Rain, Rain, Seriously, Go the &%$# Away

Ah, Paris in springtime.  Strolls along the Seine, picnics in the park, cherry blossoms blooming, their petals floating on the breeze...

Unless there is rain.  Oh, has there been rain.

And unfortunately, I'm not a crackpot like Woody Allen who is convinced that Paris is more beautiful in the rain.  Every time that got brought up in Midnight in Paris, I threw up a little in my mouth and started sympathizing with Rachel McAdams'  character, who the audience is supposed to thoroughly despise.  The only people who can get away with claiming that "Paris is so lovely in the rain" are those from a desert climate.  Otherwise, they're probably just trying to get into someone's pants (I'm so sensitive! Walk in the rain with me back to my hotel so I can read you some of my poetry!).

I have vague memories of being shown some weird movie in elementary school about a dystopian future in which the human race had fled to a planet where it rained constantly, and the sun only shone for one hour every seven years.  And some poor little girl, who was one of the last refugees to flee from Earth, is ostracized by her jealous classmates because she remembers what it's like to go outside in the sunshine and they don't.  And so, when the one freaking hour of sunshine comes, they lock her in a closet.  But then they feel bad and bring her the flowers that bloomed as a result of the planet's one hour exposure to whatever it is in sunlight that makes plants grow.  My teacher, Mrs. Meyers, tried to convince us that the fact that these kids had brought this girl flowers was somehow a reconciliation.  I seethed (still seeth- I really need to let go of some of my anger issues), thinking no, they shouldn't have LOCKED HER IN THE CLOSET TO BEGIN WITH, AND THEY SHOULD BE PUNISHED.  JERKS.

Anyway, tangent.  But yes, I feel like I have somehow fallen down a wormhole and ended up in an alternate universe that's exactly like Paris except that the sun will not reappear for another seven years.  The weather.com forecast only goes as far as 10 days, and so far, it seems that there's no end in sight, so as far as I'm concerned it's possible.

The real kicker is, of course, that when summer comes and I am roughly the size of Pluto it will be dry as a bone and hot as Hades.  And then I will cry out in anguish, wondering why, why I ever dared to speak against the cool, rainy springtime.  I've already made AH promise not to throw this in my face when that time comes (mostly because I fear that, in my rage, I would simply roll over and squish him in vengeance, and I'd prefer to keep him unsquished).

We did have one brief hour of, well, not sunlight exactly, but not utter downpour last week, and so I hastened over the park for a bit of whatever Vitamin D I could scrounge up.  And what delightful surprise should greet me but these delightful fellows:

See?  Someone's out there enjoying this weather.  Now if it would just clear up long enough for me to venture back over there and resume my baybeh duck stalking, all will be well with the world...

Allison in French Medical System Land

First of all, I apologize for my infrequent posting as of late.  Mostly this has been due to a cluster-f of work and school, but also because much of my non school/work life is taken up with baby stuff.  And, as there is certainly no shortage of mommy and pregnancy blogs (written by women much wittier than I), I am struggling to find suitable Frenchy French adventures to relate to that don't involve le croissant dans le four.  And so while I don't want to begin inundating you with baby-related musings, this whole being knocked-up abroad thing has given me new insights into some particular aspects of life in France that were previously unknown to me.  Chief among these is an up-close view of the mysterious creature that is the French medical system. While there are several episodes to choose from (I may someday have to tell you about my first ultrasound, aka The Time I Encountered the Dildo Camera of Doom), most telling is perhaps the beginning of this whole bebe saga (well, not the actual beginning.  I'm guessing you know how that works.  If not, ask your mother).

We travel way back to the chilly, desolate Parisian days of January 2012 (for a refresher, check out "Pack Up the Wine, Break Out the Vodka."  Really, just looking at the picture will suffice).  Despite three negative home pregnancy tests, my lady-time remained on extended holiday, and thus I found myself making my first doctor's appointment in France with a GP I found through a list recommending English-speaking doctors in my area.  Except that this is France, and so of course I arrive at this woman's office to find that she has gone on vacation and that her substitute speaks nary a word of anglais.  Now, there are plenty of situations that I have become comfortable fumbling my way through with my limited French.  Most of these situations involve food, and the most dire consequence of a misunderstanding is that my steak comes under-cooked.  But figuring out whether or not there is another life form taking up residence in your body is not a situation where you want to be missing out on nuance.  

