Callaghan

Callaghan’s new pick-up line at the gym (calves edition).

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Ever since Callaghan started lifting weights seriously… so that would be since March… he’s been in the habit of commenting on the size of the calves he sees on men in the gym. His remarks are always in the context of the proportion of the guy’s calves to the rest of his body, usually to the effect of, “I saw this guy and I don’t understand why guys refuse to work their calves! This one guy’s upper body was massive, but his calves were like twigs! I never forget to work my calves. I don’t want to look like that.” After which we spend a half hour or so debating genetics vs. strength-training for calf muscle shape and development, the merits of various types of calf exercises, plastic surgery (faking it with calf implants) and sheer negligence in training the calves.

 

Random calves in action at the gym.

Random calves in action at the gym.

 

I’ve gotten so used to Callaghan vocalizing his observations that when he starts a sentence with “There was this guy in the gym,” I already know that the guy’s calves are the subject of the sentence. Also, I know that there’s a 95% chance that his remark is going to be unfavorable. Every once in a while, he’ll tell me about a guy he saw with well-proportioned calves. And there’s one guy in particular whose calves he greatly admires. I remember the first time he mentioned him.

“There was this guy in the gym,” he began. He’d just come home.

“…and he had skinny little calves,” I finished for him.

“No! His calves were beautiful!” he exclaimed, surprising me. He went on to effusively praise the beauty and magnificence of not only the guy’s calves, but of his entire physique.

After that, every time Callaghan saw this guy in the gym, I heard about it afterward.

Then Callaghan started working full-time and had to cut back significantly on his weight-lifting. He still does the Body Combat classes with me twice a week, but for now, he’s only lifting weights on Wednesday evenings (while I’m in boot camp class), and sometimes once on the weekend, usually on Sundays.

“I haven’t seen the guy with the beautiful calves in a long time,” he said at one point. But on Wednesday night last week, when I met up with him after our respective workouts, he gushed, “You know how I said I haven’t seen the guy with the beautiful calves in a long time? He was here tonight, and he came up to me and said, ‘Hey, I haven’t seen you here before.’”

“Hahaha!!” I didn’t know why I thought that was hilarious, but for some reason, I did.

“His name is John. He introduced himself. I asked him, ‘Wow, what do you do to have beautiful calves like that?’”

That was exactly what Callaghan said. Imagine it in a French accent. Quite a pick-up line!

“What did he say?”

“That he has to thank his Mom. So I wanted to ask if his Mom had big calves, too,” he said, starting to laugh. “But I didn’t. Although I don’t think he would’ve minded.”

So we know that in this case of the Guy with Beautiful Calves, it’s genetics at play… and maybe it’s the beginning of a beautiful new gym bromance for Callaghan. The immediate effect of this whole thing, though, which I find kind of distracting, is that now I’m always checking out the lower legs on the males of our species. Yesterday, when I was talking to a guy at work, I found myself staring at his calves and thinking, he has nice calves! I laughed, but not out loud.

PHA!

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When Callaghan decided to create an Etsy shop for his art, we got right down to brain-storming names. “First name, Last name Art” wasn’t doing it for us, and neither was “Callaghan Art.” He wanted the word “Art” in the shop’s name, but he didn’t want to use his legal name or his former professional nom de plume.

We mused on the possibilities for a few moments.

“How about,” I ventured slowly, “‘PHA!’?”

It seemed like a logical suggestion, as Callaghan’s been signing his drawings, paintings and illustrations with “PHA!” since he was six years old. He’s gone through phases of signing in other ways, but he always goes back to “PHA!” – in fact, in the four years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him sign any other way. “PHA!” is his original, default signature.

 

Callaghan's signature on one of his latest works.

Callaghan’s signature on one of his latest works.

 

“True! I’ve been signing as ‘PHA!’ my whole life,” he said enthusiastically. “I can call the shop ‘PHA! Art’.”

Silence as his words lingered in the air.

“Oh… no,” I said, the realization hitting suddenly. “You don’t want your shop to be pronounced…”

“PHAART.” He finished my sentence with a low, drawn-out utterance, then repeated it: “PHAART!”

We were in the truck, on the road, laughing wildly into the hot, dusty wind.

It reminded me of Samuel L. Jackson raising hell on Twitter while watching basketball, as he did last week during the Spurs vs. the Thunder playoffs game, and the Pacers vs. the Heat: “Muphuggaz,” “MUFUKKAS,” “Muthaphukkaz,” “MUTHAFUQQA” and “Muhfugga!!” are just a few examples of the creative spellings he comes up with (for his signature word).

He doesn’t just use it for sports, though!

 

CaptureSamuelLJacksonStarWars

 

For Callaghan, “PHA! Art” would indeed be an unfortunate business name. Since you can’t use exclamation points in usernames, his URL would be “www.etsy.com/shop/phaart,” and his email address would be phaart@something.com.

“My address could be “PHAART@yourgeneraldirection.com,” he said, getting into it.

“Maybe you could just use ‘PHA!’ by itself,” I suggested.

He hasn’t decided yet for certain, but we know that “PHA!” will likely be a part of his shop’s name somehow. I’ll report back once his shop is up and running, lest your curiosity slay you.

Happy Friday, All!

Pieces of Elvis, and other… packages.

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In the last year, Callaghan’s drawings have taken a turn for the dimensional. Using ink on a particular type of plastic sheeting as his medium, he’ll do a drawing in parts, cutting everything out, applying color, and then positioning the parts like puzzle pieces, overlapping them in some places and gluing it all together. He gives the resulting “assemblage drawing” a kind of 3-D effect by stacking layers of small pieces of the plastic and strategically placing them beneath various components of the picture, creating differing heights throughout.

He did a brilliant portrait of my parents using this method, as well as my Valentine’s Day red roses and a stunning tribute to French author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, among others.

 

My Valentine's Day roses

My Valentine’s Day roses

 

But allow me to arrive at the point, lest you think this post is nothing more than a shameless plug for my husband’s art!

Callaghan recently completed and submitted his designs for the 2015 Carnaval of Nice float competition, an annual project of considerable effort and magnitude that takes place in the spring of each year. As I’ve mentioned here before, the Carnaval team creates its parade floats based on the themed designs of the winning drawings. This year, Callaghan employed his new assemblage-drawing method, which meant that when he called me into his studio to check out his progress, I often only saw parts of the completed pictures.

