a href="http://fashionmefrench.blogspot.com/2011/01/fois-gras-champagne-and-awkward-facial.html">wine exhibitions</a> where I bought tons of wine for Christmas presents, sampled so many wines that I actually had to start spitting them all out, became ridiculously, pleasantly drunk anyway, and happily munched on all the gourmet free samples of snacks that one could wish for.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4oqugjN8BiEMnLplnmzgzSJo9vLlG2ppeWYBqhJxXVRbgd7KyBZaoM0KSDQ_m-YGNfqTKgE7TtRI9EhEoShOyA6mPxA85TXTG9NN6TWyH_wWaBV3jl0Yqj4qGfBkWuWieI7qxt0nEeSA/s1600/283.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4oqugjN8BiEMnLplnmzgzSJo9vLlG2ppeWYBqhJxXVRbgd7KyBZaoM0KSDQ_m-YGNfqTKgE7TtRI9EhEoShOyA6mPxA85TXTG9NN6TWyH_wWaBV3jl0Yqj4qGfBkWuWieI7qxt0nEeSA/s400/283.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The vineyard we tasted at in Beaujolais</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHuTzcvlSjrgjSl0iPwKVS6UVb4ORbbWaKc2prARySbVrwB_N4TRaVhLYhI08IzJHMcFSY4glSPQBSriTaeOt3UJ0Hrv6sCq98XG2v2uSHdZ_-YcAUm3kphmXSl-riB2V2UXYCejlZzEA/s1600/287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHuTzcvlSjrgjSl0iPwKVS6UVb4ORbbWaKc2prARySbVrwB_N4TRaVhLYhI08IzJHMcFSY4glSPQBSriTaeOt3UJ0Hrv6sCq98XG2v2uSHdZ_-YcAUm3kphmXSl-riB2V2UXYCejlZzEA/s400/287.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stefany and I sampling some Beaujolais grapes because we were starving during the tour</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVIz336NTs3il6IpFE7PmL4SwlPk_G1h-6SeaOWlsAWF5s0bAFQx5MGoySgHr5xS9oFPNxnYVlvjYNPv1lYS-5IxpFnvwJAQDLKhv-HgpxbHQjw_0oPxd2ZpMWOEDrya_wn00lrGszo4/s1600/292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVVIz336NTs3il6IpFE7PmL4SwlPk_G1h-6SeaOWlsAWF5s0bAFQx5MGoySgHr5xS9oFPNxnYVlvjYNPv1lYS-5IxpFnvwJAQDLKhv-HgpxbHQjw_0oPxd2ZpMWOEDrya_wn00lrGszo4/s400/292.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The neighboring towwn of Beaujeu</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">4) </span></b>Wine tasting in the Beaujolais area, one of the southern appellations of the Burgundy region of France. Only a 45 minute drive away from Lyon!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpWC0zsTjREuOn1RDv9i7RMSlsl40Kh-AcWvahHe0KYed1zDdU3VKnRXlxecjIJ1LxAr2TPDwyLRYbnTilIzNvg00m7k_aDiOGDfUIpKD1hLD4mfbPC57sXCktMmRnkP35p23oOBOa2s/s1600/459.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpWC0zsTjREuOn1RDv9i7RMSlsl40Kh-AcWvahHe0KYed1zDdU3VKnRXlxecjIJ1LxAr2TPDwyLRYbnTilIzNvg00m7k_aDiOGDfUIpKD1hLD4mfbPC57sXCktMmRnkP35p23oOBOa2s/s400/459.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chateau Villandry, famous for it's amazing (and extensive) gardens</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">3) </span></b>Wine tasting in the Loire Valley with my tour group, between chateau tours.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCRdMSPzZvjp2yn_dkGTzk1auLsXLxxusewPAQbRS8wgxBW74_l4qn7msJhGOafzwalb6Ogy9LAKRAGXmK2rxKKvqpeJ44Q53LGhJD8-WzcVyAh7UcPGyFtGc7u_MEVmjQgUmfQvCLDq8/s1600/733.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCRdMSPzZvjp2yn_dkGTzk1auLsXLxxusewPAQbRS8wgxBW74_l4qn7msJhGOafzwalb6Ogy9LAKRAGXmK2rxKKvqpeJ44Q53LGhJD8-WzcVyAh7UcPGyFtGc7u_MEVmjQgUmfQvCLDq8/s400/733.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My favorite champagne tasting at Mumm.</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>2)</b></span> Champagne tasting in Reims, one of the most important cities of the Champagne region in France.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO9EJb1qpi8_8FDul47pFekle21LYfY9DlJMELrJFRvAzHEdWrSlIyelit0N0MqNHbk4cayiP-bNJLQH3fKORAcGbbCBW6vaMP5-1b3-AsWsV2iyjHswk9_9Sy0ubqx2P6wcJisle8OOg/s1600/107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO9EJb1qpi8_8FDul47pFekle21LYfY9DlJMELrJFRvAzHEdWrSlIyelit0N0MqNHbk4cayiP-bNJLQH3fKORAcGbbCBW6vaMP5-1b3-AsWsV2iyjHswk9_9Sy0ubqx2P6wcJisle8OOg/s400/107.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The oyster farms on the coast, right next to the restaurant</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>1)</b> </span>Fresh oysters with white wine in a tiny sea-side village outside of Bordeaux.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">Individual posts about my top three coming soon!</div></div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-80347462233399323642011-07-26T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-26T06:00:11.757-07:00Haute Couture in Paris<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Alexis Mabille Fall 2011 Couture" src="http://www.style.com/slideshows/2011/fashionshows/F2011CTR/AMABILLE/RUNWAY/00230m.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alexis Mabille Fall 2011 Collection</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> One of the many reasons Paris is such a remarkable city and such an important cultural landmark is because it is the only city that has ever really mastered haute couture, the extravagant, luxurious fashion which is designed only by the best and fitted personally to each client. The only customers keeping couture in business, literally the only people who can afford it, are movie stars and Arabian royalty. New York, London and Milan each showcase ready-to-wear, which is couture's cheaper, more casual counterpart. Ready-to-wear is what is sold in designer boutiques in designated sizes like "normal" clothes. But Paris is the only place where couture is created and shown.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://blog.metmuseum.org/alexandermcqueen/images/9.McQueenBlackDuckFeathersFall2009-10.L.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alexander McQueen Met Exhibit</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> "So what?" you may be asking. The idea of uber-fancy dresses for uber-rich people probably has no bearing on your daily life. And why should it? Isn't it just a shameless indulgence participated in by the kinds of people who dye their dogs to match their outfits? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> To me, this would be viewing couture in the wrong light, in a way which cheats both it and you. Couture isn't about being bought. In fact, it's so labor intensive that it rarely makes a profit and is created solely to celebrate the craft. Ready-to-wear is what sells. Couture is what <i>inspires</i>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC5nVgdexKK4nHWRtVMxS3zlNz55r6-70zqIErOqts7w1bb9yNOVNmsSxVDI-bljB97tbUsB0m6RRfofD4r3JWWje7vSBo676WpwOW8yeHSN2Pw6-ql7TWcXJSph8c4b8cRZ5Fyk8doLc/s1600/main_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC5nVgdexKK4nHWRtVMxS3zlNz55r6-70zqIErOqts7w1bb9yNOVNmsSxVDI-bljB97tbUsB0m6RRfofD4r3JWWje7vSBo676WpwOW8yeHSN2Pw6-ql7TWcXJSph8c4b8cRZ5Fyk8doLc/s400/main_image.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alexander McQueen</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Don't view couture as a commodity. Rather, view it as art. Couture fashion shows are like trips to a museum, where you go to be touched, to feel awe, where things that you didn't know could be created are sewn and paraded down runways like dreams come to life. If you've ever stared in admiration at a painting or a sculpture, if a movie or a book has ever left you in a state of quiet introspection, if you've ever sat in nature or looked at an urban skyline at sunset and you've felt wonder, then you can appreciate couture as well. In it's purest form, it's a celebration of feminine beauty, meant to enrich the soul.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://blog.metmuseum.org/alexandermcqueen/images/5.McQueenRed,VOSS2001.L.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the Alexander McQueen Exhibition at the Met</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> Recently I read the book <i>Almost French</i>, by Sarah Turnbull, an Australian journalist who moved to Paris and for one magazine ended up covering her first couture show. She says,<span class="Apple-style-span"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">“...Every moment was spellbinding. I loved the thrill of seeing these mad, amazing clothes swish past my feet, the deliriously imaginative setting that made it seem like high theater rather than a fashion show. I adored the champagne, the extravagance.... The urge to touch is overwhelming. This is not fashion. This is fairyland. Inspiring. Moving. Magical.... A showcase for wild creativity and craftsmanship… I'm awed by the mastery of technique that underpins haute couture. Its importance goes far beyond providing Oscar-night outfits to Hollywood stars. Rather haute couture is about history and tradition, passion and beauty, art and inspiration--everything that makes France a measure of civilized life."</span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