Somehow, we managed to communicate enough that I found myself up on her table as she poked around on my uterus.  She shrugged, and told me that yes, despite the negative pregnancy tests, I was probably with child.  Before I knew it she was sitting down and writing up prescriptions for me to take to the blood lab.  In addition to testing whether or not there was a friendly parasite in my uterus, I also needed to test whether or not I had toxoplasmos, aka Cat Piss Disease.  Apparently cats here can carry this virus that, while only a minor annoyance to a healthy adult, is quite problematic for in-utero persons.  Thus, not yet even certain I was with child, I found myself with quite the list of what I could and could not be consuming (goodbye, brie!  Goodbye, wine!  Goodbye, raw vegetables, sushi, and steak tartar!), along with directions to the nearest blood lab.

Oh yes, that's right.  Getting medical care in France is never a one-stop shopping experience.  Just as running errand involves trips to several different tiny shops (sometimes involving metro transfers) rather than one quick in-and-out to Target, going to the doctor means that you'll probably be sent to a lab or a specialist somewhere else, too.  And so off to the blood lab I went, managed to communicate what I needed, got stuck with a needle and sent home with instructions to return the next day.  Because, oh yes, that is the other fun thing about French medical care.  Test results are not sent to your doctor, you pick them up directly.

Which leads to the next part of this adventure: me, anxious as all hell, returning at 5:30 on the dot the next day to get my results.  Now, I'm not sure what I was expecting: that "FELICITATIONS!!!!!" would be written in all caps across the top?  That confetti would fall out?  That it would be like one of those expensive singing cards at hallmark?  A laser light show?  Regardless, I was (perhaps foolishly) unprepared to be faced with several pages of medicalese (hormone levels, etc.), all in French, naturally. After several weeks of being on edge, it was the equivalent of getting to the end of a 500 page novel only to find out that "it was all a dream."  I was displeased.

On my way home I sat down in my beautiful Parc Montsouris, pouring over the results, trying to make some sense of it.  Which is, of course, the exact moment that the cranky park police (seriously, French equivalent of mall cops: douchebags with power issues who have been given whistles and a modicum of control over other people) decided to start blowing their whistles to let everyone know that it was time to go home.  One particular douchebag avec whistle decided that I wasn't moving fast enough, and thus decided to walk directly up to me and blow his whistle in my face.

Me: I KNOW, I KNOW.
DBaW: (in snooty French accent, natch) Well, if YOU KNOW, then MOVE.

Curled up in my room, panicking on the phone to AH, I could not see how this would end well.  If I wasn't pregnant, then I had not been visited by Aunt Flo for an awfully long time with no other medical explanation offered.  But if I was...if I was, I did not see how this could possibly be an auspicious beginning.  I've always loved babies and children, and I've been pretty certain that I'd be sort of ok at the whole motherhood thing, but damn, if I was pregnant then this was my first test of motherhood, and I was failing miserably.  If just finding out whether or not I was having a baby was this complicated, and I found myself this unequal to the challenge, how would I possibly cope with the challenges of having a baby that would eventually be more than an apple pip in my stomach- how would I handle a living, breathing human being totally dependent upon me and my competence level at surviving in the world?

And then I noticed three little letters, halfway down the second page: HCG.  I had seen those before; they were printed on the home pregnancy test boxes that were still in my recycling bin.  And there was a number next to them.  A relatively small number, but a number that meant that it was no fluke: I was going to have a baby.  And then everything slowed down just a little bit...

Prego!*

And we return from the Boot, excited to share the happy news that little FT is going to have a twin!  That's right, after a week spent in Rome, I have grown what can only be described as a pasta baby, and it has taken up residence in my gut flab!  We really couldn't be happier.

And now, onto sharing some highlights and lowlights, via a few of the approximately 8 million pictures I took:

First Evening

We arrive to find that our hotel room has a bidet.  Wikipedia tells us that this is like a sink/toilet that you can use to wash your naughty bits.  We stick to using it to wash our feet, and it actually ends up proving quite useful in this regard.  Also, we discover that the view from our hotel room is this:

Broken stationery bike equipment.  Would not have guessed that one in a million years; it's a good thing we didn't have a bet going.  Luckily, we don't spend much time in the hotel room (other than to sleep, which we do a lot of).

