Weirdify Your Wedding

Etsy is the eclectic bride's best friend. You can find all sorts of bizarre and random things to make your special day that much more special-er-- and unique. Heaven help you if your wedding is not unique, for then no one will remember it. If no one remembers it, there's no way you're going to get that automatic paper towel dispenser you registered for. That's just the rules.

Following are a few items I found whilst browsing this weekend:

1. Button Bouquet

There are lots of things I like about buttons. Buttons never die. Buttons don't make my eyes itch or my nose run. Post-wedding, I could use the buttons to fasten things. When's the last time you used a dying flower to do ANYTHING except teach you about the process of withering?

2. Tricked-out baby hats

I don't want any bare-headed babies at my wedding. Just like men 50 years their senior, they should be embarrassed by their lack of locks. Thankfully an Etsy vendor has recognized the need and created a whole line of fancy headbands and caps to slap on sleeping but pensive babies at weddings everywhere.

3. A cartoonish cake-topper

I'm not planning on having a wedding cake (I'll take a tower of French macarons, thankyouverymuch/ mercibeaucoup), but if I did have one this is what I would want to top it. The cartoonish vibe of the piece will tell my guests that I'm not quite ready to grow up, while the tortoise bride and grooms will act as a symbolic apology for how long our ceremony was.

4. Flask Favors

What better memento of how drunk you got on our wedding night than a flask that's artfully decorated with a souvenir bottle cap from the libation that re-introduced you to your dinner? These suckers go for $11.99 a pop (the cap adds an extra $4--hey! it was crafted!), so you better treasure it. When I come over in three years I want to see it featured prominently in your curio cabinet.

Welp, I guess I'm gettin' hitched

It's on Facebook now so it must be true: the boyf will soon become the husb. By soon I mean in approximately 1.2 years, when we have returned from FranceyPants. I'm planning to do a large post that details everything you're burning, needing, or just slightly interested to know. But part of our pre-nup states that I must give the gent prior review of posts that are at least 20% about him, and he doesn't get back from Minne till Sunday.

For now, feast your eyes on this gorgeous wedding look that Anna was kind enough to design for me:

I could only DREAM to look that good on the big day.

Fuh-rahnce!

Due to some technical difficulties I haven't been able to smooch you beloved readers for a fortnight, but now I'm back. Hi! Hi. Hi hi hi hi hi hi. Or perhaps I should say... BONJOUR MES AMIES! (Picture me saying it with this face. It's at least 10 times or 30% funnier, depending on whether you use the metric system).

Brief aside: That is what I picture myself looking like had I made my first voyage to France circa 1982 and it was such a defining time for me, full of self-growth and self-realization and self-blossoming into a vraie femme, that I continued to dress like this forevermore to remind myself of those halcyon times. Not unlike a certain French professor with chunked bangs and a coiled bun I used to know...

But I digress. Dudes, I have super-hyper-mega-cool news: I'm moving to France! I've had to keep this a secret from you for so long, but now I can shout it to the world! France! France! Let's dance! Let's prance! Let's...um... eat macarons? Yes!

Almost exactly a year ago the gent casually suggested that we hop the pond for an extended stay. A good friend of mine named Sarumph had recently spent the year teaching English to adorable French school children, and that seemed as good a way to go as any. We decided to keep things very hush-hush just in case it didn't work out.

Matt quietly started taking French classes at the community college (why? because...er...he likes Proust?) and I quietly started reading books about French etiquette and the problems Americans generally encounter when they go to Cheesy Wineland (why? because...er...I like stuff? and things?). I started working on the arduous application in October and finally got it submitted around New Years. This whole time I was just bursting with this news, and I couldn't help myself from spilling the beans to select friends and family (OK...everyone) when I was home for the holidays, always cursing myself afterward because I knew I'd feel like a prize idiot if I didn't end up going.

Shortly after returning home I just had to tell my boss, because giving anything less than eight months' notice is criminal, right?

But the word finally came down on Wednesday that I have been accepted to the glorious Académie de Dijon, which was my first choice due to my great love of mustard. I could end up anywhere in that pink part of the map, from tiny Sens to Dijon proper. I'm hoping for the latter, because it's a mere hour-and-a-half train ride from Gay Pareee. And, like I said, mustard.

