Pardon My French (OOTD)

We have a running joke about pictures of me in t-shirts, Callaghan and me, and it’s been a while.

So, here’s one from yesterday:


Oversize shirt speaks volumes.

Oversize shirt speaks volumes.


I remember the first time I wore this shirt. We went to Fry’s Electronics, and the guy stationed at the EXIT door asked, “Do you really speak French?” as we were leaving.

“Yes,” I answered. But barely, I finished in my head.

That’s meaning number 1: “Pardon my French” in the literal sense, because my French is full of holes.

Meaning number 2: “Pardon My French” is American slang for, “YES, I SWORE,” often with the snarky sub-text of, “SORRY I’M NOT SORRY.” It’s a handy way to acknowledge that you used profanity while expressing that you don’t care. I tend to swear freely in casual conversation… not angrily, just casually. (It’s a habit I should probably lose, but I can switch it off when appropriate, so why bother?)

All in all, “Pardon My French” is an easily understandable expression t-shirt for me. It’s also one of those shirts you want to live in because it’s so soft and thin and comfortable. It’s voluminous – long and loose with tight sleeves – and it’s gray, my favorite color.



Happy Friday, All!

Warning: This Post Contains a Fruitchouli-Scented Explosive and Dragons. And Football Players.

First things first: THE HOUSTON TEXANS, NFL Football! I’m ashamed of myself… I failed to include them in my post about Texas teams. Apologies, Texans!

There’s this saying in American English (here’s a short lesson in American slang for you non-Americans): When something’s really spectacularly, unbelievably, out-of-this-world awesome, you can say, “It’s the bomb” – just like that, really stressing “the bomb” part. This comparison of something super delightful to a destructive explosive in order to emphasize the extreme wonderfulness of the super delightful thing comprises fairly common slang here in the States.

Putting it simply, to say that something is “the bomb” is to give it the very highest praise.

Therefore, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I came across a bottle of perfume in the shape of a hand grenade (a small bomb that’s made to be hand-thrown), even though the perfume’s designer isn’t American. The bottle caught my eye nonetheless, and yes, it does now reside on my bathroom counter, and yes again, the fragrance it contains is, in my opinion, the bomb. Callaghan loves it, and I’ve received several enthusiastic compliments on it from strangers both on the bus and on the street.


"Exotic" by Jimmy Choo

“Exotic” by Jimmy Choo


I’m not 100% positive that the designer intended for the bottle to resemble a hand grenade. That’s just the first thing that comes to my mind when I look at it. It’s like the ink blot test of perfume bottles.

It was a gift, and I adore it.

“Exotic” is actually an eau de toilette, not a perfume, for those who are interested in the technicalities of things. It smells like a bunch of berries and vanilla and flowers and stuff thrown on top of patchouli, which I normally don’t like. So it’s basically a fuchsia glass fruitchouli-scented hand grenade sculpture, and it’s wonderful.

(Don’t worry. I’m not aspiring to a career as a fragrance reviewer.)

On another note of uncanny resemblances, Callaghan’s been remarking for a while now on the likeness between Ronnie James and Night Fury the Dragon in the film How to Train Your Dragon, so he made a NOT UNLIKE picture to demonstrate it:


Ronnie James on the left, Night Fury in "How to Train Your Dragon" on the right. NOT UNLIKE.

Ronnie James on the left, Night Fury in “How to Train Your Dragon” on the right. NOT UNLIKE.


…and another one:


Ronnie James on the left, Night Fury from How to Train Your Dragon on the right. NOT UNLIKE.

Ronnie James on the left, Night Fury from How to Train Your Dragon on the right. NOT UNLIKE.


And that is why one of Ronnie James’s nicknames is “Precious Angel Baby Bunny DRAGON.”

Happy Friday!