The Rest of Paris


French soda.

Sorry but I like foreign soda cans. This won’t be the last ;-).


Paris Catacombs.

The Catacombs gave me a nightmare last night. Shiver.


French chat.

I apparently have the same eye color as this lovely Parisian chat.


Le Eiffel Tour Paris.

We stayed up extra late to close out our time in Paris with first Le Tour de France followed by waiting for the sun to go down to see this glorious sight.

Here is an umbrella apology for vacation typos. Updating WordPress from an app is not easy.

Next up: an update from Bordeaux.

Unpacking My Bags

Hey there! Coming to you from Mont Parnasse, in Paris France. It’s almost bedtime here. Only we are getting SO much sleep this should be a challenge. We hit the flat at 6 pm after a day exploring. We sleep or simply read for hours. Then we are ready to go again at 9:30 pm. When we go to sleep again at 12 midnight you’d think we’d be wide awake, but for the most part no.

This is where I admit the stress case I had become before we left. I went in to get some cover up days before we took flight and was shocked to see the bags under my eyes I didn’t even know existed. I mean, I was shopping for blemish cover up. But, the bags under my eyes were really bad.
So here we are, across the globe, unpacking the bags beneath my eyes. A little bit of fun, a whole lot of exercise, (and wine!) and Voila! Let the healing begin. Because, after all:
This too shall pass.



Going on an Adventure

Don’t ask me why but I’ve been having a horrible time figuring out how to tell you…

I’m headed off to a land far far away for a spell!

Les Eiffel Tour, Paris, photo courtesy of Michelle Pirreira.

Les Eiffel Tour, Paris, photo courtesy of Michelle Pirreira.

This is an exciting time and I hope to share pics with y’all here. You do your part: keep your eyes peeled, and I’ll do mine: swing by with pics here and there. It will be awhile until I’ll have “normal” posts for you, I fear. You’ll survive, right?

See you on the others side!


I’m the kind of girl who needs A and B to connect. Then, when we have that handled, B to C, C to D and beyond. You know, all the way to Z.

So when things don’t connect? I go a little nutty. Angst, discombobulation, the whole 9 yards.

Things are not connecting right now. Remember tinker toys and that satisfying pop when you pulled them apart and put them together? I’m missing that right now. Yes, it’s my own damn fault. But, where’s the pop?

Oh yeah, I know. It’s you. When my friends insist on getting together, no matter my resolve to say “No.” Then?

Then… “Pop!”

Even though my happenstance is really self afflicted, even though I am full of self-recrimination and all that jazz. Even though. I want to see my friends and hang out with them. They lift me out of my doldrums and give me a break from reality. There is nothing like leaving your life behind for an hour, two, five.

This is what you are for me. Pure, unadulterated “Pop.”

Thanks for that :-).


Parenting Rant

I wrote this a few weeks ago, but was afraid to share it. After re-reading it, I think some of y’all might appreciate it.

Enjoy :-).


Having a mommy moment here. Please excuse me while I run screaming naked down the street – from my daughters.

Let’s go back in time. I’m a young’n. My first baby is two-years-old. I’m lying on my side on the floor, utterly drained. Who knew how exhausted a stay at home mom could get? And she toddles over to me. That’s Bunny Wabbit for the record. She leans over on her tiny sausage legs and puts her hands on my cheeks and kisses me. Her smile is amazing, filled with trust and love. My heart is swollen ten times it’s size. I’m in love.

Fast forward fourteen years. There are two girls now. Both teens (or damn close to it.) And Bunny Wabbit? She’s almost my height. Looks a lot like a petit version of me, but exotic, and stunning. I’m still lying on the floor (metaphorically speaking,) still a sahm, still exhausted. Oh what a ride it’s been.

You see, I went into this parenting thing with stars in my eyes. Really? I think it was hormones, but who’s counting? I love these teenagers to pieces. What parent doesn’t love their babies, even if it’s furry children we’re talking about. Love them, sure. Life didn’t really get interesting, fun, or well, worth living until they came along. My own furry babies, a ferret, and two cats, weren’t enough for me to nurture so I had these biological children – on purpose. I keep reminding myself this. We were in active baby making mode both times.

Now here we are, seventeen plus years since I started this parenting nightmare adventure and I think you might need to put me in a mental health facility if one of them snarks at me one more time. Or rolls their eyes, just so.

Here’s a confession for you: I go through these phases when I won’t even look at Facebook because of the parent bragging going on. Yes I know you have beautiful, talented, wonderful, perfect children. I’ve met them. I’m proud of your kids too. So yay you! But, wait a minute here. Why doesn’t anyone share the downside too? Why do I have to break down in tears in front of the schools receptionist before I hear the black side of this parenting thing? That so many of you know what I’m going through, and yet won’t admit it?

Why, I ask, do we hide it? It’s hard. Really really hard shit and it should NOT be a secret that this is a very real, very scary side of having young ones.

Perhaps it would deter others from having children – is that the reason? Is it because we think it reflects on our parenting style? Our poor moral cloth? Being there are so many of us in so many different life situations raising our kids so many different ways and we all have the same issues – I think that really it’s only mildly a parenting issue. I’d say more so a teenager (insert age here) issue.


So this whole “challenge” has me sharing my story like the sad sahm that I am with just about anyone who questions my weird antics. From Target clerks wondering why I’m buying two alarm clocks (to add to the one that’s already in BW’s bedroom – the chica will NOT get out of bed in the morning,) to anyone who will listen.

So there I was, sharing my child’s – well, for lack of a better phrase “growing pains” with a guy I went to school with twenty-seven years ago, over Panera yumminess. He could relate, shared his own story, gave me a pep talk of sorts: “They’ll come out of it, one of these days.” This made me feel a trifle better. Then of course the receptionist crying right along with me saying, “Oh honey, it will get better.” She survived it. Is surviving it. She shared her story as well. That helped a ton.

Then I get a text from Little Bear at school. Bad morning this was. Both of the kids snarking and grumping at me. The basic gist of the text? “Mamma I don’t feel good. Sorry I was mean to you this morning. Can I come home?” My heart melts. Mamma. She called me mamma. Sigh.

Then bed time comes and BW has found the alarm clocks I’ve hidden throughout her room beneath the clothes she strews about. They’ve been unplugged and stowed where they won’t bother her. I of course, being the mother on a verge of a nervous breakdown, have a mommy tantrum. And does she bate me this time, like usual?

Nope. She does the thing she’s so very good at, the thing that’s part of the core of her being. She hugs me. Apologizes. Tells me she’ll try harder not to bate me anymore. Tears, love, heart growing, all that shit.

Damn those kids.

They can even ruin a perfectly good kid rant blog.