<o:p></o:p></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://blog.metmuseum.org/alexandermcqueen/images/11.McQueenAW2002-03OysterDress.L.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alexander McQueen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-13898214111360135352011-07-24T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-24T06:00:08.204-07:00How to Dress in France, Part 2<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUzvYLqghapLmp7KbiqxPxtZlp3-ksv6HaO96VMURjEuR04rj2xr5rE2anU39NbUgs2BV0krL1wjaysrxE6qeObxz7DWputr6lrF6ktlrO_3o1s5X9HfGNqK_N6JjTJ0px_IWSIt7_q9E/s1600/Picture+7.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUzvYLqghapLmp7KbiqxPxtZlp3-ksv6HaO96VMURjEuR04rj2xr5rE2anU39NbUgs2BV0krL1wjaysrxE6qeObxz7DWputr6lrF6ktlrO_3o1s5X9HfGNqK_N6JjTJ0px_IWSIt7_q9E/s400/Picture+7.png" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A photo shoot on Ave Montaigne</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"> So maybe you think you know French fashion. You've heard about those couture shows, you have an idea of sleek, impeccably tailored models strutting down Avenue Montaigne in Paris, and you know your Coco Chanel from your Louis Vuitton. But I guarantee you, you can buy all the French brand names you want, but you won't look truly French until you know the one golden rule: </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dress completely, batshit-insane in regards to what the weather looks like outside or what season it is. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">Trust me. You want to look French, don't you?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">Typical French Person in Spring:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://hipparis.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/beret.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="266" /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">Typical French Person in Summer:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://hipparis.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/beret.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="266" /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">Typical French Person in Fall:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://hipparis.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/beret.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="266" /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">Typical French Person in Winter:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://hipparis.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/beret.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="266" /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"> Any French person will condescendingly tell you that shorts are for <i>tourists</i>, as they delicately shudder and try not to think of all the fanny packs and socks-with-sandals they witnessed last year. Was that you wearing a tank top in summer? Putting away your scarves and unlayering your multiple cardigans? Oh you poor, ignorant <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">bébé</span></i>. Shame on you for not wanting to sweat, all day, everyday, and especially on the metro. Your duty as a faux-French citizen is to stick it out in wool leggings lest you develop some sort of tan. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"> What's that? Is it freezing in a snow storm in the dead of winter? And you want to wear a giant coat? <i>Non, non, non!</i> Your flimsy leather bomber jacket and a kerchief around your neck should do the trick. Your smugness in the knowledge that you look good will toast you right up! And just think about all the calories all that shivering will burn! </div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-31815965017235129672011-07-22T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-22T06:00:18.707-07:00How to Dress in France<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlS56FDitqFL9Z-5FBrThvD7ZcgPb2et2lcTBynigwMR78RCx_7uW1Ns6Dt0Dpl5KZnoilYK6u1rpO_x296BZ0qAC36hdwOtwws6uePnV7iGbYqilgO2WLFqWRkzEl5m7IV0M73p59xWM/s1600/0907-vo-we002-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlS56FDitqFL9Z-5FBrThvD7ZcgPb2et2lcTBynigwMR78RCx_7uW1Ns6Dt0Dpl5KZnoilYK6u1rpO_x296BZ0qAC36hdwOtwws6uePnV7iGbYqilgO2WLFqWRkzEl5m7IV0M73p59xWM/s400/0907-vo-we002-01.jpg" width="291" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you want to look French, it helps to have a little fluffy dog. Bonus points if he knows how to play checkers.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> If you have ever lived abroad or spent some time in another country, then you've probably faced the rather dismaying experience of walking into a store, restaurant, or some such public forum, and then having someone speak to you in English, <i>before you even open your mouth</i>. Sometimes it may be to patronizingly offer directions (in your native tongue, which is intended to only deepen the burn), and other times it may be an attempt to be helpful so that the Poor Tourist doesn't have to slaughter the subtle French "r" sound, which sounds like instant sexiness when a French person does it, but rather like gurgling mouthwash when Americans try. Perhaps before you were greeted, you were about to start speaking in French. Perhaps you <i>live </i>in that town. Perhaps your French is even better than the heavily-accented English you were just assaulted with. Yet despite any linguistic skills you may possess, you cannot help but reach the conclusion that storekeepers and servers across the nation are still able to identify you instantly as Most Definitely Not French. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "How?!" you may be asking yourself. "Is it something about me? Is it how I look? How I dress?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Yes. Yes it is. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="320" src="http://fashionbombdaily.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/sweatpants-and-uggs.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="220" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">American fashion.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lh6t2v5vY31qg3mfmo1_500.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="289" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">French fashion.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><br />
</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b>How to Tell if You Are Dressed Appropriately in France: </b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Answer honestly to get an effective evaluation of your wardrobe.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1) Are you comfortable? </span>The correct answer should be "no." End of quiz. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> If the answer is "yes," try again. Put on some higher shoes, some tighter leather leggings, some more scarves to get tangled in your shoulder bag, and cinch that belt a few more notches around the small of your waist. If you are unable to breathe or walk, you probably look French. If you are unable to eat, this is considered an extreme bonus. Your thighs should be looking more French within the month. For bonus French cred, spritz some eau de cigarette smoke and try to look bored and faintly hostile towards other women.</div></div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-68733030451047499222011-07-20T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-26T23:16:58.234-07:00What I've Learned from Living in France<ul><li>Middle school students are demons who really like the soothing sounds of Usher and disobeying authority figures.</li>
<li>How to finally tell military time without first staring at the numbers for two minutes too long, like an idiot.</li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="245" src="http://www.verdon-en-provence.com/villages/img/allemagne-en-provence1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, I'll take it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul><li>The Provence region and the South of France are incredibly charming and the perfect location for my fantasy dream cottage and/or ch<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><em style="font-style: normal;">â</em></span>te</span>au. Fantasy vineyard optional.</li>
