Even though I can't drink the water, I'll be happy to give them some free advertising.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Your Turn!
It's been a bit of tough week here at the B&B. Kids sick, daddy sick, mommy sick, dogs still pooping in my flowers. Then, I heard all kinds of sad and horrible stories about things that are happening to people all over the planet and it's just made me sad and blue.
Hence, why I'm turing to you, my loyal readers, to tell me a story.
Lately, I've had one bit of good news and everytime I think about it, I smile and cry for good reasons. So help me here. Tell me something happy, funny, or give me a link to a laugh. I want more of that good feeling going on.
Hence, why I'm turing to you, my loyal readers, to tell me a story.
Lately, I've had one bit of good news and everytime I think about it, I smile and cry for good reasons. So help me here. Tell me something happy, funny, or give me a link to a laugh. I want more of that good feeling going on.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Is This Considered Cooking?
The tribe has become addicted to "sugar yogurt," a simple thing of taking natural plain yogurt and throwing huge spoonfuls of sugar in them, pretending to mix them well and then eating just the sugar that is now slightly tainted by that horrible natural yogurt taste.
A friend of mine, French-Me, recommended that I get my own yaourtiere or "yogurt maker" so that I can make our own natural stuff at home and hence save some money and also panic less about what doesn't get eaten.
The process seems simple enough. Put 2 teaspoons of all ready made/bought natural yogurt in each pot, add some milk, put on the lids and then the cover. Simply turn on the machine and 8-9 hours later, TA DA! You've got yogurt.
So today, me and tribe have done just that.
We've mixed the pots, put on the lids, and turned on the machine. It's sitting there. Next to the coffee maker. Doing apparently nothing. It's not hot, it's not shaking, it's not singing "Hallelujah." (Hallelujah!) It's just there. Looking ever so pretty.
I'm sure we've screwed up somewhere.
A friend of mine, French-Me, recommended that I get my own yaourtiere or "yogurt maker" so that I can make our own natural stuff at home and hence save some money and also panic less about what doesn't get eaten.
The process seems simple enough. Put 2 teaspoons of all ready made/bought natural yogurt in each pot, add some milk, put on the lids and then the cover. Simply turn on the machine and 8-9 hours later, TA DA! You've got yogurt.
So today, me and tribe have done just that.
We've mixed the pots, put on the lids, and turned on the machine. It's sitting there. Next to the coffee maker. Doing apparently nothing. It's not hot, it's not shaking, it's not singing "Hallelujah." (Hallelujah!) It's just there. Looking ever so pretty.
I'm sure we've screwed up somewhere.
I have a horrible feeling I've failed yet another attempt at becoming a domestic goddess.
"Typhon! Anouk! Abaka! TREAT!!"
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Who Needs Candles When You've Got Fireworks
It's gotta be nice to have an entire country splashing out on fireworks just to celebrate your birthday. Granted, it's the wrong country going crazy with the fireworks, but I don't think Stan minds too much.
You see, today is not only that wonderful American celebration of Independence, it is also the birthday of one of the nicest men on the planet, Stan, aka Grand-dad. Today this wonderful guy turns 83 and I think that deserves all the fanfare of a massive fireworks display.
He's a good egg, this Stan. Dedicated father, adorable in his role as a grandfather, and extremely patient with his foreign born daughter-in-law. As I've said in the past, I couldn't have asked for a better father-in-law. I'm not sure he can say the same about me, but we won't worry about that just now, will we?
So in conjunction with my annual Fourth of July Hug A Brit tradition, I'm celebrating the birthday of a man of class and charm, the birthday of a man who I admire and respect with all my heart. Enjoy your fireworks and a have a happy birthday, Stan!
You see, today is not only that wonderful American celebration of Independence, it is also the birthday of one of the nicest men on the planet, Stan, aka Grand-dad. Today this wonderful guy turns 83 and I think that deserves all the fanfare of a massive fireworks display.
