through the blue doors

Jean-David and I have recently moved. Our old apartment was furnished and our new apartment was empty. And that means one thing and one thing only…

IKEA!

Call me a sell-out…but whatever…anyone who sneers at Ikea has it all wrong. I spent hours poring over the Ikea catalogue and website imbibing in the sheer simplicity and neat-space-saving-tips-and-tricks chartered by those thrifty Swedes. From the Karlstad convertible couch (You got a plane ticket? We got a couch!) to the stroudlflunginflieegneshtieninflurb (the bar that holds utensils in the kitchen) we were ready for our big Ikea adventure.

Saturday morning came and I bounded out of bed…willing to skip my morning Nesspresso (I’m sorry…have you seen George Clooney?) in order to be amongst the first walking through those gigantic blue doors.

Bliss. You can eat meatballs and shop for kitchen cabinets and cushions all at once. Ah! The sweet ambrosia that is Ikea! I forgot about my meticulously researched list and went Ikrazay! Shiny! New! Cunning hazaa…magical storage!!

But then-we reached the end of the perfectly decorated display rooms.

Gone were the great lighting schemes, the plump couches and groovy geometric throws. We had crossed over.

To the moment when Ikea becomes h-e-double-hockey-sticks.

The cardboard covered furniture labyrinth hell is only the start to what is known only as the Ikea Inferno…

That great bedframe you had to have and was a steal at $89?

Five hours of your life later, this chic Engan bedframe is built in only 27 steps…or well 32 including the major fight you got into over what to do during step 18 (which was incomprehensible), the pizzas you ordered, the tears you succumbed to when you finally realized that the dinglehopper goes over the schmadoodle and not under it…the hiding of the extra bits and bobs you couldn’t quite figure out to do with and of course the ceremonial burning of the instructional booklet…

2 kullens, 1 engan, 1 lillangen, 1 karlstad (did you know you actually have to build your own couch?!), 1 expedit, 1 asksvist, 1 pax, 1 gormet, 8 lacks, and 1 big scdkoriso;sdfodufluferen and our apartment was furnished!

I’m just ignoring the pile of shelves sitting in the corner of our bedroom.

Anyway, whatever. I can't wait to go back.

the cherry on my monday

Today started out fine and dandy. I had a great voice lesson. My voice teacher was all compliments, I even got a "good honey!", praise for my nice shiney b-flat, and the very first "honey" I have received in the almost two years we have been working together.

With the remenants of my singing glow I organized the rest of my afternoon before work on the metro. I would be grocery shopping (half hour) making lunch (a salad inspired by a restaurant called Chez Gladines) to be eaten whilst watching a 22 minute episode of Sex and the City followed by an hour of practicing (25 minutes learning the first and second movements of Shostakovich followed by 35 minutes of Bach)...a swell plan if I do say so myself...

15 minutes behind schedule (I really can never tear myself away from the cheese aisle) I was running around putting away the groceries, turning on the heat, frying the potatoes, washing lettuce, setting up the music stand, when while I was simaltaneously cutting tomatoes with a serrated knife and mixing a salad dressing I had an accident. A split second of poor concentration and the top of my thumb was bleeding like the dickens. Enter multiple four to six letter words here (there may have been dual-lingual cussing going on)...

I ran cold water over my boo-boo and reached one handed to grab paper towels, which of course fell on the floor at the same moment the tomatoes fell into the sink along with the cutting board and damned knife..so I am stooping for the towels, turning off the water, trying to get my thumb to stop bleeding and opening the window to rid the kitchen of the acrid odor of my potatoes burning...once I finally got the kitchen situation "under control" I ran to the bathroom and grabbed band-aids and neosporin and did the whole one-handed-band-aid-opening-magic-trick.

Finally my thumb is bandaged, I eat my salad, watch my episode and whip out my cello, warm up, start Shostakovich when my bleeping band-aid has bled through! Another three minute trip to the bathroom (at this point neosporin is smeared on the mirror, sink, and door handle) before I start practicing again. At five minutes till departure time I was very perplexed to see the tip of my bandage was already brown...but impossible! I had literally just put on 4 band-aids!

That is when I looked at the neck of precious Mr. Cello and there it was folks, the veritable cherry on my Monday...blood all up on Mr. Cello's neck, he was not a happy camper, nor was I when I had to re-roll the paper towels (still on the floor) and clean up yet another mess, you can imgaine the creative usage of four to six letter words exploding out of my mouth.

Mr. Cello safely desposed of and blood free, I upped the band-aid count and left the apartment a big fat mess. Something nice to look forward to when I get home...

Lauren: 0 points
Serrated knife from Ikea: 13 band-aids and counting

pinterest

One of my daily routines (and guilty pleasures) is reading through all of the Facebook posts on the metro. I can spend pretty much an entire ride immersed in other people’s lives. Big Brother and all that aside, I’m not ashamed that I too was excited to see the video of Kirsten Bell on Ellen having her sloth meltdown…

Soooo when I continued to see the word pinterest cropping up in people’s posts I thought to myself…hmmm…this can’t just be some hip new word I missed out on since I've moved across the pond...

And it wasn’t!

I googled pinterest.

I have now signed up for pinterest.