<li>Fois gras is the best thing in the world.</li>
<li>Frog legs are not.</li>
<li>If you're not from New York, California, or Las Vegas, French people don't care where you're from.</li>
<li>If you're a size 8 in the US, you're a size 39 in European shoes.</li>
<li>90% of the French population firmly believes Miami is in California. They will not believe you when you try to convince them otherwise.</li>
<li>Marseille is actually French for "anticlimactic." </li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicVWUkn04FS42SGakXb05Kr5a-FdHtfG1vmx9PmNKGgRXmzLqqOBawN_p2B_lGC0O9pLUqmrE16jd7quv9I69kdIfZYOVrWBLpNyUXg2k-AVFiKbXELy_FT0c7cDhJys1LCiF-Fc3K_lo/s1600/310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicVWUkn04FS42SGakXb05Kr5a-FdHtfG1vmx9PmNKGgRXmzLqqOBawN_p2B_lGC0O9pLUqmrE16jd7quv9I69kdIfZYOVrWBLpNyUXg2k-AVFiKbXELy_FT0c7cDhJys1LCiF-Fc3K_lo/s400/310.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me in front of C<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">h</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><em style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">â</span></em></span></span>teau Chenonceau</td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul><li>Which French monarchs built castles where</li>
<li>How to craft a lesson plan LIKE A BOSS</li>
<li>Jack Daniels is incredibly expensive, as if it were a fine brandy. Though equally disgusting to me, those of you who enjoy fine brandy may feel a little cheated at the cost of imported Jack.</li>
<li><a href="http://fashionmefrench.blogspot.com/2011/01/obviously-i-keep-cool-head-in-stressful.html">How to duck awkward, cross-cultural advances</a></li>
<li>Trains are incredibly cheap for people with the "Under Age 25" card. Some stores even have under 25 discounts.</li>
<li>How to walk in heels in snow</li>
</ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBTM8_9b7Zc9xyFiO5J4Wiw4af1cv95k2xIUCrct1ckDHSEwFMw_Frl-hES10aODkfhTs-AS4qD3AZX3pYsGTL4V6jIavXuLEHXfUzXnNZnSM96BQdRpHVVkdKZzU4fgc62xV5yJOlSmI/s1600/321.5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBTM8_9b7Zc9xyFiO5J4Wiw4af1cv95k2xIUCrct1ckDHSEwFMw_Frl-hES10aODkfhTs-AS4qD3AZX3pYsGTL4V6jIavXuLEHXfUzXnNZnSM96BQdRpHVVkdKZzU4fgc62xV5yJOlSmI/s320/321.5.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wine tasting in the Loire Valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table><ul><li>How to taste wine (Smell, swirl, smell again, and then taste first in the front of your mouth, swallow, the back of your mouth, swallow, and then in the back with your mouth slightly open to let the air hit it.)</li>
<li><a href="http://fashionmefrench.blogspot.com/2011/02/perils-of-language-barrier.html">How to say tampon in French</a></li>
<li>That I cannot survive without Mexican food. At all. For longer than 3 weeks. It was a pathetic show of endurance in the face of faux-hardship.</li>
<li>All the words to "Celui," by Colonel Reyel:</li>
</ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/KyXW64L-XZA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-28772923933784479652011-07-18T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-18T06:00:10.819-07:00Midnight in Paris<div style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://www.alltimesoundtrack.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/Midnight-in-Paris-Movie-soundtracks.jpg" width="270" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> <i> </i>If you're enchanted by the idea of Paris, or if you've ever wished that you could party with some of the great Parisian artistic and literary circles of 1920's, <i>Midnight in Paris </i>is the film for you. After a lengthy opening sequence of the most picturesque spots in the city, you get to go on all sorts of decadent adventures through time with the main character, Gil, who is in modern day Paris with his fiancee by day and who somehow magically slips back in time at night to meet all the expats he idolizes. By catching a ride in an antique taxi at the stroke of midnight, he finds himself drinking with Hemingway, philosophizing with Dali, and conversing with the Fitzgeralds to the songs of Cole Porter. He's whisked to smokey jazz bars, he's escorted into the home of Gertrude Stein, and he even feels himself drawn to Picasso's mistress as they stroll through parks full of horse-drawn carriages, covered with incandescent, white Christmas lights. Brought back to reality by the light of day, Gil becomes increasingly torn between living in the present to which he's accustomed, or the far more glamorous past. It soon becomes necessary for him to figure out how much of nostalgia is truth and how much is fantasy, and to which world he belongs. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVb_Jbtn5vbch1fIPLg_b4vh4RHCYyrxcz08__Md7Nz1RETo2lBGxKq0sTXG4Y9-lrC9GEsLyjnynR-5v2KvMaHpI5NLnAqJk2T25yXgYNaG8-cAWGgpxHziK7JkkMH7iMMJ1jAAd9G-o/s400/fitzgeralds_midnight+in+paris.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> I loved this movie not only for the premise, but for the characters. Everyone was cast exactly right, playing their roles precisely as how you'd imagine the infamous personalities to have been. The only drawback is that if you're not familiar with any of these celebrities of the past or a few of their works, there are no clues to help you, and you'll miss out on the jokes. I loved Adrien Brody as Dali, obsessed with rhinoceroses and pronouncing his own name. But my all-time favorite was Corey Stoll as Hemingway, who gave long soliloquies full of quotes such as, "It was a good book because it was an honest book, and that's what war does to men. And there's nothing fine and noble about dying in the mud unless you die gracefully. And then it's noble but brave." It was of course delivered with the rough-edged, pompous minimalism that makes Hemingway's stories so great.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcpuL3YvhzfpiAj9DelqNBWgJsTNdVVyevuXmlYmndsT9I5t_84tu-8LbRRN9caZkAGg_LxdlcXrRJq17bp6EIGrDG-JmaVfEo6VCfWmzhPQyW-peWinvoYxKsP4Iknhr4g8d6QBKWcI4v/s400/dali.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dali</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> Worst case scenario, if you hate the movie, you could at least benefit from some of Hemingway's ridiculously macho pick-up lines. Swaggering drunkenly, he approaches Picasso's mistress: </div><div><br />
</div><div> "Have you ever shot a charging lion in the <i>face</i>?" <div><br />
</div><div> "...No."</div><div><br />
</div><div> "Would you like to know how that feels?"</div><div><br />
</div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://media.knoxville.com/media/img/photos/2011/06/08/061011stoll_t607.jpg" style="cursor: move; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="266" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Hemingway</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: center;">Ah, Hemingway, you will forever rest tenderly in my heart as my favorite eloquent dickhead misogynist. </div></div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-8393191315700217382011-07-16T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-16T06:00:10.876-07:00Why I Miss France: Reason #4<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmv9XlyYj1nzPy5NL4rBFfQTAOI7jq3aC_bVJ3iD29fTLANI9La18QZ3AlHylNjhBxJjQfSPODdnz-xquU0W6wyb4ZsuGb4oMcOQ0YLiG-vb3PwEEVtYEishBidlSXwWxl5tRjCipOZuw/s1600/tumblr_ljb4cm5ncU1qz4d4bo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmv9XlyYj1nzPy5NL4rBFfQTAOI7jq3aC_bVJ3iD29fTLANI9La18QZ3AlHylNjhBxJjQfSPODdnz-xquU0W6wyb4ZsuGb4oMcOQ0YLiG-vb3PwEEVtYEishBidlSXwWxl5tRjCipOZuw/s400/tumblr_ljb4cm5ncU1qz4d4bo1_500.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oui, s'il vous pl<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">a<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><em style="font-style: normal; font-weight: bold;">î</em></span></span>t. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> Missing France because of crepes is honestly just me being lazy. While I was abroad, I learned how to make a mean crepe for breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner, so if the urge ever strikes me with, well... urgency, I can whip up a batch and find some Nutella and some bananas. But I also enjoy the easy availability of them being sold on every street corner, and the valiant crepe-vendor in Vieux Lyon who was <i>always </i>outside selling his wares, no matter if it was raining or snowing, or even midnight, which is drastically late hours for food in French culture. I miss jolly, mustached Frenchmen trying to guess if I want apricot preserves or something more drastic<i> en flamb</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">é</span></em></span>, with his predictions based on my outfit. (Apparently something about my scarf causes me to resemble an apricot kind of girl.