He's a good egg, this Stan. Dedicated father, adorable in his role as a grandfather, and extremely patient with his foreign born daughter-in-law. As I've said in the past, I couldn't have asked for a better father-in-law. I'm not sure he can say the same about me, but we won't worry about that just now, will we?
So in conjunction with my annual Fourth of July Hug A Brit tradition, I'm celebrating the birthday of a man of class and charm, the birthday of a man who I admire and respect with all my heart. Enjoy your fireworks and a have a happy birthday, Stan!
Friday, July 3, 2009
Diff'rent Strokes A La Francaise
He doesn't know it really, but Bubba-Love is the French Arnold.
Just translate "whatch you talking about, Willis" to "qu'est-ce-que tu dis, Maman" and you've got it. Arnold and Buba-Love are even about the same height, weight, sport the same hair cut, and have the same pyjamas.
A fabulous example of life imitating art, once again. Just never expected it to be an 80s sit-com.
But now that I really think about it, what else could we have imitated? If the shoe fits...
Just translate "whatch you talking about, Willis" to "qu'est-ce-que tu dis, Maman" and you've got it. Arnold and Buba-Love are even about the same height, weight, sport the same hair cut, and have the same pyjamas.
A fabulous example of life imitating art, once again. Just never expected it to be an 80s sit-com.
But now that I really think about it, what else could we have imitated? If the shoe fits...
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Last Night, Chez Nous
8:30pm, FINALLY get all three big kids to bed after sips of water, trips to the potty and some very fun monster-under-the-bed smashing.
9pm, manage to get the Whoops to doze off in a milk induced sleep.
11pm, by this point, Hubster and I have finished dinner and our nightly ritual of watching the news and looking to see if we have any friends on Facebook. Wine bottle being empty, it's time for bed.
1am, Whoops needs milk. And like NOW.
1:45am, just as Whoops goes back to bed, Bubba-Love's legs start growing. Cue me fumbling around in the dark for the magic medicine and spilling half of it down his pyjamas. Nothing like sticking to your blankie is there?
2:15am, Anouk starts that strange bark she has that means, "I'm trying to tell you all that something's up." I have a sneaking suspicion that she really wants to be Lassie when she grows up.
2:22am, I'm outside in my sketchy pjs to see three huskies crowded around some sort of lump that is next to the basement door.
2:23am, I'm yelling to Hubster to come help me hold back the pack as I try to save the lump from certain death.
2:30am, I turn on the garden hose and like the best of riot police, keep the dogs away from the lump which has now been identified as a hedgehog.
2:40am, While Hubster gets the hedgehog to safety behind that nifty gate he put in a few months back, I'm strategically hosing down the dogs, the flowers, what could be grass, and my poor lavender bush. A song pops in my head and stays till dawn. Sing it with me, "gardening at night..."
2:45am, I turn off the hose and squelch barefoot through what I'm hoping was mud and not dog poop to get back into the house.
2:50am, Hubster and I collapse back in bed, safe in knowing that we've once again saved the world.
Needless to say, morning came early to us today. Amen for Hubster's super strong coffee. And bless that hedgehog, where ever he may be. I'm hoping he's holed up somewhere nice today. A good spot where he can recover from being used and abused as a football in the Husky World Cup.
9pm, manage to get the Whoops to doze off in a milk induced sleep.
11pm, by this point, Hubster and I have finished dinner and our nightly ritual of watching the news and looking to see if we have any friends on Facebook. Wine bottle being empty, it's time for bed.
1am, Whoops needs milk. And like NOW.
1:45am, just as Whoops goes back to bed, Bubba-Love's legs start growing. Cue me fumbling around in the dark for the magic medicine and spilling half of it down his pyjamas. Nothing like sticking to your blankie is there?
2:15am, Anouk starts that strange bark she has that means, "I'm trying to tell you all that something's up." I have a sneaking suspicion that she really wants to be Lassie when she grows up.
2:22am, I'm outside in my sketchy pjs to see three huskies crowded around some sort of lump that is next to the basement door.
2:23am, I'm yelling to Hubster to come help me hold back the pack as I try to save the lump from certain death.