I'll find out where I'm going sometime this summer, as well as what age I'll be teaching. Sometimes the school is great about finding a place for their Americans to take shelter, and sometimes they're on their own. It's all very up in the air until I get that letter.

My manfriend and I had a meeting with the Consule Honoraire yesterday to discuss visa options for him to get over there. She suggested that he let me go first so I can get settled and figure out what's what, and then he can join me a month later on a visitor visa. When those three months are up he'll go home again for a month or two, and then come back for the remainder of my stay on another visitor visa.

"I see it all zee time," she said. "Zees will eezhair make you strongair, or he finds anozzer American girl while you are gone, and you find a beeg French hunk and zat's zat. Or maybe he mees you so much when he come he ask you to marry. I jus speak ze troof! I don't know!"

She also suggested that he learn as many Bob Dylan songs as he can before going because les francais ADORE him. She admitted to having translated "'undreds!" of his songs into french when she was a young filly.

Some housekeeping notes: Due the fact that I will probably have something new to blog about every hour, I'm planning to store those insights on a new blog solely dedicated to my time in France so I don't clog up TP with my transliterations and franglais. I'll let you know when it's up and running so you can decide to follow or ignore it at your pleasure.

I'll leave you with a tale of Mirelle, a woman who, like me, possesses "long, slender fingers" and "a certain fondness for poking fun." When I return from France it is my hope to have completely morphed into this modern-day Bardot.

French in Action

The Day I Sucked at Food

Not only is today St. Patrick's Day, it's my dear beloved lover boy's birthday. You know how much I cherish and respect birthdays. Today was all about making it the best day EVAH for him. I skipped my lunch so I could get done with work earlier to get home and start making this the best day. EVAH. We started off with a stop at Pix, of course, for a celebratory birthday beer float with a sparkler in it for him and a cheese plate for me.

Next, we took the bus downtown with plans to get some yummy dinner in advance of the Hitchcock play we'd gotten tickets for. We ended up at a nice brewpub a few blocks from the playhouse. I'm trying to be all healthy and shiz, so I decided to go with the porcini-crusted rock fish despite its hefty price tag. I was expecting a nice fish fillet with a big side of healthy roasted fennel. Instead, what came back was a monochrome pile of butter-soaked, salty potatoes and a tiny piece of fish.

All my eye caught on the menu was the "roasted fennel" and "porcini mushroom." I totally missed the "potato gratin" and "pale ale butter." That was my bad.

But what happened later in the night was just plain terrible. After the play we followed the sound of a bagpipe to find what we hoped would be a lively Irish pub where he could have a nightcap and I could find something to fill my tummy and make up for the mediocre fish dish. I was pleased to see that Blitz served breakfast all day and settled on a nice, healthy bowl of granola with "fresh fruit" and "seasonal berries," advertised like so:

The bartender was initially confused when I asked her for "granola and water," thinking it was an exotic mixed drink, but eventually we got things straightened out... or so I thought. Imagine my surprise when the waitress brought this to my table:

That would be a broken-up Nature Valley granola bar with a tiny pitcher of half-and-half and a side of tater tots. TATER TOTS. Your eyes do not deceive you. When I asked the bartender why it didn't come with fresh fruit, she told me I had to order that extra. So what's included on the menu is "extra," but tater tots are granola's natural companion? TATER TOTS? These weren't even good tots. They were the kind that left that film of ick in your mouth.

Tater tots. I swear to leprechauns.

Two off my Portland Bucket List

In a many-splendored town like Portland, there are more quirky and wonderful things to do than could ever be done. I started making a list of things to accomplish when I first moved here, from the outlandish (getting married at Voodoo Doughnuts) to the things I will throw a hissy fit if I don't accomplish in the next six months (if I don't go berry picking on the Fruit Loop by my birthday there will be hell to pay).

This glorious, sunny, bird-chirping, flower-blooming weekend gifted me with two things I can cross off my list.

The first something was the Beer Float at that pastry shop I can't quit, Pix Patisserie. From the first time I laid eyes on it on the menu I was intrigued. It just makes sense. If a root beer float can work, why not beer? Though the thought of Lance Armstrong's disapproving gaze kept me from ordering one, it didn't stop me from making a buddy get one and then letting me have sips.

World, I have tasted a beer float, and it was good. There's something about chocolate stout and mocha ice cream that just works.