Day 1: The Trevi Fountain

If this fountain looks familiar, it might be because you've seen the famous clip of Anita Ekberg frolicking seductively about in it from La Dolce Vita.  Alas, we had no buxom blonde actresses (that I saw), but what we lacked in iconic beauties we made up for in rabid hordes of tourists in visors and fanny packs, as well as men selling bubble guns that emitted a high-pitched frequency.  Still, it was more than worth it to patiently stake out a spot to sit and enjoy the view for a while.

Also awesome: the fact that we came across this on one of the free walking tours that we downloaded.  We did several of those, and it was a great way to get an idea of what you were looking at (beyond, "Marble! Water! Naked guys!") without having to shell out for a tour guide that may or may not suck.  Plus it allowed us to go at preggo-pace (aka slowly and allowing for lots of toilet and gelato breaks).  I highly recommend this for anyone planning on travelling soon; Rick Steves has some great (free!) ones available.

Day 2: Santa Maria di Trastavere

After hearing from friends that Trastavere was a great place to wander around for an afternoon, AH and I decided to meander over to Piazza di Trastavere to check out the sights.  Gelato was consumed (albeit with several location changes to avoid the human ash-trays around me; seriously, trying to avoid second-hand smoke while pregnant in Europe is like trying to avoid sand at the beach), and we began to plot our next move.  Would it be worth it to check out that little church on the square, we wondered?

Why, yes.  Yes it would.

However, the evening ends on a sad note:

I get a splinter in my foot, and poor AH has to spend an hour with a needle, tweezers, and some rubbing alcohol trying to get it out.  Hey, we keep the party KRAZEE!!!!

Day 3: Saint Peter's

We spent most of the day at the Vatican museum (which I think might constitute a whole post of its own), and then high-tailed it over to Saint Peter's to gawk and gaze for the last 30 minutes of its open hours.  One revelation that I had while in Rome was that living in Paris has made it much harder for me to be overwhelmed by my surroundings ("Oh, that statue was built when?  The 19th century? YAWN," compared to my former existence of "These columns date all the way back to the 1970's").  But Saint Peter's certainly did the trick: floor to ceiling opulence in every possible direction.

And yes, AH and I attempted a few FT pictures.  For those of you who have been requesting a "bump" shot, this is about as close as we can get right now, and I'm ashamed to admit that I'm actually sticking my gut out in that picture.  I never thought I'd see the day when I stick my gut out (which I usually try to minimize as much as possible) the way that 12-year-old girls push their arms together in a sad attempt at giving themselves cleavage.

I would be remiss if I did not mention the awesome dinner we had that night at a place called Porte Castello, a little family-run place just a few minutes from Castel Sant Angelo.  It was unbelievably cheap, the service was friendly and prompt (when AH's grilled bass was brought out with scales, gills, and eyes that looked like they had seen too much, the waiter offered to de-bone it for him), and, most importantly, the food was ah-mazing.  The spaghetti with (cooked) mussels will quite possibly go down in my personal history as the best pasta I have ever tasted- perfectly cooked, rich but not too oily, and garlicky and spicy without being overwhelming.  Perfection.

Day 4: The Colosseum and the Forum

While we had a minor snafu getting our tickets (after waiting in line for 25 minutes, we get to the front of the line to discover a tiny, inconspicuous sign telling us that no credit cards were accepted.  We were 1 euro short in cash.  Thus a trek around to the other side of the Palantine ensued, where we waited for another 30 minutes behind the 10th tour group of French teenagers we'd encountered that week), the Colosseum and Forum were definitely worth the frustration.  Thanks to Rick Steves, we learned all about what an actual day at the Colosseum would have been like back in Rome's heyday (hint: they had to perfume the stands to drown out the stench of carnage), and we learned that the scattered rocks and columns of the Forum used to make up the temples and buildings that were the heart of ancient Rome.  Note: if you ever fall down a wormhole and end up in ancient Rome, do NOT attempt to pass yourself off as a vestal virgin, no matter how swanky their digs are.  They got dragged through town naked and buried alive if people found out they were less than virginal. 

Day 5: Good Coffee and the Catacombs of St. Priscilla

Finally, on our last day in Rome, we were able to track down Sant Eustachio, the espresso bar that came highly recommended to us by friends.  Surprisingly cheap for how completely excellent it was, I think AH's only regret there is that we didn't discover it sooner so that he could have had it every day.  They even served decaf cappucinos so that pregos like me could have our fix, too.