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugu5shwhY5xGFlnK9RlghxmhZuCqK6qRgNyBgWbnxwPo9qkAYVQIrkHn75lk12daXD67w9T3Z_3WklgIYyu8nBjD_xUkWsRQXBOuBAS1ZdGDTp3wYPQKPRQ2IW_ap1stXPhI5GTLH8XI/s1600/115.5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugu5shwhY5xGFlnK9RlghxmhZuCqK6qRgNyBgWbnxwPo9qkAYVQIrkHn75lk12daXD67w9T3Z_3WklgIYyu8nBjD_xUkWsRQXBOuBAS1ZdGDTp3wYPQKPRQ2IW_ap1stXPhI5GTLH8XI/s400/115.5.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A delicious but tragically over-priced crepe by a cafe outside Notre Dame in Paris.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> Although crepes can sometimes cost far more than they should, whether they're stuffed with ham and cheese or some fresh whipped <i>chantilly</i>, another wonderful thing about France is that if you go to a cafe and eat one by yourself, you're not the social leper you might be branded in America. In France, loners eat at cafes all the time, reading, thinking, or possibly even blogging. Rather than seeming solitary, they come off more as artistic, perhaps planning their next novel or composing a concerto, or at the very least brooding over some romance. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://assets0.lookatme.ru/assets/article_image-image/ef/33/183995/article_image-image-article.jpg?1232753821" width="294" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I wish I had a glass of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><em style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Côtes du Rhône</span></em></span>, a book, and a huge crepe on my plate, and a great view on the other side of my cafe window, where people could walk by and I could callously judge them based on their shoes. The caliber of people-watching here is just not the same. Perhaps that should be Why I Miss France #5?</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-26782014234642622912011-07-14T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-14T06:00:08.996-07:00Why I Miss France: Reason #3<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kz2dgabgMKTahDrHd7rEnx01EpNmgvSjZLi8ZmN4pWnHlCGkTv4s7hWjBoY_KLTrSSV69su0xBbgSwsZrl8xh2Og_D1XK6g3SntrWCoNlxkX3rHUPMPzHUH2M9ZT2FuzgHn5W9UVb5k/s1600/054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kz2dgabgMKTahDrHd7rEnx01EpNmgvSjZLi8ZmN4pWnHlCGkTv4s7hWjBoY_KLTrSSV69su0xBbgSwsZrl8xh2Og_D1XK6g3SntrWCoNlxkX3rHUPMPzHUH2M9ZT2FuzgHn5W9UVb5k/s400/054.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the busy streets in the medieval part of town, Vieux Lyon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> Although I didn't realize how much I treasured it at the time, I miss the French language. (Finally. Something on the list which is not food.) I studied French originally because I thought it was the prettiest language I'd ever heard, and living there only made me agree more. When I would walk down the crowded, urban streets of Lyon, I would be surrounded by all the French conversations around me, and I often shamelessly spent most of my commute eavesdropping on other people's conversations to practice my comprehension skills. Not only was my nosiness justified, I got to feel smarter just by keeping my ears open and my brain immersed. Although I have a hefty amount of French films on my Netflix queue now to fill the void, I'm afraid it's just not the same.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> But if you need any proof that the language is romantic, full of entrancing subtlety and sexiness, I offer you proof in the form of actor Bradley Cooper speaking French. Because <i>oui</i>, he speaks French, in addition to being well-dressed, handsome, and rich. What an overachiever. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/hdsoFZxk7DU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-84949134304958723262011-07-12T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-12T06:00:03.303-07:00Why I Miss France: Reason #2<div style="text-align: justify;"> Granted, there are some things France is missing out on: Dino chicken nuggets, Target, 24 hour breakfast restaurants, decent return policies, and Annie's Organic Bunny Fruit Snacks, just to name a few. But if I had to name something that France got absolutely, 100% right, it would be pastries.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7fGiHyXek9XNsNPrRXOXRSV6SP0ttoE-i3Hw7p55dUswuIac3t5Iafk_-3NhTEEqnampgbc_nhnnfOyJH0i8pHlRCz_e1__a04pCkY4MVTdDW4W6cGT6ByGDC9ALd0jSvBPxvrjmp9c/s1600/tumblr_ll3fdl2c7M1qz4d4bo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7fGiHyXek9XNsNPrRXOXRSV6SP0ttoE-i3Hw7p55dUswuIac3t5Iafk_-3NhTEEqnampgbc_nhnnfOyJH0i8pHlRCz_e1__a04pCkY4MVTdDW4W6cGT6ByGDC9ALd0jSvBPxvrjmp9c/s400/tumblr_ll3fdl2c7M1qz4d4bo1_500.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nutella-stuff croissants. Only one of many good French, carb-themed inventions.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"> Before France, I didn't know that eclairs could be filled with mousse so light and fluffy that it would make me want to cry in delight. I didn't know that macaroons could be soft, or that so many different pastries could come in pistachio flavor. I didn't even know what a praline was, much less how it could be cooked into a tart. (It's a nut covered in a sugary syrup, by the way.) And now that I know, I don't want to go back, though I do wish my waistline would recede a little.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigqF7bw3Aw9QhOXXZtSWEFnyV2L7SBQfHYDu1sQJjinU-LaxOxifHtyClbWtzslhekpcru9IC_9GMrfIwfH4JlX1UvClA10sO5egncpoKi1RSJKWKs78EuBL_pPZKk8Z9BcIuJ6jCF48A/s1600/100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigqF7bw3Aw9QhOXXZtSWEFnyV2L7SBQfHYDu1sQJjinU-LaxOxifHtyClbWtzslhekpcru9IC_9GMrfIwfH4JlX1UvClA10sO5egncpoKi1RSJKWKs78EuBL_pPZKk8Z9BcIuJ6jCF48A/s320/100.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bakery in Lyon. On the far left, those would be raspberry-flavored macaroons stuffed with fresh raspberries. <i>SO GOOD.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxDPEFA1ziKq_7PEvkwzsvLbVyVcfcSdLx0u1uJ_i554OMxiQda4pdHAvCp7Ihd1Y4SPrNqwUhXs0nOPj5HcXvoMwiIGytTVS4wc5Imn5HT-GZdx8FmuH4NBNAqs3ArzyFJWYO6coVuQM/s1600/791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxDPEFA1ziKq_7PEvkwzsvLbVyVcfcSdLx0u1uJ_i554OMxiQda4pdHAvCp7Ihd1Y4SPrNqwUhXs0nOPj5HcXvoMwiIGytTVS4wc5Imn5HT-GZdx8FmuH4NBNAqs3ArzyFJWYO6coVuQM/s320/791.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fruit tart from Lyon.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"> That tart was from the bakery across the street from my apartment. You know, just the sort of run-of-the-mill <i>patisserie </i>that's on every street corner. The sort of thing you can take for granted when you live in the culinary capital of the world. Now, in California, I live next to a bunch of other houses, and a field. Nothing is within walking distance, and I cannot think of a single bakery closer than one an hour away in San Francisco. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"> Excuse me while I sigh wistfully and drool.</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-32834777015812386102011-07-10T06:00:00.000-07:002011-07-10T06:00:10.852-07:00Why I Miss France: Reason #1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizsifSKsRIJQ-vOIPfwadgoIGNxrC5VKxt0ieWzObcKNF3B5RVG999vc1w0a_o3vVy2X5HNrL6-KN0xXFZskZqZpUBr4bwiLqBtX3AklvRLydcLac05TWcjJnIGdozdwzHjQ7id7WEDSE/s1600/tumblr_ljvdmnnyc81qz4d4bo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizsifSKsRIJQ-vOIPfwadgoIGNxrC5VKxt0ieWzObcKNF3B5RVG999vc1w0a_o3vVy2X5HNrL6-KN0xXFZskZqZpUBr4bwiLqBtX3AklvRLydcLac05TWcjJnIGdozdwzHjQ7id7WEDSE/s400/tumblr_ljvdmnnyc81qz4d4bo1_500.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"> The cheese. Oh god, the cheese.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Not only were an extreme variety of high-quality cheeses inexpensive, they were easily found everywhere, whether at the rare grocery store or the much more common <i>fromagerie. </i>If you went to a French person's house, there was guaranteed to be a cheese course, which I always looked forward to with pleasure, even if I acted like a nonchalant asshole accustomed to luxurious cheese and said pretentious things like "Ah, this wine it makes a fine pairing." The American in me, used to Kraft-level, transfat-infested cheese was "teehee!"