The second item now crossed off my list is the Kennedy School Soaking Pool. There are these brilliant folks here named the McMenamins who took a number of dilapidated buildings like power stations, danky brewpubs, and schools and renovated them into movie theaters, restaurants, and hotels.

The Kennedy School, conveniently located near me, is most intriguing to me because it was always my dream in life to have a sleepover at my elementary school. I just loved school that much. Though I doubt we'll ever rent a hotel room here--our real rooms being so close and all-- the next best thing was to hang out in the outdoor, heated, saltwater soaking pool under the stars.

Tinkle Pirate

Alternative title: H20mgI'veneverhadtopeethismuchinmylife

One of the things I like about tracking my calories on Livestrong.com is that it has an incredible incentive for drinking enough water during the day. With every 8 ounces your glass fills up a bit more, and then--get this, guys--your virtual water cup will spillith over and it's as if Lance Armstrong himself is wishing you a hearty "Congratulations!" It feels like what I imagine winning a bronze medal in short track speed skating relay would: frenzied, euphoric, and delirious.

I must have been moderately to severely dehydrated for my entire life because ingesting the recommended 64 ounces has sent me to the little girls' room four times more often than usual. I'm starting to wear a track in the carpet at the office separating my desk from the bathroom. Seriously. I've never in my life relieved myself as often as I have in the past three days, and I don't care that that's an overshare.

Working on my fitness... for real this time

There was about a two week period last June when I got really serious about my health. I joined a real gym (sorry Curves) and started my patented Don't Eat Crap diet. I was working out four times a week and, well, not eating crap. I don't put much stock in the scale (ours will say I'm one weight before I take a shower and after I'm toweled off it will say I've gained 12 pounds), but I definitely trimmed up during that two weeks.

Then my birthday arrived and brought with it my extremely generous aunt and uncle, who treated me to all sorts of culinary delights. My Don't Eat Crap diet became the Why Wouldn't I Eat Crap? I Work Out diet. Lately, what with Valentine's Day and Boeuf and my sister being in town, it morphed into the I'm Going to Eat All the Crap I Want and Not Work Out So There diet.

But no more, dear readers. This time I'm going to make a concerted effort to be disciplined. I created an account on Livestrong.com to track my calories, with the goal of losing one pound per week for the next eight weeks to put me at the weight my drivers license says I am. I started yesterday and thought I was being so good-- two slices of toast for breakfast; a protein shake for a post-workout lunch; a salad with avocado, olive oil and rice vinegar for a snack; an apple turnover for a post-snack snack; and a serving of my orzo with roasted vegetables and feta for dinner.

But by the end of the day I only had 60 calories to spare! And did you know that one tbs of olive oil is 120 calories and 13.5 grams of fat?? I go crazy with olive oil! I liberally splash it on everything with abandon!

Despite that meltdown, I don't intend to become a crazed calorie counter. I'm thinking of this more like a learning experiment to see what change I can effect in myself during the next two months. I've been inspired by the likes of Sarah (whose posts spurred me to join a gym in the first place) to think I can make a big difference by treating myself well.

Marching for Pansies

Yesterday was one of the most beautiful days in the whole wide world here in Porty Pants. A cloudless blue sky with that big bright thing in it and a suspicious lack of moisture in the air. To top it all off, it's that magic time of spring when the flower have started to bloom but the allergy gods have granted me a glorious reprieve. I think I have about three weeks before my face falls off, so I took the mister on a forced march to hunt for flowers. Aren't they pretty?











Oddly enough, our walk led to a very magical garden by the name of Pix. Check out this patch of a unique and exotic flower that the locals call "St Honore":



Adjacent to the St. Honore we found these equally intoxicating specimens lined up all neatly as if they had been planted by the gods:



And then, a giraffe decked out in St. Patty's gear. Don't hate; he's just doing his part to keep Portland weird.

Boeuf'd

I wanted to do something really special for my beloved for what some call the most romantic day of the year: President's Day. I consulted with Taft's ghost for a good long while and came to the conclusion that only one thing would do for such a special occasion. Julia Child's Boeuf Bourguignon.

I had received Madame Child's chef d'oeuvre Mastering the Art of French Cooking this summer during one of my bouts of selfsame literary obsession (immediately preceded by Marie Antoinette and followed by fundamentalist Mormons), but had yet to try one of her delicious dishes due to rabid fear and self-doubt... and an affinity for my arteries.

But lo, twas time.