He started with the King (there’s always a King and Queen of Carnaval leading the float parade). He dressed the King as Elvis, since the theme of Carnaval 2015 is “La Musique.”

He drew a few pieces of the King, cut them out, and then called me in to show me his work.

“Oh, cool… Elvis is coming along nicely!” I commented. Then my vision focused on the pieces of the unfinished Elvis and my brain made a connection (as it does sometimes, eventually). “Wait… is that his package?” I asked.

“Hell yeah it’s his package!” Callaghan declared. “Tight white pants.”

 

Pieces of Elvis.

Pieces of Elvis.

 

Of course it’s normal. It’s just that, for one thing, I was surprised because Callaghan doesn’t usually draw male genitalia. Also, when you see a floating leg sans torso, an exaggerated crotch bulge acquires an identity of its own. “Elvis the Pelvis,” I guess, right?

A few weeks later, Callaghan started to work on the L’aigle Niçois (“Eagle of Nice”), another important standing character in the parade, since the Eagle is the symbol/mascot of the city of Nice. Again, he called me in to view his progress.

“No way,” I said, cracking up. He’d drawn the Eagle’s lower half like this:

 

Pieces of Eagle.

Pieces of Eagle.

 

“That eagle… it has an actual camel hump! Hahaha!”

I could see the point where Elvis was concerned, but the eagle? Quite a package, indeed. I guess that’s one way to wrap up a big project!

Jeepers Creepers

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I’m not big on practical jokes. I don’t usually enjoy being on the receiving end of them, and it almost never occurs to me to play one on someone else. I guess you could say that I’m an opportunist when it comes to practical jokes, because the only one I can remember playing was in Nice two summers ago, and it was totally spontaneous. An opportunity presented itself, and that opportunity was just too good to pass up.

The joke was on Callaghan, of course.

First, some background: Jeepers Creepers is one of our favorite cheesy horror movies. Not to spoil it for anyone who hasn’t seen it yet, but in order to get the joke, you should know that a psychic woman calls the two (sister/brother) main characters on a diner pay phone and issues a warning about the classic jazz song “Jeepers Creepers”:

When you hear that song you run, and I mean run! ‘Cause that song means something terrible for you, something so terrible you couldn’t dream of it… not in your worst most terrible nightmare!

Then she plays the song for them. It’s the original Louis Armstrong recording from the 1930’s, which I can imagine would be a suitably creepy thing to hear over a pay phone.

We spent the summer of 2012 helping Callaghan’s father renovate three apartments in an old building in Nice. I should say “creepy old building” because it really kind of was (creepy). (I mean that in a good way. I like creepy. I like old buildings. Creepy old buildings = Good). One apartment was downstairs, the other two were upstairs, and there was a small, dusty old radio that seemed to float around the building, usually ending up with Callaghan’s father, who always had it set to a jazz station. Maybe the radio was his. I don’t know. I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Anyway.

One morning, Callaghan and our friend Jean-Mi were working together in one of the upstairs apartments while Callaghan’s father and I were in the downstairs apartment. At some point, he – Callaghan’s father – stepped out for a little while, leaving me alone in the creepy old apartment with the radio, jazz music blaring away.

Well, when Louis Armstrong came on singing “Jeepers Creepers,” I couldn’t believe my luck. There was no way I was going to miss the opportunity! I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Callaghan’s number as I ran to the radio. When I got there, I held the phone up to the speakers. I was cracking up laughing, but I managed to stifle my hilarity while Callaghan answered his phone and heard:

 

 

Hahaha!! He was up on a ladder at the time, too, he later told me. Ha! Just envisioning him standing up on a ladder listening to “Jeepers Creepers” on his phone cracks me up all over again!

Ahem. Maybe this is another example of me being too easily amused, but you have to understand that thanks to the movie, that song had become one of our inside jokes. We’d say things like, Oh, well… the day could get worse… we could answer the phone and hear “Jeepers Creepers!” Because in the movie, hearing that song was the ultimate Bad Thing that could happen.

A song portending the arrival of a horrible latex monster would make everything so much worse.

And cheesier.

Happy Friday, all!

It Takes a Frenchman (to realize certain things)

That Asian-Looking Chick 4 Comments

Today, I’m thinking about food and cultural flavor preferences, how people appreciate or dislike certain flavors depending on where they reside, or where they were raised.

We usually have to acquire a taste for flavors that aren’t common in our native cuisines, especially if the flavors are intense or distinct. Some tastes are more difficult to acquire than others. For instance, it’s hard for many non-Australians to develop a taste for Vegemite, and most French are confounded by the whole concept of peanut butter.

Brussels sprouts are a good example in my case: I never ate them until they landed on my plate in an Army mess hall in Georgia when I was 18 years old, going through AIT training (31K, in case you’re curious) at Ft. Gordon. Prior to that, I never even saw one. Brussels sprouts just weren’t a part of my family’s culinary range. My reaction? It was love at first bite. I took to their strong flavor and dense texture immediately, and I’ve made them a staple part of my diet ever since. I haven’t been able to get my parents to like them, though, and Callaghan just barely tolerates them.

Predictably, being French, Callaghan also dislikes peanut butter. Not surprising! But before meeting him and moving to France, I didn’t realize that there’s another flavor ubiquitous in American foods that the French generally don’t embrace. They do eat it, but not nearly as much as we do… it doesn’t appear as frequently in their foods. It’s pretty rare in French cuisine, actually.

I’m talking about la cannelle, cinnamon, a spice that the general American palate knows and loves dearly. In fact, most of us emerge from the womb demanding cinnamon toast, one of America’s great comfort foods. We’re natural-born cinnamon addicts.

Apple crisp, Apple Brown Betty, applesauce, apple anything.

Pumpkin pie, pumpkin bread, pumpkin spice lattes, pumpkin anything.

Banana bread, zucchini bread, carrot cake, bread pudding.

Cinnamon toast, snickerdoodles, oatmeal cookies.

Cinnamon rolls, sticky cinnamon buns, coffee cake, crumb cake.

Red Hots, Hot Tamales, Big Red gum, and those little cinnamon heart-shaped red candies that come out for Valentine’s Day.