Perhaps our biggest coup of the week was getting outside the city to see the amazing (well, if you're a seminary student, or at all interested in early Christianity) catacombs of St. Priscilla, a burial complex for the early Roman Christian community.  AH and I were looking forward to booking a guided tour, but balked when we found out that it would cost 100 E for the two of us, and stumbled across some fairly negative reviews of the tour company.  Luckily a little extra research paid off, and we were able to figure out a good route out of town via public transport.  Our efforts definitely paid off: we were rewarded with an English guided tour of the catacombs and its stunning frescoes; my favorite was one of the Last Supper that depicted women around the table communing with the men (this was the 2nd century CE, and women's roles in the church are really still A Thing?).  Alas, no pictures allowed, so you'll just have to take my word that it was awesome, and definitely worth checking out if you're ever in the area.

While we had an unquestionably amazing time in Rome, as AH has said, some parts of our experience began to clue us in as to why Italy is having such horrid economic problems (glass houses, yes I am aware).  In addition to our little snafu getting tickets for the Colosseum (would it have been so terribly difficult to put that notice at, say, the front of the line?), the public transport left something to be desired.  To be fair the metro system is limited (only two lines) because there is an extremely limited area where they can build massive underground structures without disturbing important archaeological sites.  However, getting around the endless, depressing maze of the Termini station (the only station where the two lines intersect), you would think that you were at Chatelet les Halles, not a station at which there were only two metro lines, leaving four possible trains that one could take. TERMINI, WHY YOU SO BIG AND CONFUSING?

So while I think that taking up permanent residence in Rome would lead only to bald spots (from pulling my hair out), it definitely made for an excellent babymoon, a quite possibly-last hurrah of AH and I as a duo before we become a trio.  And if that last paragraph has left you in doubt as to my lingering feelings about the eternal city, let me remind you that I am well aware that I have gone from this:

And this:

And this:

Oh, and this, too:

Back to this:

*The irony was not lost on AH and I that for our babymoon we chose to venture to a land where the most common phrase that we heard from the locals that we interacted with was "prego."

A Letter to My Fellow Traveler

To My Dear, Dear Fellow Traveler,

It was nearly two years ago that your father sent me the now-legendary text message: "Hey, want to move to Paris?", kicking off a short, frenzied series of discussions about whether or not we could possibly envision ourselves in a foreign country, learning a new language, untangling ourselves from nearly everything familiar and comfortable.  But we knew then, and that knowledge has since been solidified into a certain fact of existence, that we would always have a safe harbor in one another.  So why not take that harbor to somewhere with better bread and more vacation time?

Back then it seemed that life could offer no greater adventure than life and romance in another country.  But, dear one, as we looked at our first pictures of you (well, the first pictures where you had a face and no tail), punching your tiny fists at the ultrasound technician who was treating my uterus like bread dough in need of kneading, we knew that, once again, our lives were about to completely unmake and then remake themselves again.  Only this time, we will be the harbor, and you will be our little ship.

You, darling, our now our Fellow Traveler.  You have already expressed a preference for Alsacien cooking, but a distaste for fresh green things.  I'm hoping that next week in Rome that you find that you enjoy pizza and gelato.  And when we travel to Germany (by which time, hopefully, you will have made the tiny studio apartment of my uterus into something more condo-like), I hope that you discover a love of sausage and non-alcoholic beer.

But, my love, even if despite the best of efforts you come to demand chicken nuggets over poulet roti, powdered orange cheese over brie, Dora the Explorer over children's museums, you will still be the greatest adventure of our lives.  And we cannot wait to meet you.

Love,
Your Mother

Cows, Mullets, and...Tartiflette?

This past weekend AH and I were lucky enough to attend la Salon d'Agriculture.  Being that I've been having some minor bouts of homesickness lately (only partially satisfied by AH's willingness to somehow track down all the ingredients to make cheesy potato casserole), let's see how this event stacked up against it's closest U.S. equivalent, the State Fair:

Whoa, are we in Ohio?:  Cows!  Lots and lots of cows! (And sheep, and pigs, etc.).

Nope, still France:  As you may have noticed it is not quite summertime (although I swear it's a matter of mere weeks before I'm gallivanting about coatless again), so the event was held in a large expo center.  Just not quite State Fair-like if it's not so hot that your thighs stick to the pleather seat of the death-trap of a ride you're exiting.

Whoa, are we in Ohio?:  Ridiculous-looking chickens.  They are my FAVORITE THINGS.

