The Fly

For the past three days I have had a fly the size of a small Volkswagen buzzing about my house.  The fly was so big that the mutt, not used to taking on anything of that size, would growl at it.  I thought I had left the window open long enough for it to fly away to its huge fly mansion up in the West Hills or into some sinister, but much loved only for this purpose, spider web.  But just as I started to feel comfortable, I found out how oh so wrong I was.  

Yesterday I came downstairs to the mutt who was sitting in front of the living room window ledge, staring intently at this mutant insect who's size is, I'm sure a direct result of the global warming that I caused by driving into work instead of taking the MAX three times last week.  The mutt was going ballistic, barking as if this devil swamp creature was going to cart both of us off to someplace that doesn't have cookies or doggy daycare.

So last night I did what any rational person who is terrified of an insect the size of a small country would do.  I slept with my door shut and stuffed a towel at the bottom just to make sure that the rogue fly or any of its offspring couldn't get in.  So what if I died due to lack of oxygen, I'd rather that than be suffocated between two fingery, pokey, hairy claw like talons--have you SEEN how gross fly legs are?  The mutt and I awoke somewhat suspiciously this morning.  When we went downstairs, there was silence.  

I was relieved for about 3 seconds.  Because just when I thought nothing could freak me out more than a fly the size of North & South America combined, I realized that I closed all of my windows last night.  And if my Google search of fly life spans is correct, I now have a dead fly carcass to come across at some point.  And I can guarantee it will happen juuuuust as I'm starting to get comfortable.

Weekend ABC's - F is for Friends & French Girls

This is my girl crush, Clotilde.  She writes Chocolate & Zucchini, the food blog and her new book Clotilde's Edible Adventures in Paris was just released last month.  She epitomizes my phrase "I'd hate her if I didn't love her so much."  And she was at Powell's on Friday night.  (Please note the ease with which I overrode the question:  Is cell phone picture taking stalkerish and slightly creepy?)

If you haven't read C & Z, I'll give you the following recap:  Clotilde is 28.  She was born in Paris.  She moved to the Silicon Valley in 2000 because she is a genius computer engineer and that's where all the geniuses were in 2000.  She was inspired by California's fresh produce and spent a lot of her free time cooking and shopping for food.  She recognizes the irony of growing up in Paris but falling in love with food in California.  She moved back to Paris and started C & Z in 2003 when there were only about a dozen food blogs.  Now there are about 3 trillion.  She lives in Montmarte.  She cooks.  She shops at the Parisian markets.  She writes.  She wears cute clothes and gets to travel around the world doing book signings and readings.  I haaaaate.  But I also loooove.  

I was worried I'd make a complete ass out of myself.  Especially since the Bobs and I are staying in her neighborhood, Montmarte, when we go to Paris in September.  Would I come off as crazy groupie girl if I told her?  Should I pretend I was cool and act like I just happened upon her book signing and "oh, what a pleasant surprise!  No, I haven't read your archives one by one, tearing up during many of them."  I even asked Ems at work if my outfit was cute enough for Clotilde to think I could be her new best friend.  "Maybe if I tell her I'm staying in her neighborhood she'll say 'Oh good!  I'd really like to hang out with you more, here's my number I can tell we're going to be BFFs!  Let me show you where to get the best lemon curd tart."  And yes, Ems looked at me like you're looking at your screen right now.

Mrs. Bob, also a big fan of C & Z but way more chill about it, asked a nice question that Clotilde could answer.  And what did I do?  I told her that we were going to be renting an apartment in her neighborhood when we visited in September.  And then I waited.  I waited for her to tell me how much she can't wait to take us for lemon curd tarts when we visit.  But she just smiled and quickly signed my books with her Sharpie.  And then I waited some more.  And then she quickly signed Mrs. Bob's books with her Sharpie.  And then I waited some more.  And then Clotilde said "Bon voyage!"  And I'm sure she meant it as "have a great trip!" and not at all like "ok, stalkerazzi, get away from me you're creeping me out and yes, I will show you where you can get the best lemon curd tart, it's in my new book, which is precisely the reason I wrote it!  Now bye bye!"   

The Bobs and I had a great visit.  There was wine, there was brie, there were yummy cocktails at Henry's.  There was a chick flick while Mr. Bob went to go geocache with Baby Bob (Made of Honor.  Cute, but note to McDreamy, please do not ever try physical comedy again.  You may mess up your perfect hair and we just wouldn't be able to take it.)  There was a pass through Bridgeport's pretty stores and thus many feelings of home decorating inadequacy by Mrs. Bob and me which we promptly remedied by double scoops of Haagen Das ice cream in waffle cones.  There were revisits to favorite stores on Alberta St and burgers at Pause before I had to bid them adieu with a plea to Baby Bob to tell her parents that every weekend she wants to come down to Camp Portland.

And then SSG had to rally, because Friday night and Saturday were FULL.  And SSG is usually cross eyed by Friday night and goes to bed at 8:30 p.m. and then recovers from the week by staying in her p.j.'s all morning on Saturday and watching her cooking shows until Wade tells her to come over for drinks and yes she can wear her p.j's.  So she was tired and so was her little mutt.  But Dan and Co. were waiting to meet SSG at Papa Haydn at 10:30 p.m. (!).  At some point in the not so distant past, that used to be SSG's going out time.  When did it become waaaay past her bed time?

So I rallied, because I am young, hot, single woman and not tired, early bird special wanting retiree in Florida.  I met up with Dan, his new girlfriend Celia, Wes and Wes' wife--the cutest pregnant woman ever, Michelle.  And poor Celia, because she had to listen to the stories that poor Michelle has heard a million times before.  Stories about sardine cans and nuns out on country roads in the middle of the night and how I think Dan and Wes are feminists even though they don't think they are.  And that was before I even cracked open Papa Haydn's dessert menu.

But when I shut my mouth for a second and actually opened the dessert menu, there it was.  A Meyer Lemon Curd Tart.  

And I smiled to myself.  I may not live in Paris or have Clotilde as my BFF.  But my little corner of the world with these people as friends?   Sweet and filling, just like that lemon curd tart.

Hope you guys had a lovely weekend too, I missed you!

SSG