And, of course, apple pie – the Great American Dessert.

Many of these are comfort foods, and the list goes on. I think the general rule is, in America, if it’s sweet and it’s got apples, raisins, oatmeal, carrots or bananas, chances are that cinnamon’s going to be in it… and if the recipe doesn’t call for it, cinnamon will sneak into it somehow, anyway. At Starbucks and other coffee shops, the cinnamon shaker is usually found right next to the sugar, and in the home, a mixture of cinnamon and sugar in a jar has its place in most American pantries (conveniently on hand for late-night cinnamon toast attacks).

We love a good spiking of cinnamon wherever we can justify it, yes we do.

Furthermore, those of us living in and/or hailing from states bordering Mexico would likely add a few of Mexico’s cinnamon-flavored treats to the list, too, like churros, horchata and deep-fried ice cream. (I’ve lived most of my life in California and Arizona.)

Callaghan tolerates the flavor of cinnamon much better than he does peanut butter. He enjoys it to an extent… the cinnamon toast I make, for example, and he loves my oatmeal cookies… especially since the health benefits of cinnamon have been sprinkled generously throughout nutritional science reports in recent years. Everywhere I look lately, cinnamon keeps popping up on lists of things we can eat to promote wellness and longevity. It’s become widely known as a wonder spice.

All of this background brings me to the point of this post.

You know how it is when someone points out something that you’ve never noticed, even though you’ve been familiar with that thing your whole life? And how strange the surprise feels in that moment of realization?

I love Trident gum. It’s my favorite brand of sugarless chewing gum, and I’ve been preoccupied with the various new and exotic Trident flavors over the last few years. When I lived in France, my Dad thoughtfully sent over a 12-pack of Trident Tropical Twist in a care package. After we moved back to the States, I discovered Island Berry Lime, which became my new favorite fruity flavor. Callaghan likes Island Berry Lime, too, but he’s more of a gum purist and eventually requested that I add a minty flavor to the mix. I started picking up Trident Perfect Peppermint, which we both like. Actually, I don’t think a Trident flavor exists that I don’t like.

 

A typical Trident rotation at our house.

A typical Trident rotation at our house.

 

When regular old Original Trident materialized before my eyes one day in Target recently – I was actually surprised to find it! As in, Hello, my old friend! surprised – I snatched it up. Good old-fashioned Original Trident. I hadn’t thought about it in years.

 

Original Trident

Original Trident

 

I popped a piece into my mouth and started chewing, and sure enough, all the best memories of my childhood came rushing back through my taste-buds in a glorious fanfare of flavor. I was in ecstasy.

Swooning, I offered a piece to Callaghan. He took it and chewed it for a few seconds before uttering the words that would change my whole Trident worldview. His reaction to the flavor completely took me by surprise.

“Ew,” he said. “It tastes like cinnamon!”

And he spat it out.

I spent a second processing this. Then I thought, It does? Original Trident tastes like cinnamon? That’s interesting. And cool.

I’d never thought of Original Trident as having a cinnamon flavor. If I had to characterize it to someone, I’d probably say something vague, like, I don’t know. It’s just, you know, that Good Trident Taste.

Once Callaghan rejected Original Trident on the grounds that it tastes like cinnamon (his acquired, limited affection for cinnamon stops at the candy/gum line), I made a point of paying close attention to the flavor in my mouth. The exercise of striving for flavor objectivity was weird and somewhat difficult, but I found that he was right… there is an echo of cinnamon flavor in Original Trident gum! Callaghan’s cinnamon-sensitive French taste-buds picked up on it instantly. Somehow, I’d never noticed it. Maybe this is because, being American, I’m accustomed to a heavier cinnamon flavor everywhere else, and the dominant flavor in Original Trident is mint.

 

My current Trident line-up.

My current Trident line-up.

 

Now that I can taste the cinnamon in Original Trident, I have to say, I love it even more.

Callaghanisms

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I’m coming at you at 2:10AM because weird schedules are weird. Alors, bonjour, mes amis Français! Ça va bien? Il est onze heures dix du matin là-bas… vous avez fait de beaux rêves?

I’ve said this before: Callaghan’s English is excellent, and his French accent is so slight that I usually don’t even notice it. But every once in a while, he makes mistakes, and when his accent does reach my ears, it’s often to amusing effect. For instance, he says “fuckus” instead of “focus” (I think I’ve mentioned this in the past), and “bitch” instead of “beach.”

The examples I’m providing below all came directly out of Callaghan’s mouth verbatim, and in complete seriousness. I wrote them down after he said them. Yes, I’ve been keeping a file of the Callaghanisms. They’re priceless.

Let’s get started!

 

Focus:

“My friend Christopher had a Ford Fuckus.”

“I’m tired today. I can’t fuckus.”

 

Beach:

“When we’re in Antibes, we can go see the bitch.”

“Tomorrow we’ll visit the bitch of Normandy.”

 

And other words with the long ‘e’ vowel sound, such as…

 

Sheet:

“I need a shit of paper.”

“Let’s put the shits in the laundry.” (my personal favorite!)

 

I’ve started picking up on some patterns. Here are three, with examples:

 

1). Combining non-American word usage with a French accent results in dialogue like this:

“In high school, my nuts were great!”

“Your NUTS?”

“Haha! My notes. My grades.”

“Oh.”

School grades in France are called “les notes.”

 

2). Direct translations don’t always work:

“That spider is waving at us with its paws.”

“Paws? Haha! That’s so cute!”

“Spider paws.”

“Spider legs.”

The French call spider legs “les pattes,” which is also their word for “paws.”

I love this mistake. I wish we said “spider paws” in English.

 

3). Some words are easily confused:

“Sorry I’m eating like a pork.”

I giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“The expression is to ‘eat like a pig’.”

In French, the word “le porc” refers to the meat of a pig, just like in English… but it can also be used as slang in reference to a person. Unlike in English.

After I wrote this post (which pretty much wrote itself, since I had all the Callaghanisms saved in a file), Callaghan decided that it was lacking a drawing of a French superhero, so he offered to whip one up for me:

 

French superhero Super Dupont in progress!

French superhero Super Dupont in progress!