Nope, still France:  I saw all manner of curious chickens back in my days at the Ohio State Fair, but this was definitely my first fancy pigeon with curly feathers.

Whoa, are we in Ohio?: Bunnehs! Big, fat, tubsy rolly bunnehs!  And look:

It's a Californian!  However...

Nope,  still France: This, as AH the former country boy pointed out me, was a meat rabbit.  And the difference is that here, there is actually a chance that this cute little critter could end up on a plate in a restaurant not far from my table.

Whoa, are we in Ohio?:  Booths selling cowbells (and here is the link, since I know you want to go and watch it now: http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/80a71ef8cb/more-cowbell)

We'd better still be in France:  Because this way I can chalk this up to some poor French person mistakenly hearing from some delusional crackpot that the Confederate flag is actually an American symbol of state's rights.

Yup, definitely France: the food booths were all regional specialties, so lots of sausages and wine, and not a deep-fryer as far as the eye could see.

Yup, France:  Wow, their version of being tacky is putting down fake cobblestone carpeting.  Step back and let the Big Boys show you how tacky is done, my friends.

I'm...not sure?:  A marching band made up of people dressed as chefs?

Yeah, I can't...:  Giant papier mache goose?

Ohio!:  Aww look, it's a golden retriever!

Adorably imperialistic and snooty looking cat? Yeah, I'm giving this one to France.

Ok, time for final stack-up...

A Native American on an American flag.

"Oh really," says France.  "I'll see your silly flag and raise you...

brioche made in the shape of la Tour Eiffel!" 

"Fine," says Ohio.  "Native American on a flag didn't do it.  How about...

"JOHN MOTHER F-ING WAYNE? Seriously, the only way I could make that more American is to deep-fry it."

"Amusing," says France.  "But I shall remove the possibility of any further comparisons between our celebration of our sacred terrior to your silly State Fairs thusly: 

BEHOLD!  IT IS A VACHE IN A BERET!  SUCK IT!" 

Oh France, you win again.  Although I did see enough people with mullets to being counting them (my favorite State Fair game), so maybe I should say we all lose.

The French Are Skinnier Than You, And Their Children Poop Gold

...and the frost has (mostly) abated!  We are happily back to a reasonable average of 40 degrees Fahrenheit, which means I can leave my house again without wearing several layers of pants.  Alas, this also means that I can no longer claim that the impressive leg hair I've been cultivating is for insulation purposes (hint: it's actually for lazy purposes.  And because AH is the only person who sees my legs in winter, and Lord knows he doesn't have any business calling me out on my hairiness).

Even with more cooperative weather, I am still spending much time indoors shackled to my computer, alternating reading Paradise Lost (no, the past seven years have not managed to make that book any more interesting) with procrastinating via the internets.  And something that has been popping up on my radar the past week or so has been this:

http://www.npr.org/books/titles/146199585/bringing-up-bebe-one-american-mother-discovers-the-wisdom-of-french-parenting#excerpt

Pamela Druckerman's book Bringing Up Bebe.  Seeing as how I generally roll my eyes and try to ignore the latest "Americans Blindly Fetishizing the French" craze (Eat like the French!  Dress like the French!  Pee in public places like the French!), I was going to blithely move past this and tell you all about my lovely trip to the Petite Palais.  Howevs, it has come up enough in conversation with expat friends here, as well as folks at home, that I feel compelled to put my two cents in (what else is a blog but the assumption that people will be interested in at least one of your two proffered cents?).

So, having not read the actual book (duh), but having read several interviews with the author, from reading the anecdotes that she relates, here's my impression on what she means by her "French parents are better at parenting than American parents" claim:  French parents expect their children to develop their independence earlier, and they are less afraid to scold and discipline their children. 

Now obviously, having not read the book, I'm sure I'm leaving out much subtlety and nuance.  But my general reaction was: yeah, sounds like the way my parents raised me.  I knew from an early age that it was rude to interrupt an adult conversation.  By the time I was four, I was being dragged to my older sister's swim meets on weekends, left with a small bag of Disney figurines to entertain myself for four hours in a natitorium.  And yet I don't think my parents ever served so much as a croissant for breakfast, so there's no chalking those expectations up to Continental influence (seriously, look up "red-blooded American male" in the dictionary, and I think there just might be a picture of my dad there).