And I will now be joining the millions of other people indulging themselves in finally finding that 57th cheesecake recipe or how to make a cute cellphone holder out of your old coffee-filters, or drooling over someone’s newly re-tiled and exquisitely photographed laundry room...

Pinterest has made me giddy. Although, who knows how on earth I’ll be able to use it considering I still have trouble locating my spellcheck on the updated Word….

lazy sunday

I used to love Sundays. Last year Sunday meant buying a roast chicken and devouring it in front of the television and then maybe taking a nap, having coffee with friends, taking a lovely Sunday stroll through the city, making chicken stock and then going to sleep.

My luxurious Sundays are no more. Now on Sunday I’m up at the crack of 11am…donning my work-out gear, plastering on a smile and shaking my bootay –to-the-beat in front of a bunch of sweating Parisians…or to sum up in one word…ZUMBAAAA! And to answer the question…yes becoming a Zumba instructor has kinda, sorta ruined Zumba for me. Great for my waist-line (yes I finally have one!) and a nice little extra-income...but sadly I don’t think I will be taking a Zumba class ever again. Heaven forbid…I would be analyzing the choreography, wondering where the music came from and watching to see how my fellow booty-shakers were enjoying the class…

As if teaching two classes in a row weren’t bad enough (yes I have dropped two dress sizes) it means that I am missing the one essentially lazy day…so whilst Jean-David is going buying produce at Marché Aligre and having coffee with our friends, I’m sweating out anything imbibed the previous night and dreaming of giant plates of pasta.

It’s not all bad. Thursday has become my new Sunday. Yesterday after watching 3 episodes of Mad Men, making banana bread and doing a load of laundry I felt relaxed and happy…did I mention I slept until 11am?

That is bliss. Butter. Banana bread, Bach and folding socks watching the unraveling of Don Draper.

Ah.

do mi sol ti

Incredible as it seems I am once again preparing for my concours de chant at the (take a big deep breath...) Le Conservatoire Nationale Superieur de Musique et Danse de Paris (cnsmdp for 'short' and you'll notice if you go onto their website that they use almost exclusively the initials, the entire title being far too cumbersome to actually type 867 times).

This means that I am in a trance of listening to 20^th century French art songs (Les Six if you want to get academic with me), singing 7^th chords to death (Thank you Ricci Adams at musictheory.net) and of course hanging out with my very best friend…

MODUS NOVUS, for those of you who haven’t had the opportunity to study this magnum opus…it is a study on how to site-read atonale melody. In laymen terms: a torture device that devotes 8 pages to tritones: or the devils interval. Goody.

You are all allowed to hope and pray and send good ju-ju on the 15^th of February when at 10am I will be site-reading in front of a reading-glassed jury members and just praying that I won’t crap my pants with fear.

do mi sol ti

mi sol ti do

sol ti do mi

ti do mis sol

Oh help.

"of thee i sing"

As I am constantly trying to be the faux-est parisienne of them all I sometimes forget the abundance of things that I miss dearly from good ole A-mare-ihhh-kuh…and so after a five-week-long visit to my ‘home-sweet-home’ (read-my parents kitchen is actually larger than my humble abode nestled above a kebab shop), I am ready to write a little listy-poo of all the things I wish could magically fly over to gay Par-ee.

1. (This written with one glistening tear rolling down my soft powder-dusted cheek) All of my family and friendly-poopers. How I miss thee. The universe needs to take a tip or two from Star Trek or Harry Potter to figure out that whole apparition gag.

2. Ahh! The sweet dusty scent of cardboard boxes filling a warehouse larger than a cathedral…you can actually buy a toilet here (with a heated seat and bidet-like add on features!) amongst sides of beef, fromage (not half-bad either) and 36 rolls of toilet paper (white…) all for under approximately $30. Let’s hear it for COSTCO! (Aurora village what! what!)

3. No trip to Seattle is appropriate without the requisite late-night, lunch-time, snack-time, or any-time inspired Dick’s Drive-in. Dicks deluxe, fries and a chocolate shake. France-you can keep your burgers with fois gras and truffles…$5 gets me one of the best burgers ever! (Special thanks to my partners in indulgence-Erin, Emily, Shannon, Andrew and the Rubester)

4. Les sapins, les sapins, les sapins! (Or for ya’ll speakin’ Ah-mare-ih-kunn… “pine trees, pine trees, pine trees!!!) Pretty trees. Grass you can prance through without the fear of a whistle being blown or dog-merde hidden in its sumptuous blades…go team Northwest!

5. Popsicles. The bad-off-brand-kind from Fred Meyer or Albertsons. The sweet taste of childhood…well and adult-hood.

6. Cocktails. Did someone say French 75? Gin and Tonic? Punch before lunch? The art of cocktail making is sadly missing from France (given the lack of ice it’s no wonder…)

7. The gym. The perfect antidote after you go to Dick’s two consecutive times.

8. Customer service. For a nation that is obsessed with politesse I give customer service two thumbs down…however in the U. S of A. … “why yes indeed Valerie! I would love some more water, and thank you for that dessert menu…the pie does indeed look tempting!” (I said, weeping with gratitude as Valerie bounced away ice-cubes jingling.)

9. Jankie-pants. (heehee)

10. Ice-cubes. The simple joy of reaching into a freezer (ahhh! A freezer!) and having ice. All. The. Time.