 

And now, a bonus! I’ll sign off with a French film recommendation for your weekend… because I’ve been glancing up at this DVD while writing about humorous French-to-English accent and translation goofs, and the two things somehow go together. This film is a quirky black comedy, and I think it’s brilliant. It’s been my favorite French black comedy since I first saw it back in the 90’s.

 

My favorite French black comedy. Notice I've leaned it up between Stephen King and Edgar Allan Poe.

My favorite French black comedy. Notice I’ve leaned it up between Stephen King and Edgar Allan Poe.

 

Delicatessen was directed and co-written by Jean-Pierre Jeunet, who directed and co-wrote the more well-known film Amélie about a decade later. Both comedies are off-beat, but Delicatessen is quirky and dark where Amélie is whimsical and light. Both are quite funny in their odd little ways. Hey! These two complimentary Jean-Pierre Jeunet films would make for a great movie night double feature, n’est pas?

Bonsoir, et bon weekend à tous!

Transitions! (New Schedule)

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I’ve been inconsistent here these last few weeks as I’ve been adjusting to a new schedule, namely, having one again.

 

My agenda (Franklin-Covey)

My agenda (Franklin-Covey)

 

Naturally cut out for a structured life, I thrive in the rootedness that routine provides. Living with a crazy spontaneous artist has been a healthy counter-balance to this, but I’m happy to resume the habit of setting the alarm and getting out of the house by a certain time in the mornings. This has required re-calibration of my inner clocks, which have been at liberty to run amok for a long time now, it seems!

While I personally enjoy mapping out my day, it’s been a while since I’ve done it on a regular basis, so being able to ease back into the practice as my current circumstances allow has been a fortunate thing.

My inner clocks are usually in need of re-calibration, anyway. For one thing, they often tick at odds with other peoples’ inner clocks. I’m remembering how my X had been put-upon by my middle-of-the-night inner clock when it would clang, “YAY ENERGY!!! IT’S PAST MIDNIGHT – NOW IS THE PERFECT TIME TO CLEAN THE BATHROOM!!”

“I just don’t understand it,” he’d mutter with annoyance, pillow half over his head as I whizzed around (though silently, ninja-like, so I never really understand why it bothered him) with the all-purpose spray cleaner. “It’s like you get a second burst of energy in the middle of the night.”

“Energy” was the operative word, I guess. He was sensitive to the energies of others; regardless of my earnest attempts at silence, the underlying waves of my stirred-up, midnight oil energy disturbed his own sleep schedule. The poor guy had a hard time getting me to sleep “early,” but over time he did manage to cure me of my inability to resist the urge to clean things at 2:00AM.

Now, I hardly clean at all.

See how that works? My X had to put up with me cleaning the bathroom in the middle of the night. Now, Callaghan has to put up with me not cleaning. (I exaggerate. Of course I clean… every once in a while. He cleans the bathroom more often than I do, though.)

In my defense, I don’t think I ever actually planned to clean the bathroom in the middle of the night. It always started rather innocuously. I’ll just wipe this area here around the sink. Then, since I’m doing that, I might as well do the mirror. A process would emerge. Next thing I knew, the whole bathroom would be underway.

Where my X had to deal with my late-night cleaning inclinations, Callaghan has to deal with my late-night, over-active train of thought. Such as it is that he’s established what he calls the “11:00PM Rule,” meaning, he’s placed a moratorium on “thinking about things” at 11PM. That’s right… 11:00PM is Last Call for “freaking out” at our place. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t ever sleep,” he says, reasonably.

And it’s true… I’ve had a hard time falling asleep for years now. Recently, too, this all changed, but not because of the 11:00PM Rule. The change just happened to coincide with when I started oil-pulling exactly two weeks ago. Somehow, I haven’t experienced insomnia since Day One of experimentation with that ancient and now-trendy practice. This was not an effect I’d anticipated when I started. It’s been completely wonderful.

 

My alarm clock. It's 11:00PM!

My alarm clock. It’s 11:00PM!

 

Anyway, all of this to say that my schedule has changed, including my writing schedule here… I’m in a transition phase, and things will even out eventually!

What I’m Digging Right Now – February Favorites

That Asian-Looking Chick 4 Comments

Experimentation with my new camera (phone) has begun, so let’s do this!

Here are ten marvelous things that stood out in February:

1). My home office (v2)

 

My little corner of serenity, live chirping bird soundtrack included.

My little corner of serenity, live chirping bird soundtrack included.

 

About a week after Valentine’s Day, we rearranged the furniture in the living room/my former office, and the ripple effect resulted in my “office” (e.g. my desk) getting relocated to the bedroom. I love it. I’m tucked away in the corner, next to a big window with trees and active spring birds and the makeshift kitty window seat behind me. Bliss.

 

2). The iStage blackbox theatre on campus (Arizona State University).

 

The scenery in this responsive environment changes continuously.

The scenery in this responsive environment changes continuously.

 

I spent most of my days in February (and continuing) hanging out in this mysterious and literally magical black box with an incredible group of artists, emerging into the sun every once in a while to eat and run around. It’s like Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, and the surprising and creative ways my brain’s been challenged have stoked my interest and enthusiasm in a new world of art and thought.

This has been the most significant aspect of my life since February, but I can’t go into further detail about it right now. Soon!

 

3). Benefit Erase Paste.

 

This stuff works miracles. Not exaggerating.

This stuff works miracles. Not exaggerating.

 

Benefit makes this stuff. Now again, I’m not a beauty blogger, so I’m not even going to try to glamorize this product. I’m just going to tell it like it is. This is basically a thick, creamy spackle with salmon undertones that does wonders under the eyes. It’s pricey (probably the most expensive cosmetic item I’ve ever purchased), but the little jar is going to last for a long, long time, so not really. It’s completely worth it, in any case.

 

4). New chairs for kitties.

 

We could not have invented more perfect chairs for kitties if we wanted to.

We could not have invented more perfect chairs for kitties if we wanted to.

 

Chairs for kitties have been on our list since we moved back to Arizona, and we finally found the perfect ones at IKEA. These are structured on a small scale (I found them in the dining room furniture area, rather than with the living room stuff). The covers are removable, so they can be thrown in the laundry. Ronnie James and Nounours love them. Their lives are complete! Now we can all sit together when we’re watching movies and shows. Everyone has a place!