2:30am, I turn on the garden hose and like the best of riot police, keep the dogs away from the lump which has now been identified as a hedgehog.
2:40am, While Hubster gets the hedgehog to safety behind that nifty gate he put in a few months back, I'm strategically hosing down the dogs, the flowers, what could be grass, and my poor lavender bush. A song pops in my head and stays till dawn. Sing it with me, "gardening at night..."
2:45am, I turn off the hose and squelch barefoot through what I'm hoping was mud and not dog poop to get back into the house.
2:50am, Hubster and I collapse back in bed, safe in knowing that we've once again saved the world.
Needless to say, morning came early to us today. Amen for Hubster's super strong coffee. And bless that hedgehog, where ever he may be. I'm hoping he's holed up somewhere nice today. A good spot where he can recover from being used and abused as a football in the Husky World Cup.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
I'm Either Getting Old or Turning Republican
So there I am, driving along with the kids in the car, as you do when everyone has an activity that they have to do every week in different places and different times, listening to the radio. I'm lazily tapping my fingers on the wheel, humming along, listening to the funny lyrics of the current song when all of a sudden I realized just what the singer was saying.
I think the title of the song is something along the lines of "F-you very much" or something.
Quickly, panic strikes. Once again, I'm forced to decided if I need to make a big deal out of this or hope that little b-box Bubba-Love doesn't learn all the words before I can change the station. I decided my best option is to slyly turn down the sound and play a fabulous round of "Did You Just See the Pink Elephant?"
Success.
Until about 5 minutes later and ANOTHER song comes on with some sort of lyric about "Dance Mother F-er, Dance." At that point, radio's off and I'm searching for a decent CD at a stop light. Luckily, my hands fall on James Blunt so in it goes.
Is it just me or are those f-word lyrics just hard on the ears? I know a lot of French people know and love using English four-letter words, but when did these words become so common place? Or have they? I used to be able to sing all kinds of horrible songs back when I was young, so what gives now? And by ignoring these words now, am I setting my kids up for trouble later? Should I just explain how horrible a word it is, thereby taking the risk I'll be hearing it instead of "stupid" for the next five years? AGAGHGHAAA. Decisions, decisions!
At that moment, James starts to sing, "Your Beautiful," and the chorus in back is right with him word for word. Right with him when he gets to the part about being, "f-ing high."
No luck with "Spot the Elephant" this time.
"Mom," The Princess pipes up. "What's that mean, to be f-ing high?"
So I respond as any self-respecting mother trapped in a station wagon with 6 ears waiting patiently for a detailed response would do,
"I'm not sure, babe. Ask your Dad."
I think the title of the song is something along the lines of "F-you very much" or something.
Quickly, panic strikes. Once again, I'm forced to decided if I need to make a big deal out of this or hope that little b-box Bubba-Love doesn't learn all the words before I can change the station. I decided my best option is to slyly turn down the sound and play a fabulous round of "Did You Just See the Pink Elephant?"
Success.
Until about 5 minutes later and ANOTHER song comes on with some sort of lyric about "Dance Mother F-er, Dance." At that point, radio's off and I'm searching for a decent CD at a stop light. Luckily, my hands fall on James Blunt so in it goes.
Is it just me or are those f-word lyrics just hard on the ears? I know a lot of French people know and love using English four-letter words, but when did these words become so common place? Or have they? I used to be able to sing all kinds of horrible songs back when I was young, so what gives now? And by ignoring these words now, am I setting my kids up for trouble later? Should I just explain how horrible a word it is, thereby taking the risk I'll be hearing it instead of "stupid" for the next five years? AGAGHGHAAA. Decisions, decisions!
At that moment, James starts to sing, "Your Beautiful," and the chorus in back is right with him word for word. Right with him when he gets to the part about being, "f-ing high."
No luck with "Spot the Elephant" this time.
"Mom," The Princess pipes up. "What's that mean, to be f-ing high?"
So I respond as any self-respecting mother trapped in a station wagon with 6 ears waiting patiently for a detailed response would do,
"I'm not sure, babe. Ask your Dad."
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