-ing like a three year old and fighting the temptation to stuff some in my fake Prada bag.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> There was the gruyere which covered the croque monsieurs, the emmental (actually from Switzerland, but <i>shhhhh</i>) grated into a big pile and thrown into scrambled eggs in the morning, or the heavenly <i>ch<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">è</span></span></i><i>vre chaud</i>, or hot goat cheese, sometimes lightly fried, always heavenly, and completely unlike Greek or American feta cheese for reasons I'm powerless to describe as I salivate. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCCvah-CLRCYST5NWjPlY9w83zYULzP8d2aiVp1GVFLOvuBSBXJuG_Ux1rSnRuwSO-2VFCJxR4YOlRdrc5MiKG95Aq9fNTiAyHyl2cWIzZwcTJxopwDSqd3bgnyOO0FomaPCM1sV_tBBA/s1600/511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCCvah-CLRCYST5NWjPlY9w83zYULzP8d2aiVp1GVFLOvuBSBXJuG_Ux1rSnRuwSO-2VFCJxR4YOlRdrc5MiKG95Aq9fNTiAyHyl2cWIzZwcTJxopwDSqd3bgnyOO0FomaPCM1sV_tBBA/s320/511.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A delicious <i>chevre </i>salad I had in Amboise, which I will never forget. :(</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span"> I'm powerless to do anything but prowl the fine cheese aisles of Whole Foods in search of overpriced French import cheese to slake my proverbial cheese-thirst. (In retrospect, I could have just said hunger, to simply things, but for some reason I really felt a need for that metaphor.) Until I find my </span><i>ch<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">è</span></span></i><i>vre chaud </i>substitute, I'll be dipping my strawberries in Nutella, pathetically longing for the food in my pictures, hoping that each crepe I cook and consume will banish some of my cheese-nostalgia away.</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-21843193678887276232011-07-07T23:55:00.000-07:002011-07-07T23:56:02.688-07:00The Things You Miss When You're in France<div style="text-align: justify;"> When I first got back to the US at the end of April, I was excited, happy, and ready to be home. I had a really cute puppy on the way, friends, boyfriend, and family to see, Vegas plans to plan, an iPhone which I very much missed using, and the entire genre of Mexican food to be reacquainted with. As a matter of fact, when I had a layover in Washington DC, I ran to the nearest mediocre Tex Mex place that I could find for anything with beans and cheese and wrapped in a tortilla as soon as my passport was stamped.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Wd-HNQ23w7IH4euqaZCDKge3kHb45KlHE5fNgf3ud6KuF2xdEF4lEiDBRYzIjaZ3aIb09xZXe3mHShrssQUe4alL4p8zbGxSc0SLtqU3fqczseKHiSfZwIZxlQ91zJo1PoHYls78hrQ/s1600/230814_1881920620186_1606461233_1780997_6639501_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Wd-HNQ23w7IH4euqaZCDKge3kHb45KlHE5fNgf3ud6KuF2xdEF4lEiDBRYzIjaZ3aIb09xZXe3mHShrssQUe4alL4p8zbGxSc0SLtqU3fqczseKHiSfZwIZxlQ91zJo1PoHYls78hrQ/s400/230814_1881920620186_1606461233_1780997_6639501_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tender moment between my burrito and me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "Oh, you bad, bad boy," I told the burrito as I devoured it ferociously. My dad, who had accompanied me on my voyage, clearly regretted his decision as he cleared his throat a lot and uncomfortably avoided looking at his crazy daughter, who was enthusiastically spilling salsa all over herself in the terminal with a slightly frenzied expression on her face, letting out blissful exclamations like "Oh, the guacamole... Sweet, sweet guacamole..."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Being surrounded by English was warm, comforting, and so blessedly simple. No more having to figure out how to say what I wanted to say, or wondering if I should use the formal or the informal, the masculine or the feminine; I could just <i>talk</i>. I was also once again surrounded by fat, poorly dressed, loud people and felt slim and stylish in comparison, even in my baggy, airplane-riding ensemble. After so much being "shhhhhhh"-ed on buses for talking too loudly, being stared at for wearing shorts when it was hot (what do the French have against that, anyway?), I was finally in my element. With access to In-n-Out as a bonus.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Within the first two minutes of touching down on the soil of my homeland, I swear to god, I saw an obese, mustached cop eating a donut, being propelled by one of the moving sidewalks. "Ah, America," I thought to myself. I'd have said it out loud, but my mouth was stuffed full of pico de gallo.</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-3202525931290657252011-06-06T21:53:00.000-07:002011-06-06T21:53:03.328-07:00Catch-22<div style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-wk3pJkoYP1tJOa28oduZy46n0gydOgqslEOk45EEiyF83wt5wemq46gIeT6eqfMDvcG63wgL9hArEUMw5ztsciRLK_m-MLWUCpBKd9BjGsZQIMfdIMrUirXh87wxDXpkym1kUwKjvU/s1600/om-nom-nom-nom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-wk3pJkoYP1tJOa28oduZy46n0gydOgqslEOk45EEiyF83wt5wemq46gIeT6eqfMDvcG63wgL9hArEUMw5ztsciRLK_m-MLWUCpBKd9BjGsZQIMfdIMrUirXh87wxDXpkym1kUwKjvU/s320/om-nom-nom-nom.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brief reference to cookies = Excuse to post this picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> What is it about computer solitaire that makes it so frustrating when you don't win, but when you <i>do </i>win, you feel absolutely no sense of accomplishment? You lose five games and win the sixth, and you expect to feel rewarded for your efforts. Instead it just feels like I wasted precious moments of my life. Like I need to get outside, to speak to people and feel the sun. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> But I can't stop playing within the allotted time that would be ideally used for productivity or socializing or building a decent base tan. I'm not sure why. All day I've been making cookies, catching up on Parks and Recreation, and playing stupid computer solitaire.<br />
I lose and I feel defeat. I win and I feel like a loser. </div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-76639298673658884152011-06-02T11:00:00.000-07:002011-06-02T11:00:12.818-07:00ABORT, ABORT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BHNq6pxl7uZSxzFP-fJUB-V3UKiFHaAvUIw0JlWJASmz2X3YQPuphiH8ht6Na9xKbXpn8V_JvrWC9bctJ9RMJuBewzd8z4yr7rzqZ7LACvVNcrL_skAX-NIqbuBJALLD7WngMqNyj5s/s1600/1zl7tlg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BHNq6pxl7uZSxzFP-fJUB-V3UKiFHaAvUIw0JlWJASmz2X3YQPuphiH8ht6Na9xKbXpn8V_JvrWC9bctJ9RMJuBewzd8z4yr7rzqZ7LACvVNcrL_skAX-NIqbuBJALLD7WngMqNyj5s/s1600/1zl7tlg.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Boyfriend: </b>"I just saw a headline that says 'Vaginal Steam Bath Finds a Place Among Southern California Spa Options."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Me:</b> "Hmmmm. What does that mean?"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Boyfriend: </b>"I don't know. I'm going to click on it."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Twenty seconds of suspense later:</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Boyfriend:</b> "The first word was 'pungent.' So I stopped reading."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">- - - </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Number two on the Weird Article Title ranking goes to: "<a href="http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/43252137/ns/us_news-weird_news/">Fearsome Lawn Ornament Shot Dead by Cops</a>." No joke. </div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-27990764138303399842011-05-29T02:49:00.000-07:002011-05-29T02:49:00.281-07:00My Favorite Billboards Approaching Las Vegas, Nevada<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfukdj6l6KcG7jRBhjYeB1UxhbOhq7rLrlnGMK6j7m-9HCAHP88x2pwdYY5FKe1_YmzHsI5hWPOFUkW66IM5hI3bFEI3jBi3sPgo6-O0okhXYHdMdxI3FFXFLOhOlecnT7-H3b_IrBC2Y/s1600/248630_1941734816723_1043010271_32346811_1575578_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfukdj6l6KcG7jRBhjYeB1UxhbOhq7rLrlnGMK6j7m-9HCAHP88x2pwdYY5FKe1_YmzHsI5hWPOFUkW66IM5hI3bFEI3jBi3sPgo6-O0okhXYHdMdxI3FFXFLOhOlecnT7-H3b_IrBC2Y/s320/248630_1941734816723_1043010271_32346811_1575578_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Vegas, waiting in the taxi line to leave our hotel. Our feet already hurt. Bad sign.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> To break up the monotony of the four hour drive from LA to Las Vegas, and to provide a point of interest in the vast nothingness of the Nevada desert, there are tons of billboards on the way. Here are a few of the highlights:</div><br />