 

5). The optometrist’s office epic clerical error.

 

Callaghan's new name. Bwahaha!!

Callaghan’s new name. Bwahaha!!

 

I about died when I saw Callaghan’s eyeglass prescription, which we went to pick up a couple of weeks ago… this was from the exam he had back in 2011, before we moved to France.

The person who prepared the prescription spelled his first name “Chilipte,” which is unequivocally the most brilliant butchering of “Philippe” I ever saw, AND they gave him my last name, haha! HAI, my name is CHILIPTE GARBOUSHIAN. I posted this picture on Facebook, and as a result, Callaghan now has several new nicknames, as suggested by my helpful friends: Chili, Chipotle and Chili Pete.

 

6). House of Cards, season two (T.V.)

 

house-of-cards-season-2-trailer-00-630x378

 

Once again, House of Cards blew our minds; Kevin Spacey’s performance was stunning.

 

7). The Following, season two (T.V.)

 

TheFollowings2story-710x400

 

I knew it! I knew it! (no spoilers)

 

8). Trader Joe’s Creamy & Smooth Mediterranean hummus.

 

THIS.

THIS.

 

Hummus is a simple thing to make, but simple doesn’t always mean easy. I find the process of transforming the hardy chickpeas to a smooth, creamy paste to be somewhat arduous, so my feeling is, why do it when Trader Joe’s has this delectable preparation ready to go at all times? Hummus is an instant gratification thing for me, I guess. They even put pine nuts and olive oil and herbs on top. So pretty. So delicious! We eat it with blue corn tortilla chips, baby carrots and Trader Joe’s whole wheat pita bread.

 

9). Ronnie James’ and Nounours’ snack pick of the month: Feline Greenies Dental Treats in Catnip flavor.

 

Kitties LOVE these.

Kitties LOVE these.

 

The boys wanted to contribute to the list! They learned to identify this little bag of catnip-flavored treats immediately. It’s their new addiction. It’s like… pot brownies for kitties.

 

10). Blunt signage.

 

They make sure you read this while you're sitting on the can.

They make sure you read this while you’re sitting on the can.

 

The signs everywhere I go continue to crack me up. This one is posted in a toilet stall in one of ASU’s older buildings.

And we’re already a week into March, and hey, today is my brother’s birthday! Happy Birthday, Bro!!

It was King James in the Locker Room with the Football

That Asian-Looking Chick 2 Comments

Happy Birthday to Callaghan! We would have celebrated all weekend, but he came down with a case of food poisoning that knocked him on his behind pretty good, the poor guy. We canceled everything and holed up here at home. It’s a relief to see him feeling better again. Food poisoning, ugh.

One thing about Callaghan: he has a unique gift for enriching my life and keeping me on my toes with his often random, always unpredictable, documentary-inspired thought ramblings (of the likes I haven’t shared with you in a while).

Here’s one from recent days… he was in his studio, listening to a documentary about the history of the British monarchy, and I’d just wandered into the room:

“I don’t understand about the NFL,” he said in his usual out-of-the-blue way. “Don’t you think that, knowing the percentage of the population that’s gay, it’s weird that anyone would be shocked that some footballers are gay?”

“Football players,” I said.

“What?”

“Football players play in the NFL. Footballers play soccer. And I agree… it’s beyond me why anyone would care whether football players are gay or straight.”

We’ve had variations of this conversation before.

But I was perplexed, as I often am at these moments of interaction with Callaghan.

“What led you to think of gay football players in the NFL?” I wondered out loud. “You’re listening to a documentary about the British monarchy…”

“OH, I don’t know, I guess I was thinking about it before because of that one guy… wait, oh yeah, it IS because of the documentary! It’s because of King James the First.”

“The documentary said that King James was gay?” I didn’t bother asking whether the documentary said that King James was in the NFL, as I’d already arrived at the conclusion that he wasn’t via my keen powers of deduction.

“No, the documentary didn’t say he was gay.”

“Then why…”

“Well, yeah, King James was married, but he didn’t really care for girls… he wasn’t famous for having affairs like the other kings were. I guess that was my train of thought. And then I thought about them in the locker rooms,” he explained.

“Locker rooms?”

“…and they did say that he preferred male company. They didn’t actually say he was gay, though. But yeah, that’s what got me thinking about football players.”

That clears up that mystery!

 

King James I

King James I

 

And now that it’s Callaghan’s birthday, we can go back to being consecutive ages again rather than appearing to be two years apart. (He enjoys saying that I’m a cougar, but being older than him by 14 months does not a cougar make.)

Hell Has Frozen Over.

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This morning, I was sitting on the balcony drinking coffee reflecting that had I never moved to France, I wouldn’t be sitting outside in December drinking coffee. The reason is that it was 38 degrees (Fahrenheit) out there, and I was wearing only a short, thin sleeveless nightdress under my robe, no socks. My feet and legs were exposed. I could feel the cold, but it wasn’t bothering me… not only that, but I was enjoying the crisp aridity of the cold. In addition to being acclimated to colder climates now, my adventures of the last few years have made me realize that an absence of moisture in the air makes cold more tolerable as well as heat. This is what they call “brisk,” I thought to myself. It’s wonderful! Yes… this was ME, Kristi, thinking to myself that it felt wonderful to sit outside in 38 degrees. I know. Hell has frozen over.

I’d always been overly sensitive to cold. Those of you who’ve known me for years know me as the girl who grabs a jacket and cranks the heat the minute the temps drop to 70. Now, I’m the girl who sees a gorgeous, clear sunny blue sky, puts on a robe and heads outside to enjoy the chill with a cup of coffee.*

We have not yet turned on the heat in our apartment, and we’re not sure that we’re ever going to. It doesn’t seem necessary.

This is what living in a drafty little house in the French Alpes does to you. We spent the last two winters – not even just winter, we’re talking end of September through April, even May one year – huddled under blankets, shoving wood into a wood-burning stove, counting the pieces with dismay as we calculated how many days we had left until the next tree had to be cut… and still, we were cold. Cold, cold, cold. It was damp, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and settles there. When I look back on it, it’s no wonder that I was able to get by in Berlin (which was very cold) a year ago October in just a thin pleather jacket. My internal thermostat had been effectively set to “tolerate the cold or die, you wimp.”