I dutifully went to my grocer and picked up the exorbitantly expensive ingredients with nary a complaint. I spent the afternoon reading and rereading the recipe and mentally psyching myself up. When the time came, you better believe I made sure that the beef was dry as a Sahara so as to ensure proper browning. Julia only knows I simmered those pearl onions in their herb bouquet and broth until the liquid had reduced properly. And those mushrooms. Those sinfully buttery mushrooms. Don't worry; I merely browned them lightly, just like Julia wanted.


During a lull in the simmering and stewing and sauteing, I started on a luscious and light dessert suggested to me by my m'ma via that other culinary goddess, Lynnn Rossetto Kasper: honeyed figs with marscapone. I first presented this dish to rave reviews at a pasta party on Friday night, so I knew Julia would approve of its pairing with her boeuf.


Five hours later (I shittake you not), everything was ready. The table was set, the boeuf was bourguignoned, the figs were honeyed and soon to be marscaponed, and I was all Betty Drapered up in my best dress, heels, and a pink and white half apron with Eiffel Towers on it. I even did my hairs all nice!


Taft, Julia, and Lynn would be proud, for the boyf pronounced this the Best Thing I've Ever Made, a distinction he does not give lightly.

And now, with my fears of her tome evaporated like so much Cotes du Rhone, I am ready to plow through it to find even more buttery fulfillment in her pages! March on!

Creepy Valentines by Neenuh (TM)

It was a dark and stormy craft night five days before V-day. I had some valentines to make, and I needed to make them clever and I needed to make them creepy (like I like my men). Thankfully my hostess Erin had some Halloween stickers just aching to make me reverse my middle name (Ruth--->Ruthless).

Bus vs. Bike: A One-Act Play with Themes of Prejudice, Obscenity, and, of course Transportation

The scene: No. 4 bus headed downtown, 8:15 a.m.
The characters: Balding bus driver with deep-seated anger issues; biker with a potty mouth; bus rider innocently reading about Mormons in her new book “Under the Banner of Heaven”

Bus rider is learning about a Mormon prophet’s plan to build a City of Refuge at the foot of the Dream Mine near Provo, Utah to prepare for the coming apocalypse, when all of a sudden she is distracted by a commotion at the front of the bus.

Driver: This is my lane! Get in your own lane!
Biker: I’m in my own lane, ***hole!
Driver: (kissing noises) You’re just jealous!
Biker: F**k you! (obscene gesture)
Driver: Sticks and stones! Sticks and stones!
Biker: F**k you, ***hole!
Driver: (kissing noises) Sticks and stones! Report me! Get on the phone and report me!
Biker: I will! (obscene gesture)
Driver: Report me! My supervisor’s right over there! (indicates nearby TriMet office)
Biker: (obscene gesture)

Both parties scowl at the other. Exeunt.

i cannot control the volume of my voice

I may be 10 days late in posting my resolutions, but one of them was to procrastinate to my heart's content. So really I'm right on track. And now, without further ado, I give to you that which I resolve to accomplish in '10:

• Learn at least three new knitting skills. I've maxed out on boring hats and scarves, and I'm in the middle of a blanket that looks exactly like the last one I made. My buddy Danielle taught me how to do a cabled pair of fingerless gloves on Saturday, the first of which I finished last night. Goes to show me that I shouldn't fear the un-knit-known. I'd like to make 2010 the Year of the Sweater and Sock.
  
  

• Keep the apartment in better shape. I usually have a frenzied cleaning sesh once per week and then let crap pile up for the next six days. I have yet to internalize the notion that if I could just tidy up a little bit every day I wouldn't have to devote half my Sunday to Messrs. Clorox and Swiffer.
• Freeze more leftovers. I recently started freezing leftover soup in my favorite found muffin pan. It amuses me to no end to open my freezer and see soup masquerading as muffin-pops. Plus it's really satisfying to pop soupcicles out of the flexible pan.
  