<ul><li style="text-align: justify;"><b>"What happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas. Free STD check, 2 miles."</b></li>
</ul><ul><li style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"GOD DOESN'T EXIST.</span> www.atheism.com"</b></li>
</ul><ul><li style="text-align: justify;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"BUY GUNS HERE.</span> Shoot a machine gun for free!"</b></li>
</ul><ul><li style="text-align: justify;"><b>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">EXTREME MIDGET WRESTLING</span>" [Picture of midget in crazy costume. Underneath midget are the words "ACTUAL SIZE"]</b></li>
</ul><div style="text-align: justify;"> Unfortunately, we didn't partake of any guns, STD checks, atheism, or extreme midget wrestling tickets, despite how tempting that last one turned out to be. What we <i>did </i>get were some pretty rockin' 50 cent fake mustaches from Del Taco when we stopped to use the bathroom:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0d_uU73bXNS7sxdjk4BjaR8yAvvZx9-Oc8zVJhpfSgLSKNJSFQMSuekfplB2_-ay0skjcE4YN54Y-RHW1CCOFR0b9iCmAZJuF9hbk2jlsg2cl1Slcwig53hOE_DTzKmn3asdhyphenhyphenlYKnQ/s1600/230149_1934497715800_1043010271_32338522_587551_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0d_uU73bXNS7sxdjk4BjaR8yAvvZx9-Oc8zVJhpfSgLSKNJSFQMSuekfplB2_-ay0skjcE4YN54Y-RHW1CCOFR0b9iCmAZJuF9hbk2jlsg2cl1Slcwig53hOE_DTzKmn3asdhyphenhyphenlYKnQ/s320/230149_1934497715800_1043010271_32338522_587551_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We planned to wear them down to the pool at some point to take sexy mustache pictures in our bathing suits, but we kept forgetting. This will have to do.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-14081339931072861862011-05-28T02:49:00.000-07:002011-05-28T02:49:00.163-07:00The Nerd Within<div style="text-align: justify;"> My parents have sort of become cool. They have lots of friends on Facebook now, and they actually check their feed at least once a day. I'm so proud to watch them blossom into iPad users and texters, who even occasionally season their messages with emoticons. It's enough to make me tear up. Yet there is one way in which they fail to be cool, and this failure burns at my heart with the ferocity of a thousand flaming suns.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9uKLWipphol5ZFbWtSwxSGehv78GmhAQaKjcV-U_NT0wRWGarREg4JrhGb8EccN6USBdIXDbo4tAUAEgAJTzSW3tJzU6XFETHELx-ooyQmxhMIAWOgv0CDjwEsZhkvjVKRqPXE435s2o/s1600/fire+of+a+thousand+suns.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9uKLWipphol5ZFbWtSwxSGehv78GmhAQaKjcV-U_NT0wRWGarREg4JrhGb8EccN6USBdIXDbo4tAUAEgAJTzSW3tJzU6XFETHELx-ooyQmxhMIAWOgv0CDjwEsZhkvjVKRqPXE435s2o/s400/fire+of+a+thousand+suns.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
To be entirely fair, this may be considered a dramatization.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> But what is their mortal sin, you ask? They have not read the Harry Potter books, nor do they care. At all. And they meet my enthusiasm for Harry Potter land with eyebrow-raised skepticism, despite my eloquent defenses of it. ("BUT THERE'S A HYPOGRIFF ROLLERCOASTER. YOU CAN HAVE A WAND CHOOSE YOU. <i>THERE. IS. BUTTERBEER!</i>") Granted, I'm not the biggest Harry Potter geek in the world. Despite the fact that I've picked what my house would be (Ravenclaw!), I think that the first few movies sucked, and I've never once dressed up as a character when I went to see them. There are bigger fans than me out there in the world. But at the same time, something about Harry Potter makes me all nerdy inside. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> My boyfriend knew this about me, and to his eternal credit, he bought me an overpriced wand from Borders, which he immediately regretted as soon as I Wikipedia-ed the list of all the spells and what they did, and went around all day pointing at things with it and shouting the spells at the top of my lungs. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "<i>Accio </i>remote!" I would shout from the bed, and Boyfriend would sigh, roll his eyes, and irately get up, grab the remote, and bring it to me while I <i>teehee</i>-ed in glee. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "You know, I think you're abusing the privilege," he grumbled after I <i>accio</i>-ed several books, tea and his cat. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "SILENCIO," I shouted, wide-eyed, pointing the wand at his face. Annoyed to the breaking point, he struggled with me for the wand while I shouted "EXPECTO PATRONUM, EXPECTO PATRONUM," for all the good it did me, before he got it and flung it across the room before we went to bed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">"Nox," </span>I whispered sulkily while he turned off the light.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "What did you say?" he asked, ready to get up and break his gift to me in two, like a big jerk Indian-giving jerk face. Jerk. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "Night," I shrugged innocently and went to sleep. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> In the morning, the wand had disappeared, and was never heard from again. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7UFJUGx6NNQbpiieHHYKGyy9bDyOxnINwl0VfFQkv20_b3egGtC5ghsfWovywqwVvd-QnXE1lg_Hs_IF3-GhXtncyucrnC1-XsqwH-hNTwPquov8qMe-8KjPlvLRxTPROrDoWHs170M/s1600/missing+wand.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn7UFJUGx6NNQbpiieHHYKGyy9bDyOxnINwl0VfFQkv20_b3egGtC5ghsfWovywqwVvd-QnXE1lg_Hs_IF3-GhXtncyucrnC1-XsqwH-hNTwPquov8qMe-8KjPlvLRxTPROrDoWHs170M/s400/missing+wand.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-69067989761798742002011-05-27T02:29:00.000-07:002011-05-27T02:29:00.198-07:00Las Vegas, or How I Fail At Life<div style="text-align: justify;"> How does one react when they are a 23 year old girl who has just spent a little under a year stuffing her face with eclairs and cheese, only to cram herself into a bathing suit a mere two weeks after her return, and march outside where everyone can see the flub she has tried to tame by doing sit-ups (twice) since she got back?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Short answer: badly. The medium length answer is to shout "No, from the chest up! Take the photo from the CHEST. UP."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> The longer answer involves pictures. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>This is what I looked like at the pool in Vegas: </b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXJMVZJdlVAPtu7dFnK5T0qQaUT7j_2-FqD1noiUCaUEeYOXJkhMYOu6eyRQrQ0PR3ppNZy98ZSeJtosO5JdAmV5xwBtVxZRVI6xlWvTf0bkZjM8S5VVgn6AnVGo2ZSEjvDTyzJSEs9A/s1600/228313_10100364894325701_6023510_54928217_3698376_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXJMVZJdlVAPtu7dFnK5T0qQaUT7j_2-FqD1noiUCaUEeYOXJkhMYOu6eyRQrQ0PR3ppNZy98ZSeJtosO5JdAmV5xwBtVxZRVI6xlWvTf0bkZjM8S5VVgn6AnVGo2ZSEjvDTyzJSEs9A/s320/228313_10100364894325701_6023510_54928217_3698376_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the strategic use of the water line.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>This is what I felt like at the pool in Vegas:</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Cw_kJgSqpfDseNQG0ReUUx1L-GIsMr7kCWQu7whETrzGesjoGYeroateHHlckH1WKIg_WvZLplO3axosk50F8be-eHrCXNuvu9BZKhNNpxELbbf7ohcsu_AHC9INquU6l2Hl6mRGIDg/s1600/tumblr_lh5466KMmp1qz4d4bo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Cw_kJgSqpfDseNQG0ReUUx1L-GIsMr7kCWQu7whETrzGesjoGYeroateHHlckH1WKIg_WvZLplO3axosk50F8be-eHrCXNuvu9BZKhNNpxELbbf7ohcsu_AHC9INquU6l2Hl6mRGIDg/s320/tumblr_lh5466KMmp1qz4d4bo1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">The only thing I can say is, at least I'm tanner than a hippopotamus. </div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-14865960324397758452011-05-26T02:04:00.000-07:002011-05-30T18:22:11.123-07:00"I've been there!"