What I think is interesting is that my body is still set to cold-weather survival mode. Will I acclimate back after a while? This time next year, will I complain about the cold when it gets down to 70, pile on layers of clothing and turn on the heat?

On another note, something interesting happened the other night. We’d just finished eating dinner when Callaghan suddenly remembered that we had cheese in the fridge, leftover from Thanksgiving. Mom had sent it back with us when we left California.

“Cheeeeese!!!” my French husband exclaimed with delight. He got up, went to the kitchen and returned with a plate holding bread and cheese. Then he sat down, regarding the plate with concern.

“We don’t have a microwave,” he informed me.

“No, we don’t,” I verified, having lived in the apartment as long as he has. “You can use the oven. Actually, maybe we should think about getting a toaster ov…”

But Callaghan was up and running to his studio office.

“I know what I’m going to do!”

I waited, half not wanting to know.

“It’s under control! I have THIS!” He reappeared, blow-torch in hand. “This will do it.”

You know I had to grab my camera to get a picture of the ensuing act of violence on the unsuspecting slice of cheese.

 

Why yes, that would be a blow-torch Callaghan is using to melt the cheese on his bread.

Why yes, that would be a blow-torch Callaghan is using to melt the cheese on his bread.

 

Secrets of a French chef revealed! You’re welcome, and Happy Friday, Everyone!

—–

*Oddly, I still suffer in air-conditioning… my fingers and toes turn blue in manufactured cold. Eh. The human body is weird.

“The Dude’s not in. Leave a message after the beep.”

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A while back, we were watching something, and there was a reference to boiling a bunny. Hart of Dixie, perhaps? I think it was Zoe Hart… she was talking to Lavon or someone about Wade – or maybe about George? – saying something along the lines of, “I’m not going to boil his bunny or anything like that.” (I could be misremembering this. Maybe it wasn’t Hart of Dixie at all.) Whatever the case, it made me snicker, and it brought to light an important information deficit. Callaghan didn’t get the reference. It turned out that he didn’t know anything about boiling bunnies, because he’d never seen Fatal Attraction. This threw me off. Callaghan got his American citizenship (he has dual French/American citizenship status) back in 2003, and I don’t know, I guess I’d just assumed that familiarity with Fatal Attraction is some sort of requirement. I mean, shouldn’t it be on the citizenship test? How can you claim to be an American if you don’t know about Glenn Close boiling a bunny? The cliché has become as American as baseball, hotdogs, apple pie and Chevrolet, as the old commercial jingle goes. It’s circa 1980’s American Pop Culture 101 material.

So we watched Fatal Attraction, effectively rectifying the situation. Now, Callaghan has all the background he needs on Glenn Close and boiling bunnies, and he is enriched. His life is complete. What would he do without me?

Being dedicated pop culture afficionados, we ventured downtown Friday night to the Alamo Drafthouse Cinema (Ritz) for The Big Lebowski Quote-Along, so we could sit in a theater with a bunch of fellow Big Lebowski geeks and shout out the famous lines captioned on the screen (lines we all know by heart, anyway), waving our glow sticks for The Jesus and swinging our oversize blow-up baseball bats to show Larry what happens when you fuck a stranger up the ass. Our waitress brought a White Russian for Callaghan, a tall glass of ice water for me, and a huge metal bowl of the best movie theater popcorn we’ve ever had.

The timing was great, since we’d been overdue for a Big Lebowski fix. Satiated, we emerged from the theater onto the thumping street. 6th Street in Austin at almost 2:00 on a Saturday morning looks like this:

 

Austin closes off vehicle access to 6th Street during the night on the weekends. The bar-hopping pedestrian party needs all the space it can get.

Austin closes off vehicle access to 6th Street during the night on the weekends. The bar-hopping pedestrian party needs all the space it can get.

 

6th St, Austin (6/28/13)

 

6th St, Austin (6/28/13)

 

Even the going-home was entertaining! The bus that took us back to our apartment is dubbed “The Night Owl,” but it should be called “The Party Bus,” because that’s exactly what it is. From 6th Street to our apartment. Direct.

No In-and-Out Burger on the way home for us, though. Nor music by the Eagles. You see what happens, Larry?

In Every Bowl of Soup I See / Giraffes and Ligers Watching Me

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(That’s based on Shirley Temple’s “Animal Crackers in My Soup,” in case you didn’t know.)

This post is brought to you by the eleventh orange I’ve eaten this week. Not the eleventh hour. The eleventh orange. I’m pretty sure that crime scene investigators could apply their crazy ninja forensics techniques to my laptop keyboard and uncover hard evidence of all eleven of those oranges, as careful as I am to avoid smudges.

Now, what was I going to share? Oh yes:

“A Giraffe totem corresponds to farsightedness and balance between earth and sky.” (Llewellyn)

I’ve been thinking that my so-called spirit animal must be the giraffe, since reading that quote has an oddly grounding, motivating effect on me. Now, when I close my eyes and envision the giraffe at the window of the safari bus in Arizona that one time, a feeling of centeredness comes rolling back. It works!

I remember when I thought that my spirit animal was the wild horse. I re-thought that whole thing when I discovered, not too long ago, that I’m actually kind of uneasy around horses. I’m still in awe of the wild horse spirit, but the reality of a horse and me standing together is just… I don’t know. It’s a hard thing to phrase, so, just to show you, here’s a picture of me with our neighbor’s horse in France back in April:

 

Pardon me. I just live here. Oh wait, this is a French horse, so... Je m'excuse. Now how do you say "I just live here" - "J'habite seulement ici?" Or "J'habite juste ici?" Not working. American slang doesn't translate! Nevermind.

Pardon me. I just live here. Oh wait, this is a French horse, so… Je m’excuse. Now how do you say “I just live here” – “J’habite seulement ici?” Or “J’habite juste ici?” Not working. American slang doesn’t translate! Nevermind.

 

See the body language dynamic going on there? This was a candid shot of a chance encounter. Callaghan captured a spontaneous moment, and looking at this picture brings back the awkwardness of it. That horse and I were both, like, uhhh… yeah. I just didn’t know how to relate to that guy. Have you ever felt self-conscious in front of a horse? (Surely I can’t be the only person who’s ever been discomfited in the presence of a horse.) I didn’t connect with that horse on any level. It was like he was the reincarnation of someone I used to know. Someone who used to fluster me at cocktail parties.

