Last Word

Get outta my face, Mo Fo!

No joke, Sarko told a man who refused to shake his hand at an agricultural convention to…well, to go fly a kite… in so many words.

Frenchies in New York

Close Encounters of the Frenchie Kind

Last night I had the strangest dream. Barack Obama was receiving all his dress shirts from a top religious leader, and then it was unearthed by the media that the religious leader was actually getting them from Men’s Warehouse for $39.99 each. (!) A big scandal ensued–which I was in the middle of living–when all of a sudden I heard two little indians galloping on their horses and hooting and hollering in the apartment above me. I was jarred awake.

And in an instant bad-mood.

You see, it was just before 7 am. And my day off.

I lay there for a moment, thinking it might stop.

It didn’t.

I got out of bed and found my umbrella on the doorknob. I poked at the ceiling a few times.

The galloping continued.

I prodded the ceiling with fervor.

It sounded like the rockettes had gotten totally wasted and then decided to hold rehearsals.

“I’ll take care of this,” I told Pablo, who promptly went back to sleep. I put on some clothes and marched upstairs.

And guess what I found on the other side of that door?

Not rockettes.

Not indians.

You guessed it. Frenchies!

As an aside, my new apartment is, as one friend put it, kind of bohemian. Barefoot in the Park-esque, he said. And that made me see things in a whole new way. Suddenly it was less of a firetrap and more of a refuge. True, there is a certain charm to it. It made me kind of proud of the fact that the shower is in the kitchen, and there are all kinds of random tourists lurking about, as the landlord seems to illegally rent most of the other apartments as a sort of rogue hotel.

But back to the Frenchie. Of course, the man who opened the door spoke little English. He was a doughy-faced man with little, round glasses. I knew I could take him. So I swooped in with my best French ‘tude.

“Do you know what time it is?!” I asked, flailing my hands in the air.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Your children are making a lot of noise.”

He stared at me.

“A LOT. I don’t know what they’re doing up there….” I blanked out. Holy shit, what is the word for gallop again? I began galloping in place.

The Frenchie remained expressionless.

Just then, a woman appeared from behind the door. “Oh it’s just the time change… they’re going to calm down now.”

And she disappeared again.

“It really bothers me.” I continued. “This is not a hotel, contrary to what you might think. I live here.”

Pause.

“It’s my day off.”

Pause.

“It’s 7 in the morning.”

He spoke: “Okay.”

“Okay?” I asked. “You aren’t even going to apologize?”

“Non,” he said.

“You owe me an apology,” I insisted.

“Last night someone was making a lot of noise. And I think it was YOU.” he said flatly.

I froze. I wasn’t even home last night, and when I did get home, I lounged on the couch reading an Agatha Christie novel. Could Pablo be leading a double life?

I looked at him coldly. “It wasn’t me. You need to control your children.”

We were in a stare-down. Finally, he acquiesced.

“Fine. Je m’excuse,” he mumbled.

“Bonne vacances,” I replied.

He shut the door.

And strangely, I felt a strange sense of calm come over me.

I felt the most peaceful I’ve felt in weeks.

But I never did find out what happened with the Men’s Warehouse shirt scandal.

The well-watched Frenchie

It isn’t hard to imagine how American television infiltrated France, just as much of American culture has been thrust upon the rest of the free world. But those Frenchies have made our TV shows their own.

You will be completely delighted by the French Dallas theme song:

Pour l’amour du risque (that would be Hart to Hart to us English speakers):

Starsky et Hutch:

Fraggle Rock:

Then there are several which have fabulously adorable names. See if you can guess what they are, then click on the links to see if you got it right:

• La petite maison dans la prairie
• Droles de Femmes
• La croisière s’amuse
• L’agence tous risques
• Alerte à Malibu
• Supercopter
• Des frères Scott
• Sherif fais-moi peur
• Ma sorcière bien-aimée
  
• Madame est servie
• Urgences
• L’homme qui tombe à pic
• Arnold et Willy
• L’homme qui valait 3 milliards

Interestingly, France wasn’t blessed with one of my personal favorites, Family Ties:

And we didn’t get to watch such Frenchie classics as Hélène et les garçons:

What other American shows were popular in France? I hope you’ll write in and add to the list!

J’adore this song, part 2

I don’t know why, but I absolutely LOVE this cheesy 80s song, SUPER NANA (translates to “Super Chick”), by Michel Jonasz.

The crowd’s pretty lame,  n’est pas? If that was a bunch of Americans, we’d all be going apeshit when it was our turn to sing, waving our lighters in the air and competing with each other for a little face-time in front of the camera.

Have a look and you will understand how this man can get away with having an S and a Z at the end of his name.

Les cloches de wedding sont ringing!

So, the word on the street is that Sarko is marrying his sweet cannoli on Thursday.

Wow, that Sarko is a doer!

The pomme de mon eye

Here’s some pictures from my visit last week to the home of Beeplet (also known as Lucy), BEPA’s daughter. Have I mentioned that this is the cutest baby on the entire planet (and the smartest, most charismatic, most user-friendly, sweetest…)?

Clearly she takes after her parents, who are two of the loveliest people I know.

I’m so smitten!

Holy shit! We are actually running?!

I invite you all to check out this young man’s new blog, We Are Running:

I know what you’re thinking, ladies. But sorry. He’s taken. He’s marrying my sister. So back off. She’ll cut you.

He’s also the mastermind behind my latest scheme, and that is to run, with him and my sister and his brother in law, a ten mile race in Philadelphia called The Broad Street Run.

So be sure to follow our training follies. Mind you, I have a majorly hard time walking up the 5 flights to my walk-up apartment, let alone running ten miles. So this should be a real test. A real mission impossible.

I’m kind of exhausted just thinking about it.

Open letter to Cecilia Sarkozy

Dear Cecilia,

You soooo said all that stuff.  And that’s one of the many reasons I think you are the shiznit.

Gros bisous,

The French Fried American

PS:  Do you think you might be able to hook me up with a carte de sejour?