• Speaking of cooking, I would be a waste of space if I let 2010 pass without attempting Julia Child's Boeuf Bourginon from her chef d'oeuvre Mastering the Art of French Cooking. The dullness of my knives and my tendency to chop vegetables far slower than the average bear will probably make this an entire day's labor, but I shall persevere. Maybe for Valentine's Day.
• Keep my French up to snuff. Dieu knows je can't get by en France with seulement my Franglais, hardcore though it may be. I'm going to attempt to watch French news at least three nights a week for the double benefit of increasing my comprehension skillz and getting in tune with French current events. I used to have to listen to five hours of spoken French per week for my French Business class in college--three of which I knocked off with dubbed American thrillers like House of Wax, and the rest I spent watching the 8:00 news on TF1. If I want to be vraiment sage, I'll write down the vocab I don't understand and look it up, and write a summary of what I learned. Chances of that happening: slim to none. But in case you were wondering, it snowed a lot this weekend in France. It was hard to drive due to freezing rain in some areas. The storm made one very unhappy leek farmer, who lost about 50% of his crop. A dairy farmer was also upset, but I'm not sure why. They are using sand and salt to make the roads more passable. Bam.
• Make my biceps disgustingly large. In the year 2009 I gave my muscles some definition for the first time in my life. 2010 will be the year I make my gigantic muscles define me.
  
• And, finally, I resolve to increase the clarity and volume of my speech. While home for the holidays, I had a record number of people exclaim in frustration that they had no idea what I was saying. One of them, whom I had just met, told me to, "Speak the F**K up!!" In lieu of keeping exclusive company with fellow low-talkers, I suppose it's time to give my vocal chords some exercise.

All of these resolutions seem fairly doable, though not quite as doable as the ones I made two years ago-- all of which I kept to a T, by the by.

Facebook Defriending Flow Chart

How many times have you rolled your eyes when Fratty McDouche fills up 90% of your news feed with misspelled musings about minutiae? How often does Susie Shallowstein's CONSTANT updates of her photo albums with yet another picture of her adorable puppy/hubby/druid make you lose the will to live?

You know it's time to weed out the bad apples in your friend list, but you just don't know how to go about it. Neenuh to the rescue. Click on the above image and use the completely scientific method I spent entirely too much time tonight perfecting to make your friend list one you can be proud of.

And then my ice-cold heart slowly began to melt...

When Seest0r and I hop on the bus for on our excursions, she enjoys playing with my iPod on the way there and back. Sometimes I'll have her listen to some music, and if she likes it I'll burn it on a CD for her. Lately, she's been filling my woefully empty calendar with important dates like Christmas, New Years and her birthday.

Yesterday, while on our way to see a ballet performance, she started fiddling with the note function and wouldn't let me see what she was writing. When she was done she got a big grin on her face and turned it so I could see.

So verklempt. So very, very verklempt was I.

FUDGE!

When my 9th grade geometry teacher got herself with child, we had substitute teachers for a good chunk of the year while she birthed and cared for her spawn. There was the dirty, bearded man who looked like Santa and smelled of vodka, a couple of quavery-voiced ladyfolk, and a longterm guy I'll call Mr. Mullet. He sported a very greasy business/party combo and was entirely awesome.

Exhibit A: Our first order of business when we came to the unit on matrices was to watch The Matrix.

Exhibit B: One day he came across two pounds of fudge he wanted to get rid of. He announced to the class that whoever ate the entirety in the remainder of the class period would be the proud owner of 70 shiny extra credit points. The New Kid, who no one had ever heard speak a word, immediately volunteered. Throughout the next half hour or so, he methodically worked his way through those bricks. Sure enough, he choked it down and went from a C to an A. It was the stuff of legend.

He soon transferred to the city's private school and I thought I would never again lay my eyes upon the one I called Fudge.

Fast forward three years to the summer before senior year. My buddy had convinced me the time was nigh for me to "get my drink on." She led me to a houseboat in the west end of town hosted by a kid named Squirrel. I didn't know anyone there besides my friend and her boyfriend, but one of the kids looked kind of familiar. It took me a while to realize who he was, but after a plastic cup of Beefeater, straight up, I slurred, "You're the kid who ate the fudge!" And indeed he was.

Fast forward another seven years to last night. I was at my dear buddy's house enjoying a lovely Portland Orphan Thanksgiving (also known as T-Give-Sauce, according to my younger brother's Facebook status). It was a gathering of mostly Minnesotans, and several were even from my hometown. I introduced myself to a couple I hadn't seen before. I bet you can see where this is going... the dude was the kid who ate the fudge! I fudge you not! Amazing.

I'm now expecting him to make an appearance at other meaningful life events. Like my first traffic ticket. Or at the birth of my third child. Or the next time I throw up (which won't be for YEARS...)