So, yeah, giraffes.

Speaking of animals, the other night, I was reading to Callaghan about the liger (lion-tiger hybrid) and her baby liligers (offspring of a liger and a lion) at the Novosibirsk Zoo in Russia.

“Check out this liger,” I said, shoving my laptop under his nose. “They actually exist outside of Napoleon Dynamite!” We started flipping through the slideshow.

“Look at that! He’s got strots,” said Callaghan, pointing at one of the baby liligers.

“Strots?”

“A mixture of stripes and dots.”

 

The liger and her liliger cub at the Novosibirsk Zoo in Russia

The liger and her liliger cub at the Novosibirsk Zoo in Russia

 

In other animal marking news, my current favorite eye makeup look is sparkly pink shadow with a matte black overlaid on the lids:

 

Friday, 21 June 2013

 

Can you see it? (Don’t mind the hair. I had the front chopped and deep layers cut all around for growing-out purposes.)

While I’m at it, here are some pics of us goofing around before we left the house this morning:

 

Goofing around on Friday, 21 June 2013

 

Goofing around on Friday, 21 June 2013

 

A bonus cool thing that happened today - our state ID and drivers license arrived in the mail! Texas state residencies established, check.

A bonus cool thing that happened today – our state ID and drivers license arrived in the mail! Texas state residencies established, check.

 

Happy Summer Solstice, Everyone!

Homme Don’t Play That.

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“Homme” is how you say “homie” in French. It’s basically the same word. It means “man.”

While Callaghan was busy drawing a hermaphrodite tin can with a pair of mismatched rocket man-boobs and its lid flipped up like a hat and a skirt around one of its tentacle knees, I went down to the bergerie to retrieve a few things. Along the way, I encountered a donkey and a large snail, and I found two lizards hanging out on the terrace when I got back.  Down in the laundry/storage room, the largest spider I’ve ever seen here in France ran across the wall when I walked in. Up here in the front room, the morning’s scattered ant swarms have finally died down.

Nature is active today, and we’re having a relaxed and productive afternoon. The house smells pleasantly of ginger and cardamom from the Ethiopian chickpea wat (stew) I made yesterday for tonight’s dinner – it’s one of those aromatic dishes that’s good to make a day in advance, so the spices can mingle overnight. I’m going to serve it with brown rice, since I don’t know where to find injera around here (Ethiopian flatbread), or the teff flour I’d need to bake my own.

I miss Ethiopian restaurants! Soon. In three weeks, we’ll be back in the States. First thing I’m going to do is find an Ethiopian restaurant and attempt to eat two years’ worth of injera in one sitting.

Ah, food. Bread. The plight of carbs’ reputations crossed my mind the other day when we were in the supermarket. It’s odd how popular it’s become to believe that carbs are “bad.” It’s like, one day, everyone became aware that allergies/sensitivities to gluten are common, so, alright, let’s be hyper-aware of that. Millions of people now feel a lot better on reduced-gluten or gluten-free diets. Great! But then, somehow, that entire category of food came crashing down from grace with a sweeping, extended indictment: Carbs make you fat. The problem with this is that it’s only half-true. Not all carbs cause the metabolism-compromising biochemical reaction that leads to weight gain.

I generally avoid simple carbs (white sugar, white flour, white rice, white pasta and white potatoes), but as far as I’m concerned, life’s not worth living without complex carbs. I love whole grain breads, whole wheat pasta, brown rice, quinoa and sweet potatoes. I’m lucky that my body gets along with wheat, because I’d be forlorn without it. I could never do a raw food diet; after a while, I’d go crazy without pasta. I eat it for lunch almost every day, as I have ever since Callaghan discovered my pasta with garlic and olive oil obsession. Though I maintain that just plain old garlic and olive oil would be fine with me every day until the end of time – it’s something I’ll never get tired of eating – he’s undertaken the challenge of creating variation after variation on this heavenly theme. He should write a book: 365 Variations on Pasta with Garlic and Olive Oil.

So he makes lunch, and I make dinner, usually. And he draws hermaphrodite tin cans with mismatched rocket man-boobs and lids flipped up like hats and skirts around their tentacle knees. We’ve got our division of domestic labor all sorted out.

Of Course – Learn Something New Every Day!

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We now have a shipping date. We’re packing and trashing and selling all kinds of stuff, and Callaghan’s starting to eat some of the preserved food we’d stockpiled for emergencies, because why not? It’s there, and we’re not taking it with us. Last night, he opened a can of cannelloni to eat with the salad and fresh asparagus we were also having.

I studied the contents of his plate. The cannelloni looked like reddish-beige rubber tubes with glossy pink sausagey-looking things inside.

“So what exactly is that ‘mystery meat’,” I wondered out loud, fully aware that if there was an answer, then it wouldn’t be a mystery.

“A course,” said Callaghan.

I thought I heard “of course.” I waited for him to continue.

“A what?”

“Course!” he repeated.

I’m so confused! My head’s going to explode!

My mind whipped through all the French words I know, searching for one that would sound like “course” that might bear resemblance to a meat-related word in English.

“Course.” I tried out the word myself. Still didn’t make sense. What the hell is he talking about?

“If you don’t know whether it’s a cow or a horse, it’s a cowrse,” Callaghan explained.

Oh. Duh!

 

Survival food - little pieces of COWRSEmeat wrapped in pieces of pasty white industrial dough, smothered in some kind of red sauce

Survival food – little pieces of COWRSEmeat wrapped in pieces of pasty white industrial dough, smothered in some kind of red sauce

 

Cowrses have chicken heads, didn’t you know?

 

St. Patrick’s Day – The Story of O’Callaghan and O’Dude

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Two years ago, we celebrated St. Patrick’s Day at Gallagher’s pub in Chandler, Arizona. Last year, we didn’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day at all, since we were occupied in Nice. This year, we celebrated St. Patrick’s Day by drinking Killian’s here at home, listening to Alan Stivell – not Irish, but it’s Celtic music, so close enough – and savoring Callaghan’s cooking.

