Test

I passed my exam.

Amerika, France, La Suisse

I am so tired.

All of the time.

My internal clock is like

Weird things my boyfriend says to me

Friday night while we are walking home from dinner

"Would you rather have a black baby or an asian baby?"

Converted to the world of girldom

So somehow I have ended up with a "do me" haircut. No, I do not mean the "come hither" kind. But the kind that 3/4s of all women have. The kind where you have to get up in the morning, take a shower, and spend 45 minutes with a blowdryer.

When I was 16 I got converted to makeup, a late bloomer, but at the behest of my stylish mother I caved to trying out "makeup that didn't look like I was wearing anything at all".

Converted to waxing. In some areas that won't be mentioned and lets face it, after the age of 14 they don't actually make bathing suits that can be worn without. Unless you are Swedish.

Now I have a handbag.

And perfume.

and it's not just girl world I've converted to but full blown Parisian status.

But getting back to what has brought on this blog entry: my haircut that requires a blow dryer.

I know why I resisted for so long. I have flights of "needing a change" (generally boyfriend related) and "I could try that, enter adult woman world" never end well. It is nice in the beginning, I love the style, pay the hairdresser, buy all the products, go home and two days later I look like a monkey with a blowdryer. Flailing arms, burning legs after momentarily setting down the still-on blow dryer, brushing and curling with the right then switching hands because my left hand is only meant to steady things - not actually perform movements, arms feeling like I've just done some sort of workout because they have been holding a blowdryer above my head for 50 minutes. And a 12 year old bobbed school girl haircut at the end instead of the sleek A-line haircut that frames my face.

Well, I'll just put a picture up so we remember what my great new haircut looked like before it died a loud, blowdryer screaming, expletive filled death. Thank you to my pregnant asian hairdresser. I would prefer an asian baby.

McDonald's

I go to McDonald's, a lot. It's like coming home. I know what is on the menu. I know how it tastes. It will only take me 10 minutes or less to get food. And I just have to eat, no shopping, no cutting on a cutting board too large for my 10 inch wide by 20 inch long counterspace, no cleaning up.

AND I order Happy Meals. I am Happy Meal sized, so it works. Plus, you get a toy. A small, shiny, brightly colored, plastic toy. That spits fire.

Sauce

Contrary to popular belief French dressing looks nothing like this

                                     

It is neither red, nor does it come in a bottle. Why this is called french, I am not sure. It could come from some small corner of France where some Kraft employee went 30 years ago. Or it might come from that same Kraft employee sitting around a board room table with the marketing team.

Either way, "La sauce pour la salade" is made just before serving the salad. It is always tossed (like Caesar salad) and has only 3 ingredients:

A small spoonful of mustard, 2 tablespoons of balsalmic vinegar and then 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Mix Mix Mix

I LIKE VARIETY. Like an aisle full of variety.

You know the kind, like any random grocery store.
      
                                       

So I get creative: dried herbs, lemon juice, pepper, cheese, chocolate chips, rainbow sprinkles.

Lovely

luuuuvvvvely

I probably shouldn't say this word. It sounds like I am trying to be all fancy and foreign. BUT, not only does that work in an international crowd (where most people learn British English) but it also feels so nice coming out of your mouth.

Lovelllly

Loooovely

Luuuuuvly

I think its a keeper.

Sorry people who might say I'm a poser. You're just going to have to suck it up.

Lovely.