<div style="text-align: justify;"> One of the many pleasures of travelling, besides the food and the ability to annoy all your Facebook friends with your numerous and brag-y online photo albums, is the joy of watching a movie or hearing a story and being able to think "I've been there!" </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img height="320" src="http://topmedias.org/photos-de-stars/2011/05/Sean-Penn-Jessica-Chastain-and-et-Pitt-au-Festival-de-Cannes.jpg" width="296" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4g1QEXp-K-VGhENjWjoRRezWhgfdn_UhFiyq2QGVtmaXjBHKTrBtTtvZL51Rk3GVbThovBrbalAUvoIzULibTmzrx6rz1OSfdkK02kfuDq9TQ6PrQrIAyBFQFH6wKBD86a5t3kJzUIWo/s1600/612.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4g1QEXp-K-VGhENjWjoRRezWhgfdn_UhFiyq2QGVtmaXjBHKTrBtTtvZL51Rk3GVbThovBrbalAUvoIzULibTmzrx6rz1OSfdkK02kfuDq9TQ6PrQrIAyBFQFH6wKBD86a5t3kJzUIWo/s320/612.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I've stood where Brad Pitt is standing in the Cannes film festival pictures! </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img height="239" src="http://s2.postimage.org/num1l9sd1/294860851.jpg" width="320" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I've been to the off-the-map Riviera town of Antibes where Chanel had their Resort 2011 show! </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> And now, I've been where Katy Perry had her epic Paris photo shoot for Vanity Fair. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7xOmsRhW3OG1msjyZgJXWjr5uzijtRKQ8aone09V0jb8tvBq9zTEjoerccxKb_CX16bU4XCZqv_jrwW7Zn5cKCk0xyXvn7TBUL1b2jIY74nQLZ4A7L-NDDTtknbBt9M6izH35is2xng/s1600/2hhp09i.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7xOmsRhW3OG1msjyZgJXWjr5uzijtRKQ8aone09V0jb8tvBq9zTEjoerccxKb_CX16bU4XCZqv_jrwW7Zn5cKCk0xyXvn7TBUL1b2jIY74nQLZ4A7L-NDDTtknbBt9M6izH35is2xng/s200/2hhp09i.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilHVvnoIeAn65vwUbQPuY3BenYGa79vgSQCdQkewiq3ER81J4bL8WMsebEDPX1E4HYjuftPWvt8lMKKzcbYi8ULxqSz92xogQ0nTNwUVVACMSWrn98xZ2KvkKAB3R7X7lXM20us8OxE7c/s1600/nyyyxf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilHVvnoIeAn65vwUbQPuY3BenYGa79vgSQCdQkewiq3ER81J4bL8WMsebEDPX1E4HYjuftPWvt8lMKKzcbYi8ULxqSz92xogQ0nTNwUVVACMSWrn98xZ2KvkKAB3R7X7lXM20us8OxE7c/s200/nyyyxf.jpg" width="140" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">However, to be totally honest, my picture is a little less glamorous than my fellow California girl:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG5j0dYPq5H6sOxq1m3CDiLqnJ2aWgQ3z__czwOmlmabZFL_mMWE7irCi8KBpEhppsUGfA7FgsxNy1UPIT4XD68D6_j1N6Ay1lUje-DKc07h9Gyy3NKSjBzg5LvDHaDLAdHWRPJBXngjE/s1600/paris09+220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG5j0dYPq5H6sOxq1m3CDiLqnJ2aWgQ3z__czwOmlmabZFL_mMWE7irCi8KBpEhppsUGfA7FgsxNy1UPIT4XD68D6_j1N6Ay1lUje-DKc07h9Gyy3NKSjBzg5LvDHaDLAdHWRPJBXngjE/s320/paris09+220.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">This is the exact same carousel, directly across the street from the Eiffel Tower. But instead of looking glamorous and full of fashionable ennui, we're sulking, because we were rushing to one of the <i>batteaux </i>tours along the Seine and had no time for carousel rides. That, and my dad and my camera are losing the battle against the photographer and the equipment that major magazines use. Go figure. </div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-73700542814447462272011-05-25T02:00:00.000-07:002011-05-25T02:46:18.545-07:00How My Family Spent the Rapture<div style="text-align: center;"><img height="237" src="http://api.ning.com/files/CuiJgph4SA2adS013O0FLA-1aEagtZc59-d2Kls0PYN8gJ2d2UHSkz*TKHMeFIZaF88aJZmaVMumEiysI-ysA3L5K9fsGp3S/FalseAlarm.jpg" width="320" /></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"> I've spent the last few days, including the day of the supposed Rapture, in Sin City, aka Las Vegas. In hindsight, this was a bit of a gamble.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> My fourteen year old brother (the same brother <a href="http://fashionmefrench.blogspot.com/2010/12/what-thirteen-year-old-boys-wants-for.html">who asked for a Japanese katana sword</a> for Christmas) decided to observe the Rapture in a different style, since he's... let's say "prepared." By that, I mean he's prone to imagining bunker blue prints and what he would do if he were in any given location when the zombie apocalypse were to occur. He reads all the zombie survival guides, keeps canned food in his room, and practices tourniquets. When anyone makes fun of him for doing this, he tells them that they can bleed to death outside of his bunker. Last time I took him to Target and told him to meet me in 20 minutes at the entrance, he showed up holding a giant shovel and a Costco-sized can of whey which he had just purchased. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "Um, what do you need that shovel for?" I asked after hiding my most attractive surprise-snort. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Completely straight-faced, with the seriousness of a war veteran, he looked me in the eye and simply said, "Digging."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Yeah, okay. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img height="200" src="http://images.wikia.com/mafiawars/images/b/b2/637437_mask1.jpg" width="200" /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2xcQSB723c1quY4RC1IpLPocNGfMdGNICwopTnjy6vsqKr9VAdmWp9_1v2eF599fyCA2OdG4gOHpeKdd6PeUllqoWsUesvq-aL1xwHoEE2Kr4MTGz-K6l49GZBJQg_YM3lgMVV-kx4IE/s1600/225254_10100243188335457_3628904_52729679_1503497_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2xcQSB723c1quY4RC1IpLPocNGfMdGNICwopTnjy6vsqKr9VAdmWp9_1v2eF599fyCA2OdG4gOHpeKdd6PeUllqoWsUesvq-aL1xwHoEE2Kr4MTGz-K6l49GZBJQg_YM3lgMVV-kx4IE/s200/225254_10100243188335457_3628904_52729679_1503497_n.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="148" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">(To be honest, these two pictures are just to show off how cute my puppy is again.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> So my parents tell me that while I was flinging myself down water slides and experiencing the joys of being carded again after a year of living in France, my little brother donned his camo suit, grabbed his pellet gun, his army-regulation back pack of supplies, strapped on his gas mask, and stoically headed out to our backyard playground to make base camp, right after unstrapping his gas mask to kiss the dogs goodbye, telling my dad that he hadn't done his homework yet "just in case" and then strapping it in place again. He stayed out there from 2:45 - 3:05 (the Rapture supposedly occurring at 3pm in California), while my parents stared at him through the window, their brows furrowed in concern (or at least indignation that they only got a peace sign thrown up as the dramatic goodbye from their second born). Then, at 3:06, he nonchalantly climbed down from the play structure tower, unencumbered himself of his survival tools, and went to play Black Ops on his X-Box, never mentioning anything about it again. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Too bad he had to do his homework, after all. </div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-86907557108520302972011-05-18T02:13:00.000-07:002011-05-18T02:13:00.223-07:00French Fashion Trend: Abercrombie and Fitch<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://photos.be.com/image/vetements/pulls-gilets/sweat/abercrombie-fitch/sweat-mabel-coton-gris-bleu-abercrombie-fitch-69298692-98510.jpg" /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> When I first started teaching in France, I anticipated a lot of curiosity from my students about American life, but one recurring questino that I didn't understand was "Is it true there are really Abercrombie and Fitch stores everywhere?" </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Uh, yeah," I answered each time, inwardly adding "...Weirdos," to the end in my head. Little did I know, as far as the young and hip of France are concerned, despite all their stilettos and Paris fashion weeks and Chanel and </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><em style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Hermès,</span></em></span> they think that A&F is <i>God</i>. Something about the California beach-style promotional imagery must have ignited their interest because there are fakes being sold everywhere, whether it's pants, shorts, or most popularly, hoodies. That's right; the French love A&F to the degree that their fashion-conscious torsos, usually clad in belted fur vests or high-waisted skirts, will wear hoodies. The logo is considered <i>that </i>cool. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> My personal favorite is when a fake is so bad that they actually get one of the two names wrong. I had one student showing up in a blue "Abercrombie + Mitch" shirt several times, and the student had no awareness of the irony or the error. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> But the industry of fake A&F products is about to change, because on May 19, they are finally opening the first French location in Paris, #23 Avenue des Champs Elysees. To promote it, naturally, they had 100 shirtless male Abercrombie models stand outside for a while:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://www.lenuagedesfilles.com/style/wp-content/gallery/abercrombie/abercrombie_fitch-2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If their goal was to distract me from blogging for a good ten minutes while trying to find "just the right picture," (purely for aesthetic reasons, mind you) then I would call this campaign effective.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-31875456416660986102011-05-17T01:35:00.000-07:002011-05-17T01:35:10.191-07:00Le Hiatus Officially Terminated<div style="text-align: justify;"> Sorry I may have unintentionally lead readers to believe that I never made it back to the USA alive. I would say that there's no excuse to post so little, but in fact I have tons of excuses: there was my little brother's birthday, my mom's birthday (read: free champagne), my birthday, and a new addition to the family, a puppy who looks so adorably like a stuffed animal that it is surreal:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">World, meet Baxter:</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZuOAgJx0ogAxYI_MdU5pD5IWj2A7zz5ZpUOsAdM77I5c35BokbJXeSbRI4kbv_EtAjo392wBZN0iDRc6pLT9CchrqLuHnyxGTgop8ktRbIydXqNT5UPWuCrF111_jiZl_BaMU6ZnGGA/s1600/223365_10100243187906317_3628904_52729669_2128060_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMZuOAgJx0ogAxYI_MdU5pD5IWj2A7zz5ZpUOsAdM77I5c35BokbJXeSbRI4kbv_EtAjo392wBZN0iDRc6pLT9CchrqLuHnyxGTgop8ktRbIydXqNT5UPWuCrF111_jiZl_BaMU6ZnGGA/s400/223365_10100243187906317_3628904_52729669_2128060_n.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The English teddybear goldendoodle with soulful puppy eyes, and a ferocious determination to eat all my pajama pants.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> Overlooking general laziness (simply because it makes me look bad) I also had a period of <i>intense </i>illness, starting with when I boarded the plane and ending a week and a half later, after several boxes of tissues, one heavy-duty antibiotics prescription, and roughly a million instances of my boyfriend trying to cuddle me while I flung him away to have a spastic coughing fit during the best part of a movie we were watching. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> "I'm um. So glad you're back. So we can be together again," Boyfriend offered weakly while watching me cough up phlegm, retch, and wheeze through my enfeebled nasal pathways. I nodded, sweated profusely, and then fell asleep with my mouth open. He really liked that. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I fear all my sexiness may have remained in France. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I feel the need to end on a health-related comic:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwDI34DBt7QJ4-DzWhyK1GWmu55Vxbm6C7WXdQIKZCiKiFO7EwU8BDC6G9zQgt9ffmGaN4Tqha6s4yOuOx6GCaug8yE3RdFBFXWUorm8UUM6UJca2dR3V9bffuULUjuelkgMQpTWsT9Ow/s1600/epic.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwDI34DBt7QJ4-DzWhyK1GWmu55Vxbm6C7WXdQIKZCiKiFO7EwU8BDC6G9zQgt9ffmGaN4Tqha6s4yOuOx6GCaug8yE3RdFBFXWUorm8UUM6UJca2dR3V9bffuULUjuelkgMQpTWsT9Ow/s400/epic.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3823461643062381844.post-12270191125572374432011-04-26T15:10:00.000-07:002011-04-26T15:12:12.894-07:00Saying a Conflicted "Au Revoir" to France<div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZIyXRdJplOzDd93nif7lAMA1LgmJhm-d_chmwTBntjbyjR2QvS_4vZHRbINRJ-6jh1YvxUGJNl1Hkm0Z6qGl66LhNJPZC4rvX_fZBukSMZWE5OjzEO-M3QmVHwXn9QDuQe_4xZaUp40/s1600/1zd9lx2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrZIyXRdJplOzDd93nif7lAMA1LgmJhm-d_chmwTBntjbyjR2QvS_4vZHRbINRJ-6jh1YvxUGJNl1Hkm0Z6qGl66LhNJPZC4rvX_fZBukSMZWE5OjzEO-M3QmVHwXn9QDuQe_4xZaUp40/s400/1zd9lx2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Saying goodbye to France has proved <i>difficile</i>. The country that seemed so intimidating and overwhelming when I first moved here seven months ago, the city full of seemingly impossible tasks like getting a French bank account and phone, has grown to become my second home, full of amazing restaurants and fun friends. Saying goodbye to my students was equally difficult, especially when they did cute things like bake me cake or make me cards which read "C'etait cool avec vous. Merci. Bye," in sincere and heart-felt <i>franglais </i>(If anglais = English, and francais = French, franglais = Spanglish, but for French. And that is as close as you will ever see me come to doing math).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEhDVHuo0iKrWY5bZ3O4lfMAxBUSn5-Qh1ewQRKIrSP5LCF76giBCT3N-Aa2OmE3l0m2ZTp9W_G_m4De2FgFr-vv_RuvzfGPQaHsotN_nmthzDEq-CPc9cMn8sqCfJ-E3Er3TnCsQpRdw/s1600/222543_10150227534841018_518661017_8515431_1018683_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEhDVHuo0iKrWY5bZ3O4lfMAxBUSn5-Qh1ewQRKIrSP5LCF76giBCT3N-Aa2OmE3l0m2ZTp9W_G_m4De2FgFr-vv_RuvzfGPQaHsotN_nmthzDEq-CPc9cMn8sqCfJ-E3Er3TnCsQpRdw/s400/222543_10150227534841018_518661017_8515431_1018683_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from the club-boat. Much less glamorous if you only knew that it was taken from the window in the women's restroom. But still.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"> My teachers invited me to delicious lunches with eight courses, two of which were cheese. My friends and I celebrated in epic style by partying in<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i>péniches</i>, or clubs on boats. (</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Dance moves were busted. Phones were lost. Good times were had by all.) </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> We indulged first in drunk-food-kebab the night of, and hang-over-kebab the day after. There were picnics with Nutella-covered strawberries and chips with as-close-as-we-can-come-to-guacemole, since France has tragically never heard of cilantro. There are the two GIANT suitcases that weigh more than me, fully packed to the brim with scarves, coats, and 13 pairs of shoes, 9 of which I purchased while I was here because I just. Couldn't. Resist. There is my bare and naked looking apartment, stripped of photos, posters, and knick-knacks. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"> </span>There is the sadness of leaving and the excitement of coming home, and the same strange melange of emotions I experienced upon leaving college. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">There is Mexican food soon to be had, but crepes soon to miss. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">There are old friends I'll now be able to see, and new friends I'll now have to Skype. I'm leaving someplace incredible to go to somewhere just as familiar and good.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;"> </span>I just can't decide how I feel. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br />
</span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJytYBN4XLvRTNSlSXRZyxLWCBhnJQhefRfG9-9GniQp2xaqdqD9xkkLYdCYeQcMMqTGew89vR8LrgMf9rRFGzXMQ0ZJgAbTiDGwqWqj_k_Ov1KpFkZYCXKw3o4Scls66gyvnYTxiyVmc/s1600/218069_10150227531711018_518661017_8515367_4718577_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJytYBN4XLvRTNSlSXRZyxLWCBhnJQhefRfG9-9GniQp2xaqdqD9xkkLYdCYeQcMMqTGew89vR8LrgMf9rRFGzXMQ0ZJgAbTiDGwqWqj_k_Ov1KpFkZYCXKw3o4Scls66gyvnYTxiyVmc/s400/218069_10150227531711018_518661017_8515367_4718577_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bisous, Lyon! I shall miss you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> <i> [Editor's Note: Don't worry! This blog will not cease to exist. In fact, so much happened that I never had time to write about, that it will be years before I run out of France-related things to post on here</i>...]</span></span></div>Melissahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11291548502846790048noreply@blogger.com3