“Callaghan” is an Irish name.

With this in mind, in honor of St. Patrick’s Day, I thought I’d interview Callaghan about how he got his nickname.

INTERVIEW, PART 1

Me: You’re French. How did you end up with an Irish nickname?

Callaghan: Because my friend’s a cowboy.

Me: Uh….

Callaghan: He used to wear a fringed leather jacket that made him look like an Indian.

Me: I’m not getting it. I need further explanation.

Callaghan: Back in 1988, Dude (Jean-Michel, aka Jean-Mi) got a beautiful fringed leather jacket that went very well with his long, dark hair.

Me: WAIT. Jean-Mi had long hair?

Jean-Mi is one of my favorite people in the world.

Callaghan: Yeah. He looked like an Indian, so we gave him a cowboy name, haha!

Me: Why – oh, because the French are enamored with the whole American “cowboys and Indians” thing.

Callaghan: Oh yeah!

Me: Okay. But why “Callaghan” for a cowboy name?

Callaghan: GriGri (that would be Christophe… no one I’ve met here goes by their actual name) started calling him that. Because of Clint Eastwood. Dirty Harry. You know, Dirty Harry Callaghan?

Me: No. I do not. I guess I’m a terrible American.

Callaghan:  You suck. Especially for a San Franciscan!

(lunch)

INTERVIEW, PART 2

Callaghan: Yay so we finally have a journalist interested in this! Well just so you know, there’s really a cult of Dirty Harry here in France. People in France really love Dirty Harry. Now I’m VERY surprised that you don’t know about him.

Me: I know about him, I’ve heard about him, but I’ve never seen it. So how did the name “Callaghan” go from Dude to you?

Callaghan:  Well, Dude decided that the name “Callaghan” was so intense that he should call GriGri “Callaghan,” too. And because I was hanging out with them all the time, I became “Callaghan” as well. And then I started to… well, it became a nom de plume… I started signing my drawings “Callaghan.” So the years have passed, and um I stayed “Callaghan” because I was signing my drawings, and… so people called me “Callaghan.” Because of my drawings. And I was still calling Dude “Callaghan” for a long time. I still do today, from time to time.

Me: Dude? I never heard you call him “Callaghan,” except when you introduced him to me as “the other Callaghan.”

Callaghan: Yeah I just call him “Dude,” really. When I came back from the States, people were calling him “Dude” because his brother Lio – that’s short for Lionel – oh, and Lio’s wife’s name is Valerie, but we call her “Valoche,” which is argo for “suitcase” –

Me: Why do you call her “suitcase”?

Callaghan: Nah, it’s an actual nickname for Valerie. “Valoche” is a nickname for Valerie, and it also means suitcase (valise). And even another word for “valise” is “valdingue.”

This is how I learn French.

Me: Okay! So anyway… Dude…

Callaghan: So Dude. Um… so um yeah so when I came back from the States, Lio was calling Dude “Dude,” so I started calling him “Dude,” too, instead of “Callaghan.” Anyway, “Callaghan” stuck for me. And I’m still signing my drawings “Callaghan.” Parce que j’ai un gros flingue. (“Because I have a big gun.”)

I won’t even go into that. It’s yet another slang phrase derived from French pop culture.

So that, my friends, is how Callaghan (Philippe) got to be called “Callaghan,” and Dude (Jean-Mi) got to be called “Dude.”

Erin go Bragh.

More Than You Wanted to Know About Our Cat

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Our biggest armful of cat goes by the name “Nounours.” (In case you were wondering, this is the one who was originally called “Bruce Willis.” That name never worked. Nounours is French for “teddy bear,” and he responds to it.)

The upper half of Nounours was slung over Callaghan’s shoulder, the lower half was cradled in the crook of his elbow, and his back paws were tucked into the palm of his hand… 17 pounds of cat you could barely see under the smothering that was taking place. Yes, the kitty pampering in this house is shameless and pathological.

Anyway, so there’s Nounours, snuggled neatly in Callaghan’s arms, and there’s Callaghan, caught up and carried away in the bubble of kitty love.

“He’s so happy and proud, this Nounours!” he gushed, covering Nounours with kisses.

“With his big blue eyes!” I said, rubbing Nounours’s fur.

“Look at him, gros Nounours!” said Callaghan, bursting with kitty-daddy pride.

“With his pink ears and butterscotch and cream fur!” I said, kissing his velvety nose. “And his little pink nose with freckles!”

“He’s got a pink ass with freckles, too,” Callaghan added.

Um….

Callaghan Doesn’t Eat Fish

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“I can only eat tuna, and only sometimes, because tuna doesn’t bring that elephant cage quality to it,” he explained.

“What?”

“I used to eat sole, no problem! My grandmother used to make it.”

“No, I mean, what did you say about… I mean, did you say elephant cage?”

“Yeah, we went to the zoo in Vincennes when I was like six. It was a visit of the elephants’ cage. It was horrible.”

“And after that, you went to your grandmother’s house and ate sole?” I thought I was getting to the bottom of his elephant cage/sole association.

“No… I don’t remember why, exactly. All I know was that I went to the elephant cage, and after that, sole became TO BARF FOR.”

While this conversation left me with more questions than answers, it did remind me that I wanted to add Infamous to our “to watch” movie list. Infamous had come to my attention when a friend on Facebook posted a link to WTF Evolution.

The first thing I saw when I went to this page was a picture of a flatfish, which I saved because I thought it was endearing.

 

Flatfish pictured in WTF, Evolution?

Flatfish pictured in WTF, Evolution?

 

The ensuing search engine time-suckage exercise went like this:

WTF Evolution à flatfish. Flatfish à sole. Sole à swordfish. Swordfish à marlin. Marlin (the fish) à Marlin, Texas. Marlin, Texas à Infamous, because it was filmed in Marlin, as stated on the Marlin, Texas Wikipedia page (I had never known that there was a place called “Marlin” in Texas).

Now doesn’t it make perfect sense that the flatfish led me to the movie Infamous? It seems very obvious to me. I honestly don’t know how I knew anything before the internet.

Anyway, back to Callaghan and his gustatory idiosyncrasies. The elephant cage thing will have to remain a mystery while I ask him for the back-story on his distaste for cherries. I’m sure it’ll be a good one!