I realize that I'm at a disadvantage in my observations of French parenting, having no broodlings myself as of yet.  But I do spend an awful lot of time on playgrounds and at school pick-ups (with the children I babysit for, not because I'm a creeper).  And I've seen a lot of things that I appreciate about general French parenting attitudes.  The author was spot on in her assessment that children are expected to run off and play, leaving the parents free to chat.  Not only is this nice for the parents, but, I think, beneficial to the children as well: I have yet to see a helicopter mom standing directly behind her seven-year-old on the playground, telling him to hold the bar with both hands.  However, while I'm all for children being encouraged to be independent, I've also seen this attitude manifested as: I don't care what my kid is doing as long as he's not bothering me.  My eight-year-old just pushed a two-year-old off of the slide?  He's running around beating that little girl with a stick?  Fine, as long as he confines his screeching to that side of the playground, and I can continue typing on my Blackberry in peace.

Another anecdote that the author relates is all of the quiet children that she sees sitting in restaurants.  And yes, like any other person with ears, I prefer to eat my lunch unaccompanied by a loud, rousing version of "The Wheels on the Bus," or that perennial favorite, "SHE'S TOUCHING ME, MOOOOOOOM!".  But again, I have seen this wonder of quiet children in public places achieved, not through the firm but authoritative "no" that Druckerman seems to believe is the main weapon in the French parent's arsenal, but through harsh, belittling words that leave child looking utterly defeated. 

Here, adults (any adults, not just parents) seem to have no qualms speaking harshly and rudely to children.  Example: the salope on the bus that took my sweet little five-year-old munchkin to task for DARING to remove a newspaper that she had set on a seat (yes, on a crowded bus, at rush hour, this woman thought that both she AND her newspaper were entitled to seats).  Luckily, her older brother told this woman off like it was nothing (bless his heart), since my furious and disapproving glare were apparently not sufficient.

Having said this, I don't want to give the impression that every French household has a chokey and that cranky French women routinely lift little girls up by their pigtails and shot-put them over fences.  I have met many loving, gentle French parents, as well as some truly wonderful French children that seem perfectly un-traumatized.  But I also take issue with the presentation of these parenting ideas: once again, the French are in on some great secret that Americans are too busy watching cat videos on youtube to pick up on.  Yes, French mothers eat as many baugettes as they want and still stay thin and chic, AND their children are quiet, polite, and are changing their own diapers by the time they're two months old.  But I think that if most Americans knew that the trade-off for being able to have your three-year-old sit quietly through a meal at a high-end restaurant was that, when he gets to school, teachers will announce the children's grades to the class and tear up assignments that weren't done to their specifications, I don't think most parents would be willing to make the trade.

Pack Up the Wine, Break Out the Vodka

Apologies for the radio silence.  Howevs, this past week Paris has been having an identity crisis in that it thinks it is Siberia.  And OF COURSE this would be the week that I'm reading all sorts of status updates from my friends back in the Midwest who are talking their beautiful, unseasonably warm weather (and to those of you who talked about grilling out, my envy runs deeper than you know) so I've even lost my "Oh, the winters in Paris aren't that bad at all!" smugness.  Bah.  Instead, I've been hibernating, staying in to do homework and watching the extended editions of Lord of the Rings with AH.  These are certainly little pleasures in their own rights (AH and I have been seeing how many Chuck Norris jokes we can make during our LOTR viewings), but alas, not as interesting as, say, Pantsless Jesus.

Exactly how cold has it been?  This Sunday was the first Sunday of the month, when all the museums in Paris are free.  Also, this was my by-week for teaching the wee ones about Jesus, so I didn't need to be at church until 1:30 in the afternoon.  Plans were made to visit the Grand Palais.  And then AH and I woke up Sunday morning, only to have the internet tell us that it was 12 degrees (yes, Fahrenheit) outside.  We opted instead to wake up, eat breakfast, watch an episode of Modern Family, and then take a nap.  Seriously.  We have become bears.

We did have our first snow this week.  A light dusting, but still enough to send the more whimsical and child-like of my acquaintances to frolicking.  Seeing as I've been wearing leggings under my jeans and several sweaters under my winter coat, and still feeling like I'm moments away from this:

I decided that I would frolic privately in my mind while drinking hot tea.  So here's hoping that as the weather warms up, I'll actually be forced to leave the apartment on a more regular basis and go back to doing Frenchy French things.  But hey, I do have at least one small consolation until then.  At least I'm not the French guy who's going to come downstairs, expecting to dash off to a cafe, only to make this discovery: